Who over what

Long ago, when DVD’s and VHS tapes roamed the earth and Netflix was still a mail-order service, I moved to a new city for a job doing something I really loved. I was just starting out on the journey we call adulthood – which at the time, I thought of as a destination – and I was determined to make the most of what I believed adulthood should be: A life propelled by the thrill of charting my own course, by the near-certainty that great things were just around the corner and the endless possibility of a city and its millions of people.

But the city didn’t seem so welcoming to outsiders, and I was essentially a free-lancer, working alone. This was all OK, as I was (or made myself) very busy. I worked long days and late nights, often at a coffee shop near my apartment called Hollywood Espresso. Even when I moved across town, I still went back to Hollywood Espresso to work. It offered company of sorts – the din of strangers was comforting, and if I didn’t speak to the baristas, I might go a full day without talking to anyone.

In the basement below the coffee shop was a video store, called Hollywood Express. There was an easy camaraderie between the two staffs, which I envied – they all seemed to fit in this world, while I felt like an astronomer observing it from a distance. The coffee shop would play movies, without sound, on large televisions at either end of the dimly lit room – mostly arty films that weren’t in high demand at the video store. (If you liked Aguirre, the Wrath of God on silent, you’ll love Solaris.) Friday nights, after finishing up work, I’d go down to the video store and wander the stacks, sometimes for an hour or more, looking, I told myself, for the perfect movie for whatever mood I was in. Truthfully, I didn’t have anything better to do; I’d go home, lie on the coach with a massive bowl of buttered popcorn, and be happy watching just about anything.

There was a woman who worked at the video store, with a sleeve of tattoos, multiple piercings, and colored hair that changed often – all of which, at the time, seemed much edgier than it does now. I asked her once about a particular actress – one whose name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember what else she’d been in. “I think I read she was well-known in Sweden before coming to the States,” I said, trying to sound smart. “Aren’t they all,” she replied, with a grin I took to be mischievous.

After that, I asked her for recommendations whenever she was in. And late at night, eating my popcorn, watching whatever she’d handed me, I tried to the movie through her eyes – and, futilely, I tried to come up with pithy, casually ironic and totally unrehearsed commentary I could slip into conversation if she happened to be working when I returned it. And I’d probably wait until she was working to return it.

I don’t remember many of the films she recommended, though she tended toward the classics. (If you liked On the Waterfront, you’ll like sex, lies, and videotape? Maybe she was trying to educate me.) Nor do I remember her name; it’s possible I never had the courage to ask her. But in my apartment in a city of strangers, through the fog of my own loneliness and social phobia – things I did not recognize about myself at the time – I remember feeling the slightest, most tenuous sense of connection to another person. Imaginary as it was, it was something.

Several years later, I’d graduated out of free-lancing to full-time employ, and I made a few friends at work. Kevin and Sue were delightfully unself-conscious; they were those people you hated in the movie theater – the ones sitting behind you that won’t shut up. But I loved being with them, loved hearing Sue whisper, loudly, “if something doesn’t blow up soon I’m walking out,” and Ben exploding with laughter. I’d watch anything with them, though we did tend toward, yes, movies in which stuff blew up. (If you like Fast and Furious – any of them – you’ll like Godzilla, or Spider Man, or, for that matter, Dukes of Hazzard.) I didn’t care. I still had my massive bucket of popcorn, but in the dark theater, I had people to share it with. I was grateful to be a part of their world; to be with intelligent, thoughtful, hilarious people who liked mindless action, cheap laughs, and the sense of escape movies offered.

And we had more than a love of movies in common. We were all more or less in the same place in our lives, and after they each navigated a few painful, ill-fated relationships, they found their one and settled down. Sue and I drove up together to Kevin’s wedding; a year later, Kevin officiated Sue’s.

I, on the other hand, was more prone to avoid relationships and not risk the pain. This part of the journey took me a little longer.

But now here I am: it’s early evening, but if feels like past midnight. The dishes are washed, counters clean, leftovers put away for tomorrow. I am curled in bed with my wife, Jess. We are both exhausted: work, childcare, keeping a household, and a year of pandemic have us at the end of our ropes. Our son, three years old, is in the room next door ¬– asleep, I hope, after we caved and let him watch a little bit of one of his shows. (If you like Thomas the Tank Engine, you’ll love Titipo.) Just getting to this quiet, magical hour feels like a victory.

I don’t see Kevin and Sue as often. We still try for the occasional movie night out – or did, pre-pandemic – though now it’s as much about nostalgia as it is about the movie. We do it to take ourselves back, if only for a few hours, to lighter days with fewer cares.

And sometimes I even miss those dark ages of long ago, nights on the couch all alone with my popcorn, bathed in the blue light of my big TV – watching whatever I’d picked up (or been handed) at the video store. I wouldn’t go back for all the money in the world, but that feeling – of no real attachments or responsibilities, of endless possibility and no real goal besides coming up with something clever to say to the woman at the video store – well, every now and then, I miss it.

But where I am now is, in ways that my long-ago self could not have begun to comprehend, profoundly better: My laptop is balanced on my belly, and Jess’ head is resting on my shoulder. (No popcorn – the belly is already such that the laptop’s balance is precarious.) I usually default to her preferences; if you like British Baking Show, you’ll love The Mandalorian, or Billions, or Poldark. It really doesn’t matter, it’s enough to just let go, to decompress from the day and drift into the land of make believe. (If you like Mr. Rogers, you’ll like… I don’t know; everyone with a soul and beating heart likes Mr. Rogers.)

Why is far more important than what. We watch to share precious moments when we have nothing to do but be together; to feel a sense of connection to others, to step into their world, and come to understand something about them through what they love. A show is just a show, but in watching we are bonded: in pairs, in groups, in a crowded theater, across distances. We become a community. So bring us together. Tell me what you watch…