by Sarah Daltry
When I get in, he turns to face me. Oh, no. Anna would tell me he’s cute, but I realize there is no way this can go well. In person, Seynar/Jeff is like the real-life equivalent of a soldier. He’s a fucking hipster.
“Hey,” he says, and he leans over to kiss my cheek. I turn so he gets mostly hair. I don’t want his goatee anywhere near my person.
“Hey,” I say.
“You look nice.”
“Uh, thanks.” I know it’s what guys are supposed to say, but I also think it’s usually assumed the girl does more than brush her teeth to earn it. I zip up my hoodie and put on my seatbelt. “Nice car.”
“It is, isn’t it? All mine,” he says, like a Nissan Altima is a man’s dream car. I guess at least it’s not his mom’s. And it probably doesn’t stall at the Taco Bell drive-thru.
“You bought it? Aren’t you in school?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I dropped out. They can’t teach me anything I can’t teach myself. I don’t need to fund institutions to be educated.”
Oh, God. If the word “system” comes out of his mouth, I’m rolling out of the Altima. I don’t even care if we’re on the damn highway. “So, what do you do?” I ask.
“You’re looking at the youngest ever store manager for Ella Sayer’s.”
“The old lady clothing store?”
“We prefer ‘fashion for mature women,’” he corrects.
Fuck. I hope Smaug eats me.
George
“Stop moving. I can’t get your tail to stay on,” I tell Lanyon.
“If you didn’t rip it last time when you fell off of me, then it would be fine.”
“If you didn’t jump over some guy’s Vespa and cause me to fall off of you, then I wouldn’t have had to grab it to save myself.”
“Save yourself,” Lanyon says. “From what?”
“It was muddy.”
“Goblins love mud.”
“See, now that is just goddamn racist. Hold still. I have the stapler ready.”
“Stapler,” cries Lanyon. “I thought you were using tape to- ye gods, my ass. You stapled my ass.” He begins to hop about the room. “That hurts, you ass-stapling bitch.”
“Don’t pull it out. It looks good now.”
“It’s gonna get infected and I’m going to die, all so that I can be a stupid warg.”
“Hey, you play it how you want,” I say. “Nothing in the rule book says you have to be stupid.”
“What rule book? Tolkien doesn’t have his own rule book, and he’s dead, so we can’t ask him.”
“We could ask Christopher Tolkien.” Oh, how we laugh. Bah ha. “Good times. Seriously, don’t pull it out.”
“Fine, not yet. But I am once the movie starts. I’m not sitting on this little metal thing all night.” We lock eyes. The ‘that’s what she said’ is implied.
“Help me find my rusty goblin sword,” I tell him and I start flinging things around my room as I try to uncover it. It isn’t helping, but it’s how I organize.
“Here it is.” Lanyon holds up a sword.
“No, that’s the Green Destiny.”
“This one?” he asks.
“You know damn well that’s the Keyblade. Does that honestly look like the kind of weapon a goblin would have?”
“If it’s a locksmith goblin,” says Lanyon.
“You’re a locksmith cock gobbler.”
He holds up yet another weapon. I have too many swords around here. “This one?”
“Knight’s Watch,” I say.
“Well, you know, winter is coming.”
“It’s here, asshole. Look outside. Now, I’m looking for a goblin sword. Short, twisty, rusty. A real piece of ass.”
“Speaking of piece of ass, can you believe that Katie is going on a date with Seynar?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s great. I love it. Whatever. She isn’t my girlfriend. We had Chinese food and played a video game.”
“Sounds like love to me.”
“We always play video games and eat Chinese food,” I remind him.
“You’re making my point. Hey, what about this one?”
“That’s Gungnir. Do you even know what a sword is?” He grabs for something else. “Don’t even ask. That’s The One Ring. I hate you. Oh, there it is.” The skyscraping bastard’s been standing on it the whole time. I put my goblin mask on. I’m already wearing the rest of my outfit. “Ready to go?”
“Are you going to drive with your mask on?” he asks.
