The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here.  It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater.  I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher.  I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors.  It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater.  She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school.  Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired.  This usher, however, was different from the rest of us.  His name was Peter.  Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes.  He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow.  His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out.  I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage.  It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little.  But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around.  He also liked to talk up the female workers.  Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her.  Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter.  That’s nice of you to say.”  Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said.  “You know him.  He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.”  And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him?  You can do much better!”

Ouch.

Related posts:

1. An Elegiac Lament, or, Bad Timing