Two Rows Back

Lights fade up.

The actor is holding a piece of Reese’s Pieces candy in their hand, playing and examining it closely. They are about to pop it into their mouth when they notice the “audience” and stop.

I’d always thought they were M&M’s.

As they speak, they put the piece of candy away into their pocket.

Funny how you can go through life thinking something, only to find out it’s not true. Seems trivial now I agree, but at the time, back then, the type of candy you lured an extra-terrestrial out of your shed with was a pretty big deal.

Even now, re-watching on the small screen in the comfort of my own adulthood, I can still feel the tsunami of emotions that broke during a rare family visit to the cinema when I was only six. That fateful screening we shared before walls were built to keep those types of feelings at bay. Little did I know that the first brick would be laid before the credits had even started to roll.

It didn’t happen immediately, not that I would have noticed. I was gone. Lost to the magic of the movies; snared by Spielberg and loving every minute. Basically crack for kids, right? I mean what 6 year old wouldn’t want to make friends with a creature from outer space, sneak it in their room and feed it bags of M&… I mean, feed it candy?

Oh yes, I was hooked.

And unbeknown to me, as the movie played out, that it wasn’t just Elliot developing a symbiotic connection to the alien; I was too. And every joyous revelation, every special effect wow and heart-wrenching plea for home was felt in parts of me that I didn’t fully understand, but were still somehow comforting and right.

It wasn’t until after the crying that I found out. I couldn’t tell you when exactly; there was an awful lot of crying. But at some point, probably somewhere between the death and resurrection of the long suffering potted chrysanthemums, my father had removed himself from our midst to find himself a new seat, away from his sobbing family, where he remained for the rest of the film, two rows back.

To this day, I’m still unsure how the events that unfolded in screen number one were relayed to me. No doubt drip fed through family folk law and tipsy anecdotal teasers; all aimed to dress my dad’s discomfort in the emotionally correct, archetypal threads of manhood. And the more I look back, the more I can make out the figure of my father, at birthdays, sports events, holidays and home-comings; always there, sitting in silent love and support, but never too close; always two rows back.

And when you discover that same trait in yourself, you wonder, was it always there? Maybe I was born with it, or maybe I’ve been sleepwalking all these years, invisible forces shaping me from silent, instinctive cycles: watch, feel, remember; repeat. Did that cinematic adventure set me on a path to where I am now? Cues picked up along the way forming habit, forming me?

Because we don’t talk about this stuff, do we? We keep ourselves two rows back, safely behind those walls, hidden inside our own sheds, waiting to be lured out by something.

The actor reaches into their pocket and takes out a full packet of Reese’s Pieces candy. The pour a few pieces out into their hand.

But not by M&M's, that much I do know.

The actor starts eating the candy, one by one, crunching each piece of loudly.

Lights fade down.