“Drive, my ass. I’m riding you all the way there.” Eye lock again. “Fine. I’ll take it off to drive.”
Crimson Lightning is feeling peppy today. She starts right up with only four tries and ten curse words. The omens favor us. We cruise along the dark roads toward the theater, listening to the rattling of Crimson Lightning and the fuzzy tones of what may be Mumford and Sons. Or it could be Eminem. My radio’s that bad. The drive is peaceful as soft snow starts to fall.
“I told you winter was coming,” Lanyon says.
“Stop talking and suck up the serene.”
The dash clock tells me it’s just after eleven. We won’t be early enough, so we’re going to be stuck at the end of a massive line. But I’m good at crowd sprinting, even if Lanyon sucks. I could bust past half the people who’ve been waiting for hours while they bumble around confused, use the bathroom, and get candy. Dumbasses. Why wait that long if you don’t take advantage?
“So you’re gonna get seats and I’ll grab some snacks?” Lanyon asks.
“As per the usual, my slow-footed friend.”
“I’m not that slow.”
“Watching you move is like wading through a minefield of N-Bombs.” I pull into a parking spot a few million parsecs from the entrance. “Here we are.”
Katie
Jeff brings me to Chili’s. I hate Chili’s. As part of the transitive property, I now hate Jeff.
“I only brought a twenty, so we need to do the two for twenty deal,” he tells me once we’re seated.
“What about tax and tip?”
He blinks.
“Whatever,” I say. I gaze at the menu. I don’t want any of these things. Luckily for Jeff, I don’t want any of the other things, either. I randomly select some chicken entrée and make a show of checking my phone. No one has texted me, so I just press a few buttons.
“So, why did you start a new character?” he asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought it would be nice to try something different. I’ve been a black mage for the last nine games.”
“I like my soldier. Soldiers are well-balanced, and they get guns.”
“Why would you ever choose a gun over magic?” I ask him.
He speaks slowly, as if I’m stupid. “Guns are cool.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. A pile of plastic and metal… or orbs of flame and electricity that spew from your hands. Definitely pick the gun.”
“Exactly,” he says, missing the point.
“So, did you bring a costume?”
“No, I had to work until three.”
“You’re not dressing up?” This is blasphemy.
“I wore a shirt,” he says, and he unzips his coat to reveal a t-shirt that says, “I Survived Helm’s Deep.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, no one really cares about costumes. I think they’re getting a little old, don’t you?” he asks.
I pat my bag with my dress. “Not really,” I reply.
“Anyway,” he continues, “did you see my blog post about tonight? I gave you a code name.”
“Did you?” He wrote about me on his blog?
“You’re Lady K. You know, when you read the post.”
“Yeah, I missed it today,” I say.
“It was a good one. I had twelve hits on it. My traffic passed three hundred just this morning.”
“How long have you been blogging?”
“A little more than a year. But it’s quality, not quantity. I have nine very dedicated followers
.” I don’t tell him that I’m one of his nine followers, and that I only follow his blog because I accidentally clicked something and I can’t figure out how to unfollow it. And also, I mostly don’t care.
The waitress brings our food. My chicken tastes like ass.
“So, why’d you start playing FDX? I mean, aren’t you more of an FPS guy?” I ask.
“I don’t like to limit myself. Besides, I’m getting kind of bored with FPSs.”
“Why?”
“No reason, really. The last Call of Duty did nothing for me. There are so many noobs just ruining it,” he says. Now, to the untrained ear, this sounds like someone getting bored. However, to the astute gamer ear, it screams one thing: he got pwned by some twelve-year-old. Seynar is an awesome sniper, so it’s kind of unexpected. However, I’m guessing his management career selling girdles to retirees interfered with his gaming time. And now, the mighty has fallen. I take a huge drink of my soda to avoid laughing.
He talks a lot about himself during the rest of the meal, but I don’t really listen. I wish I’d asked George if he was going tonight. I mean, I know I’m technically going on Jeff’s ticket, but still. I could at least sit near George.
