Chapter III: The Day Shift

 The Day Shift

Joe Nicholson just turned eighteen a few weeks ago. A high school drop out and a far more experienced drinker and ladies man that me, Joe worked like a blue ribbon sheep dog while he was at the theater and while he was at the pizza joint next door. Joe didn’t always come in to work though, but always called in with an excuse.

He failed to call in on this particular Tuesday in August of course.

Jeff scheduled the first set of movies to start around quarter to one. This schedule gave me forty five minutes to start popping popcorn, unlock the candy cases, place drink cups on the counter, set up the soda tower, and talk to Jeff about how slow today should be while he put money into the registers. In a fairly small theater such as the Hellerton 10, box office and concessions are often located along the same counter for ease of service. On a seemingly typical dry August Tuesday in the historic Hudson Valley, business should have waned as white collar adults worked and vacationing students slept till three in the afternoon. Two people behind the counter—one on box office and one on concessions—could serve every guest without effort. Hell, one person could serve everyone with minimal effort and also get the false satisfaction out of mastering the two most visible jobs of a theater worker and doing both of those jobs at the same time.

Of course, business didn’t wane on that seemingly typical dry August Tuesday. At precisely one o’clock, two busses pulled up along the five glass double doors leading to the vast stark atrium of the theater. A hundred or so seniors creaked and complained their way toward my lonesome self standing at box office register. Jeff had already started the first few movies and couldn’t make it down to help me help the customers.

The first retired couple wobbled up. I have always respected seniors for their wisdom and experience. Wisdom and experience though don’t save you from intellectual stupidity and senility. I greeted them with an honest smile. The job might be boring and a contingent of customers impossible to please, but I still treat each one with fidelity. We’ve all been in bad moods as part of the human experience. I think telling an improvised joke to each customer should be part of a cashier’s script. How could you stay mad at a college kid who recommends an animated film with talking alpacas to a bunch of senior citizens?

“How are you doing this lovely afternoon?” I asked atypically wanting an atypical answer.

“Good, two seniors,” typically answered the angry wrinkled skinhead looking back at me.

Seniors crave their dollar seventy five discount at movie theaters, even during the matinee showings before six o’clock when everyone costs exactly the same. Other box office cashiers (especially assistant managers filling in when the theater is understaffed) try to explain that everyone costs the same before six o’clock and therefore senior discounts don’t occur until after six o’clock. I stopped explaining very early on and only explain when they complain that their not getting their nonexistent discount.

“Sounds good, sir. But which movie would you like to see?”

I had to ask even though I was fairly certain of the answer. I’ve meant to ask other box office people if they profile the customers too. I like to think I’m as liberal as Ted Kennedy and as egalitarian as Martin Luther King. That thought doesn’t stop me from knowing which movie people want to see before they tell me. And it makes life interesting if I guess wrong—even if catching a royal flush happens more often.

“Ummm, what movie are we going to see Ginny?”

The old men nearly always initiate the transaction, but need to ask their wives what movie they’re actually going to see.

“That “Invisible” movie!” answered Ginny sweetly with enthusiasm.

“Oh, you mean Invincible with Mark Walberg. OK, would you like to donate a dollar to Rainbows for a Cure? All proceeds go to help kids fight cancer.”

I couldn’t help but correct her innocently. I was right in my prediction of course. Every senior who got off that bus was there to see Invincible—a formulaic football movie based on a “true story” made by Disney. “And they all could watch a soothingly depressing dark comedy by watching Little Miss Sunshine and learn more about life,” I thought.

“No,” snapped Ginny’s husband, “We donate through our Church.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” I responded honestly. I understand the tight monetary restraints placed on people of all ages. A dollar here and a dollar there add up quickly.

“Well, that will be thirteen dollars please.”

I prepared myself for the verbal slap about to come.

“THIRTEEN DOLLARS! Well, I remember when the movie cost a nickel! That’s outrageous!”

