After dinner, I retreat to my bunk bed with a crossword puzzle. Trish comes into my room and stands in the doorway. If I had to describe Trish, I would say: “high school parking lot.” She smokes. She wears too much makeup. She probably gives great hand jobs.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say back, without enthusiasm.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You wanna go to movie night?”
“Not really,” I say.
“C’mon, it might be fun. You get to ride in the van.”
“I’ve ridden in vans before.”
She leans against the doorway. “There might be boys.”
“I thought the boys were off-limits.”
“So they say.”
I frown and scratch out one of my crossword answers. “I don’t want to get dressed.”
“Oh God,” says Trish. “Don’t you want to go somewhere? Aren’t you sick of sitting around here?”
I am. Massively. And it’s November and all it does is rain. I’ve barely been outside for a week.
Trish stands at the door. I remain on my bed. She awaits my decision.
I throw my crossword puzzle on the bed.
“Good,” says Trish. “I’ll meet you out front.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re standing on the porch. The Spring Meadow van arrives at 6:25. We climb in, Trish and me and another woman from our house.
The van continues down Recovery Road, picking up other people from the other halfway houses. There’s an old gay guy in a blue blazer. There’s a tattooed, middle-aged rocker dude. There’s a creepy boy with big ears and a rodent face. Last but not least are two fifty-year-old women in hideous tracksuits.
The driver takes us into the town, Carlton, Oregon, which is basically one street. He pulls up in front of an old movie theater. It’s called The Carlton — surprise, surprise. We pile out of the van like a bunch of retarded people.
We stand there. It’s very embarrassing. We are just about the worst-looking group of human beings imaginable. If I saw us walking down the sidewalk, I wouldn’t just cross the street, I’d run home and take a shower.
Trish bums a cigarette from one of the tracksuit ladies. I stand with her while she smokes. At least she and I are young. If you cleaned us up and gave us decent clothes, we might actually look presentable.
We wait. Nobody knows what movie we’re seeing. Nobody knows when it starts. Nobody has a watch. Nobody goes to see.
Vern, the gay guy, finally gets the great idea to buy tickets and go inside. The rest of us follow along.
The Carlton is a dump. The lobby smells like moldy carpet. The wallpaper is peeling. It’s cold, drafty, damp. Popcorn is only a buck, though. So that’s good.
Trish and I get popcorns and Cokes. We stand together and stay close to Vern, so that Middle-Aged Rocker Dude can’t hit on us.
In the theater, we sit in a line. Me on the far end. Then Trish. Then Vern. Then everyone else. The previews play. I zip up my coat, pull down my hat, take a long breath.
Movie night.
The film starts. It involves guns and drugs and a suitcase of money. God, I’d love a shot of Jack Daniel’s, I think. Or a beer. Or anything.
The movie continues. I have no idea what’s happening. I’m totally bored and I’m getting the squirmies. The squirmies is when your body says to your brain: WHERE IS OUR DAILY DOSE OF DRUGS AND ALCOHOL? WE WANT IT. GIVE IT TO US NOW!
I shift around in my seat. I feel like wires are being tightened inside my chest and shoulders. Or like a billion tiny insects have invaded my nervous system. I lose all focus on the movie and I clench my teeth and my fists and I feel like my whole body is being turned inside out.
Then I blank out. My brain shuts off. I forget where I am and what I’m doing. And then five minutes later, I’m okay, everything’s fine, I’m totally cool. I eat some of Trish’s popcorn.
That’s how it goes with the squirmies.
The movie, meanwhile, continues to suck. There’s an especially idiotic part where the ex-cop sees a picture of his children and remembers how much he loves them. Violins actually play.
“Who gives a shit?” Trish says out loud to the screen.
“Shhhhh,” says someone behind us.
It gets worse. There’s a love scene that is so stupid I almost barf. Trish starts giggling. This makes me start giggling. We can’t help it. People get mad. Then Trish starts laughing so hard she can’t stop and she blows Coke-snot out her nose.
“Would you please be quiet?” says a man in front of us.
“Would you please eat me?” says Trish.
We finally calm down, but then during the final ten minutes, when there’s car chases and explosions, we get a little carried away.
“Kill that asshole!” screams Trish when the good guy holds one of the bad guys at gunpoint.
“Shoot him in the face!” I yell.
The other moviegoers are not happy with us. We don’t care. Life is ridiculous. It’s not our fault.