What is wrong with me? I need to get a hold of myself. Just because George likes gaming with me does not mean he likes me. I mean, God. I had to basically argue that we were on a date the other day. Although he did bring me home, and then log onto Live immediately. He also spent another nearly twelve hours with me. Sure, it was mostly while he was riding the back of a monstrous beast, but it could be interest. Ugh. I’m so dumb.
“So,” Jeff’s saying, “we have a couple hours before we really need to get in line and I was thinking maybe we could, um, well, we could go somewhere.”
“Where? Where is there to go in Elmwood? Except the mall, movies, and Chili’s?”
“There’s the reservoir,” he says.
Oh, no. The reservoir exists for one reason only. For couples to go connect with nature by shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. I had my first kiss at the reservoir a couple years ago. I nearly lost my virginity at the reservoir a few months after that, but that was thwarted by a police patrol going by. Jeff not only thinks this is a date; he also thinks this is that kind of date.
“It’s kind of cold,” I offer.
“I have a blanket in my trunk.”
Think, I tell myself. Counter his suggestion. “Or,” I say, “we could play laser tag.”
He looks at me and shrugs. “Sure. We can play laser tag. Can you pay?”
George
We arrive and, as predicted, the line stretches out farther than Saruman’s orc horde. At the outside door, there’s one guy on stilts dressed as an Ent. He can’t seem to get his head under the doors. One of his friends pulls on his arm, as if that will shrink him. Perhaps even less helpful is the other guy with them, who just keeps repeating, “I told you it wouldn’t work. I told you.”
“Hold, warg,” I tell Lanyon. “The goblin needs his steed.”
“Really?” he asks. I nod. He squats down and I leap onto his back. I poke him and, with an impressive roar, he charges forward.
I draw my sword and wave it as I’m jostled atop the sprinting Lanyon-warg. “Part, fools. The warg riders are upon you.”
We’re greeted by the parting of the crowd, along with a number of curse words and a good smattering of cheers. The Ent loses his balance and falls over. Our charge allows us to pass a few dozen people right off. Such is the power of the warg riders.
“Go for candy, my goodly steed. I shall commence Operation Crowd Sprint.”
He heads toward the line for Heaven’s Gate or, as it is more commonly known, concessions. I lock in for a round of crowd sprinting.
Crowd sprinting is an art form. The key is to not run and never to push. It isn’t about forcing one’s way through; it’s about popping past those who lack the same sense of urgency. Every crowd has gaps. Like a puzzle, the master crowd sprinter surveys the crowd, and he sees openings four moves ahead, predicting which will close and what others will open in the spray of humanity that surrounds him.
I slip between a pair of guys who are each looking for their third friend. That is a critical mistake. Solo crowd sprinting is far and away the most effective kind. While others stop to find friends or check the time or pick something up, zip zoop zap, I’m past them. I slip under a man’s arm as he points to a movie poster for Avengers 2 and then I see a sea of families in the crowd.
Families are like giant chests of treasure. They present a great opportunity for advancement, but the danger is also great. They swarm about with their tiny kids and cause traffic jams. This causes others to give them a wide berth so they can advance. But the true disciple of the crowd sprint knows his chance. If he has the daring, he can either skirt the family in the gap between them and the crowd, or even bolder, he can split through the family itself. The latter may be met with dirty looks, though, even if pulled off clean. The danger is that a kid’s movement is chaotic; he can stagger into a person without warning. If the crowd sprinter knocks into the kid, he’ll cry and everyone will blame the sprinter, even though the kid’s a drunken putz. This will end the crowd sprint. No line leap, no retry, no spawn point. But then again, fortune favors the bold.
I skitter up to a large double family. Four parents and seven kids. Seven kids! All of them whirl about like a series of cracked out Mario Brothers’ fireballs. I surge into the fray, around a kid whose hand is so embedded in his nose that brain damage cannot be far behind. A daughter spins at me as she asks her mother where her lollipop is. I shift my weight, spin around her, and duck under a water bottle as it’s thrown between friends. It’s no easy feat, but if I can beat Battletoads, this is nothing. After another few minutes of dodging and sprinting, I hand the theater guy my ticket. In a moment of wonder, Lanyon and I remembered to hold our own tickets.
