“No,” I said through gritted teeth, “a gingerbread latte—”
“And they wouldn’t let you in because of the Drome’s dress code?”
“No, they wouldn’t let me in because the movie had already started. Because a guy with a gingerbread latte and Santa Claus kept me from getting back from the Polar Express in time, as you well know. You’re the one who put them up to it. This is just another one of your adolescent pranks, isn’t it?”
“I told you, that wasn’t a prank.”
“Then, what was it?”
“It…you remember when we watched Ocean’s 17, and there’s a break-in at the casino? Cops, sirens, helicopters, the whole nine yards? But that’s just a diversion, and the real crime is taking place over at the bank?”
“You’re saying the geese were a diversion?”
“Yeah. Just like Santa Claus. What did he do to delay you?”
“You know perfectly well what he did. You hired him to do it so I wouldn’t get in and I’d have to go with you. But it won’t work. I have no intention of seeing Christmas Caper with you.”
“Good,” he said, “because you’re not going to. Not today, anyway.”
“Why not? What did you do?”
“Nothing. I’m not the one responsible for any of this.”
“Really?” I said sarcastically. “And who is?”
“If you’ll sit down, I’ll tell you. I’ll also tell you why the 12:10 was sold out, why The Steampunk League sent its zeppelin over when it did, and why you couldn’t buy tickets to Christmas Caper online.”
“How did you know that?”
“Lucky guess. The ticket machines wouldn’t let you buy them either, would they?”
“No,” I said, and sat down. “Why not?”
“I need to know something first. What were you doing at the Polar Express? When I left you, you were handing the usher your ticket.”
“He wouldn’t let me in. Some guy threw up in the theater.”
“Ah, yes, good old vomit. Works every time. But why didn’t you just wait there in the entryway?”
I told him about the Dr. Who and Goose Girl lines and the bench people.
“Did anything else happen while you were waiting? Anybody send you a text telling you you’d won free tickets to something?”
“Yes.” I told him about the Encore Presentation of Ghost Town. “Which you can’t tell me you didn’t put them up to. Who else would know Ghost Town was one of my favorite movies?”
“Who, indeed?” he said. “When we were in line, you said, ‘This isn’t going to turn into another Monsoon Gate.’ I take it you didn’t get in to that movie, either. Why not? Did the same thing happen?”
“No,” I said. I told him about Zara trying on shoes and us missing the six o’clock showing. “And then she got a tweet saying there was going to be a special preview of Bachelorette Party—”
“Which, let me guess, was a movie she really wanted to see?”
“Yes,” I said. “So we decided to go to the ten o’clock, but when we checked its running time, it didn’t get out till—”
“After the last light-rail back to Hanover,” he said, nodding. “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink? A rat root beer? A vermin vanilla Coke?”
“No. Why are we here anyway?” I asked, looking around. “Surely there’s someplace we could go to that we wouldn’t have to shout.”
“This and the Tunnel of Love are the only areas not under surveillance. We could go do that.”
I had been in the Tunnel of Love with Jack before. “No,” I said.
“I heard they’ve got some new features that are really romantic—Anne Hathaway dying of consumption, Keira Knightley being hit by a train, Edward and Bella catching fire on their wedding night and burning to a crisp—”
“We are not going in the Tunnel of Love,” I said. “What do you mean, these are the only areas not under surveillance?”
“I mean, there’s no need to distract kids from going to see Ice Age 22,” he said. “Kids invented the short attention span. You, on the other hand, have been remarkably single-minded, hence the vomit. And the Gingerbread Man.”
“You’re saying the Drome was the one trying to keep me from seeing Christmas Caper?”
“Yup.”
“But why?”
