Dirty Movies

Tuesday nights are "dirty movie nights."

DISCLAIMER: It is dubbed "dirty movie nights" in regards to the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the theaters, not for the other reason.

Sorry, continuing on...

Every Tuesday, my brother* Judd and I both fork out $1 to see the latest and greatest movie at the cheap theaters across town (every other day of the week the price is inflated by 100% to see the same movie - us cheapskates opt for the thrifty day, always).

Before I begin to tell the story of this evening, let me first give a little background on these lovely establishments we call home on Tuesdays.

The first is the "dirty" movie theater, aka Brookdale 8 in Brooklyn Center. It is thus named due to the fact that it is a very, very, very, very, very dirty theater. There is no other word to describe it but dirty. In it's hey day (before stadium seating) it was once a grand movie establishment in a respectable part of town. Now, it's not.

The best thing about the "dirty" theater is the fact that I have yet to pay the whopping $1 ticket price for a movie there. My little buddy behind the counter just waves me in. Nice.

The second theater, located in the great strip mall on Larpenteur and Lexington in Roseville, is the "rice" theater. I honestly don't know why we call it the rice theater other than the fact that that is what Judd calls it. Huh.

At the end of each movie Judd and I have a rating system - worth a buck...or not. Last week's feature, "The 40 Year Old Virgin," received two "worth a buck" ratings. This evening's pick, "The North Country," received one "not worth a buck" (Judd) and one "worth a fitty cent" (me -hey, it was filmed in Minnesota - ya gotta give it that, don't ya know).

My bedtime story for this evening is not one of warm fuzzies, but rather a horror story. If you continue reading this, you are doing so on your own merits and cannot blame me for any nightmares or he-be-jeebies that may occur.

At the end of the movie, Judd and I discuss the flick, announce our ratings, join the throngs of people walking out of the theater, and stop in the adjoining Rainbow for groceries (don't ask why, it's just tradition).

This is only our second venture to the "rice" theater. Upon our first encounter we noticed the people who frequent this fine establishment are a bit odd. Tonight's activities confirmed that these people are more than just a bit odd. They are zombies.

Judd and I trampled over the popcorn strewn about on the floors, following the folks in front of us. Then Judd said, "look at their eyes." I glanced around into the eyes of the people around and immediately felt a bit out of sorts - their eyes were all glossy and glazed.

I shrugged it off thinking to myself "we are all just walking out of a dark theater into the light, I'm sure my eyes are the same."

I stopped in the bathroom on the way out (something I NEVER do at the "dirty" theater - you can only imagine why) and looked into the mirror. My eyes were perfectly fine.

I joined Judd in the hallway and we meandered over to Rainbow.

This cold, fluorescent lit, warehouse of a grocery store is straight out of the 1970's. In no was does it even compare to the warm, inviting, updated Rainbows we know in other parts of the cities. This is the original Rainbow. And nothing has changed since day one. The mylar balloons from the grand opening celebration are still clinging to the vents on the ceiling, trying to escape from this horrible time trap.

Judd and I bravely ventured to the bakery section and my eyes darted around the section while my brother claimed an old-fashioned donut (naturally) for his breakfast. A lady with tapered, stone washed jeans and her son, sporting a rat's tail, sorted through the oranges a few rows down.

"What is this place," I thought to myself.

I grabbed Judd and we rushed to the one check-out lane, where a pale young man was very-so slowly checking out the guest, two people in front of us.

And then, it happened.

All of the people who had been shopping throughout the store, slowly made their way to the front. Their eyes, glazed and glossy just like those in the theater, stared straight ahead. No sounds were heard. No eye contact was made. Ten, fifteen, eighteen people made their way to the front and stood in line directly behind me and Judd.

Judd repeated over and over in disbelief, "look at their eyes, look at their eyes..."

I let out a little squeal of terror.

Who are these people? What do they want? Where did they come from?

Zombies.

There was no other explanation.

The "rice" theater is the heart of Zombie-land.

My paranoid thoughts were broken when the check-out man remarked in a mono-tone voice to the stoic lady in front of us, "I-would-call-for-back-up-but-the-other-cashier-is-in-the-john-that'll-be-fifty-five-cents."

The zombie clerk was staring at us. Eye contact was made. Judd and I both froze.

"Why is he staring at us?" I whispered to Judd.

Oh. It's our turn.

Judd handed over a $10. Change was received. We bolted through the door, thankful we made it out of the store alive.

In fear of losing my life to zombies, I asked Judd if he'd drive me to my car parked at the end of strip mall land. He agreed.

But as we made our way to his car, a jumbled mess of metal (i.e. a rusty old clunker) pulled out of thin air and attempted to take over the empty spot we were walking through.

I looked around - a million empty spots surrounded us. "Why must you park in this space?" I shrieked to no one in particular. We were obviously not welcome in Zombie land. The Zombie driver just wanted to run us over.

I turned away from the stare of the Zombie driver in the clunker and spotted Judd's Passat a mere 20 feet away and started to make a dash for it. But another car appeared out of nowhere, zooming diagonally through the lot, heading straight for me.

Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and darted around the car just in time to safely reach the VW.

"GO!" I screamed when Judd finally got his clunky work boots into the car and planted them on the accelerator.

We were both in shock. Zombie town. We must leave. Now.

Judd peeled out of the parking lot and dropped me off at my Jetta.

"Next week?" he reluctantly questions.

"Of course," I squeaked. "But maybe we should stick to the 'dirty' theater instead."

"We'll see," Judd laughs in a scary sort of way.

We said our good-byes and parted ways. But my story does not end here folks, oh no, it does not.

My gas tank was near empty and the local SA's price for gas was $1.07 - the cheapest I've seen in a long time. I was not going to let this opportunity slip by.

I pulled up to pump #7 and looked over at the car opposite me. A tan, harmless Ford Taurus was being fueled. And then, there she was. The cell-phone talker. Pumping gas and talking on her cell phone. I thought about yelling at her to hang up and fuel or maybe even let out a loud cough while pointing to one of the 80 "Cell Phone Use prohibited During Fueling" signs that plastered the station.

Instead, my mind was filled with newspaper headlines like "Crowd Murdered at Local Gas Station Due to Cell Phone Talking Brainless Chick." Hmm, not the way I'd like to go.

I finished fueling and zoomed out of the parking lot, gazing into my rear view mirror at the cell-phone talker now attempting to fill her windshield washer fluid while unsuccessfully cradling her phone between her head and neck.

Honestly. Stupid people and zombies.

What is this world coming to?

Until next week's real-life scary story, I bid you, my friends and Zombies of Roseville, adieu.

*Judd is actually my cousin Mindy's, whom I often refer to as my sister, husband. So officially, he'd be my cousin-in-law...but what is that title anyway? It's much easier to just call him my brother than explain that twisted relationship every time.