I enter the theater. It’s still light as there’s half an hour until the movie. However, it’s really full. There’s a cluster of seats along the far wall that is largely clear, though. I pull on my mask and goblin my way over there. The mask eliminates peripheral vision, so I tread carefully. I scour the crowd and, at the very front, along the side I’m heading to are Katie and some hipster.
She looks crazy hot dressed as Arwen. Jesus, elf chicks make me feel a little funny in the pants. Is the goatee douche she’s with Seynar? That doesn’t seem right. She doesn’t recognize me, since I’m dressed as a goblin, and I choose a pair of seats two spots over and three back from her. It’s a bit stalkery but I can’t help it. Man, she makes a hot elf.
I spend the next fifteen minutes using my sword to defend Lanyon’s seat. It’s on the end next to me. So no, group of five, you cannot all sit there. Just as I’m about to start murdering people, Lanyon wargs his way in and sits next to me. He unleashes a haul of popcorn, Junior Mints, two Mountain Dews, and some of those ice cream blobs in a box.
“I made it,” he huffs.
“Took you long enough.”
“Well, one does not simply walk to the front of the popcorn line.” He goes to take off his mask, but I stop him. “Why? How am I supposed to eat?”
“Wait until the movie starts. We can save the snacks.” My eyes subconsciously travel toward Katie.
Lanyon looks. “Oh, I get it. You want to have a little spy mission here. I’m in.” His warg head leans forward. “Is that hipster guy Seynar?”
“I suppose he must be.”
“Weird. Shouldn’t he be blogging about skull caps and fair trade coffee?” he asks.
“Or at the very least some kind of government conspiracy. Instead, he just lists the top ten masks in video games.”
“Yeah, I read that. Isaac Clarke’s number one? No fucking way.” Lanyon forgets he’s wearing his mask and bounces popcorn uselessly off his warg face. “Damn it.”
The crowd is full up now and some guy who works for the theater comes in. He’s supposed to be a Nazgul but he’s ob
viously just recycled his Death Eater costume. He puts his black robed hands up and the crowd, with the exception of few shouts of “look at this douche,” grows silent.
“Hello, everyone. Welcome to the Golden Era Cinemas’ midnight show of The Hobbit 2.” He pauses and there is some raucous applause. My anger over the fact that there is only one The Hobbit book, and the fact that it’s a three hundred page work meant for middle school kids, boils up. How can they possibly make this three long ass movies?
Lanyon looks at my flexing goblin hands. “Getting angry about the trilogy thing again? The Hobbit isn’t so great, I suppose.”
“The Hobbit is fine. Peter Jackson is cockfosters.”
The Nazgul/Death Eater holds his arms up again for silence. “All right. We’re going to start the movie in about fifteen minutes. But first, I want to let you know about our concessions. We have a special on ice cream dots tonight and, in celebration of the midnight opening, we also have cake available.”
Nearly half the crowd shouts in unison, “The cake is a lie.”
Our host chuckles. “Usually. But tonight, we really have it. Now, let’s spend the next few minutes waiting by engaging in a little trivia. What do you say?”
The crowd is non-committal. But geeks are like that. Try to impress us with your puny questions, the crowd seems to say.
Katie
“Do you want cake?” Jeff asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure? Do you want anything?”
I sigh. He’s feeling all chivalrous now because I, like the empty-headed girl I guess he hoped I’d be, allowed him to kiss me after laser tag. I beat him at one game. Out of eight. He’s actually one hell of a sniper, and I guess I was feeling a little overly generous. When he came over to me at the end of the last match, he put his arm around me and leaned close. The stupid chest packs bumped and I closed my eyes and waited. It was a longer kiss than I would’ve liked – and definitely a much wetter kiss than I’d ever had, but now, he’s being all boyfriend-y. I was relieved to run to the bathroom to change into my costume after and I took as long as possible. Of course, he’s just been staring at my cleavage since.