He old man threw me a twenty though. They need to release their anger and they take it out on me. I don’t mind though. I agree with them.

“Seven dollars is your change, would you like anything from the concession stand?”

“A popcorn and a soda without ice,” ordered Ginny.

“What size?”

“Small will be fine.”

“But would you like to make them both medium for seventy five cents? You’ll get free refills on the drink if you do.”

The job requires that I “up-sell” to each customer. If they order a small (which is plenty for two people) I offer them a medium. “Up-selling” works often.

“Oh, OK, that sounds fine,” Ginny answered falling for the trap of capitalistic brainwashing.

“And which flavor soda would you like?”

I need to ask this question far too often. I wish people would tell me they want a Coke or Diet Coke instead of telling me they want a soda.

“Diet Coke, please, no ice,” Ginny reminded me.

“Fair enough,” I concluded, “would you like any candy with that?”

Jester Cinemas also requires that I suggestive sell to each customer. Suggestive selling hardly ever works.

“No thanks,” replied Ginny quickly.

“OK, that will be eleven dollars.” I said this bracing for another verbal assault.

“For soda and a popcorn! That’s highway robbery!” interjected Ginny’s loving spouse. He threw another twenty at me.

“Your change is nine dollars, thank you and enjoy the show.”

I ended each concession transaction the same way. But often, I don’t want all the customers to enjoy every show they go to see. People empty the coffers to see some atrocious movies. I hope every once in a while a movie disgusts and infuriates them with negative artistic value. Some people think any movie they see in a theater deserves an Oscar. I’m lucky to see one movie a year that I think deserves an Oscar. And it’s never the one that wins.

Every transaction followed that same basic formula for each of the 162 people who came for that first set. I got through everyone and no one was even late for the previews. A few soccer moms also came in and brought some elementary schoolers in to see Nickelodeon’s “Barnyard.” These transactions seemed smoother and gave me opportunities to joke around with the kids—like pulling out multiple boxes of candy out that they didn’t order and acting as if I was slipping on the greasy floor. Whereas my wit gets chuckles out of adults at the box office, physical comedy gets belly laughs out of the youngsters at the concession stand. The day goes by so much faster with laughter.


One transaction didn’t follow the same basic formula though. When there’s a crowd and I’m the only one on register, I try to keep a ratio of three box office customers to one concession stand customer. Concession stand orders take time to fill, box office orders are done somewhat instantaneously. I decided on this formula because everyone needs to buy tickets if they want to see a movie, not everyone chooses to buy goodies.

One particular lady approached the stand with a big order and looked pissed. I started filling her drinks which automatically shut off when done, so I ran back to the register to have her pay for the order. When I returned, she punched me in the gut with a question:

“Can I please speak to a manager?”

My diaphragm tensed and my eyebrows rose and my teeth began to bite down into my lip. I have never been accused of working too slow and the only manager there was Jeff. Now, Jeff praised my hard work often—I never declined a job he asked me to do. The thought of this woman complaining to him about my inadequacy shocked me—I couldn’t think straight and I pride myself on always keeping a clear mind.

“Umm, my manager is upstairs starting the movies. I can call him down if you’d like?” I muttered.

“Oh, never mind. Just tell him you’re hustling your a*s off and you deserve a raise. I can’t believe you’re understaffed like this.”

Thanks lady. I needed that with seventy five people staring at me thinking they’ll never get to their movie in time. And I’ll be sure to tell Jeff that I’m hustling my a*s off and that I deserve a raise. Yes, he’ll appreciate that. I’ve only been working here three weeks.

A few soccer moms also came in and brought some elementary schoolers in to see Nickelodeon’s “Barnyard.” These transactions seemed smoother and gave me opportunities to joke around with the kids—like pulling out multiple boxes of candy out that they didn’t order and acting as if I was slipping on the greasy floor. Whereas my wit gets chuckles out of adults at the box office, physical comedy gets belly laughs out of the youngsters at the concession stand.

The day goes by so much faster with laughter.