“Okay, so you know how this all started, that after the Batman and Metrolux and Hobbit III massacres, movie attendance totally tanked, and they had to come up with some way to get the public back, so they turned the theaters into fortresses where people felt safe bringing their kids and sending their teenagers. But to do that, they had to introduce all kinds of security—metal detectors, full-body scans, explosives sniffers—and that meant people were standing in line for an hour and forty-five minutes to see a two-hour movie, which only made attendance drop off more. Who wants to stand in a line when you can stay home and stream movies on your ninety-inch screen? They had to come up with something new, something really spectacular—”
“The moviedromes,” I said.
“Yup. Turn going to the movies into an all-day full-surround entertainment experience—”
“Like Disneyverse.”
He nodded. “Or IKEA. Show lots of movies. A hundred instead of the multiplexes’ twenty. And add lots of razzle-dazzle: 4-D, IMAX, interactives, Hollywood-style premieres, celebrity appearances, plus theme restaurants and shops and rides and dance clubs and Wii arcades. None of which was really new.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Movie theaters have never made their money off the movies they showed. They were just a sideline, a way to get the public into the theater and buy popcorn and jujubes at outrageous prices. The Dromes just expanded on the concept, to the point that the movies have become less and less important. Did you know fifty-three percent of the people who go to a Drome never see a movie at all?”
“I can believe it,” I said, thinking of Kett and Zara.
“And that’s not an accident. In the two hours it takes to watch a movie, you could be spending way more than the price of a ticket and refreshments. And if they can get you to see a later showing, you’ll eat lunch and dinner here—and stick around to play glittertag afterward. The longer you’re at the Drome—”
“The more I spend.”
He nodded. “So the Drome does everything it can to see that happens.”
“You expect me to believe the Drome orchestrated all that—the tickets and the vomit and the text and the sold-out sign—just to get me to buy more souvenirs?”
“No. You know that old movie we watched where the guy’s investigating what looks like a simple train accident and then it turns out it wasn’t an accident?”
“I Love Trouble,” I said promptly. “With Nick Nolte and Julia Roberts. She was a reporter—”
“And he was a scoundrel,” Jack said, grinning. “Who, as I recall, Julia really liked.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that the train accident was just the tip of the iceberg. And so is Christmas Caper. I think there’s a whole vast conspiracy—”
“To keep me from seeing a movie?”
“Not you. Anyone. And not just Christmas Caper. The Pimmsleys of Parson’s Court, too, and Just When You Thought You Were Over Him, and Switching Gears, and possibly a couple of others.”
“Why?”
“Because they can’t afford to let the public find out what’s going on. Remember the things I told you the Dromes used to attract people—lots of razzle-dazzle and merchandise, and lots of movies?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s the problem. The old multiplexes had fifteen screens to fill. The Dromes have a hundred.”
“But they show some movies in more than one theater.”
“Right, and in 3-D, 4-D, and Wii versions, plus there are tons of sequels and remakes and reboots—”
“And Encore Presentations—”
“And rereleases and film festivals and Harry Pott
er marathons and sneak previews, but even if you add in foreign films and Bollywood and bad remakes of British romantic comedies and crummy remakes of all three, it’s still a hell of a lot of screens to fill. Especially when most people are only interested in seeing The Return of Frodo. Do you remember when we went to see Gaudy Night and we were the only two people in the theater?”
“Yes—”
“It’s like Baskin-Robbins. They advertise thirty-one flavors, but who the hell ever orders raisin or lemon custard? Those could actually be vanilla with a little food coloring added for all anybody knows. And so could half the Dromes’ movies.”
“So you’re saying Christmas Caper doesn’t exist?”
“I think that’s a very real possibility.”
“But that’s ridiculous. You and I saw a trailer for it. There was a preview on the overheads while we were in line.”
“Which was three minutes long and could have been filmed in a day.”
“But why would they advertise it if it doesn’t exist?”
“Because otherwise somebody—like me, for instance—might get suspicious.”
“But there’s no way they could get away with—”
“Sure there is. Most people want to see the latest blockbuster, and with a minor nudge—like a sold-out sign—you can talk ninety-five percent of the rest of them into seeing something else. Or having lunch at Babette’s Feast.”
“And the other five percent?”
“You just saw it.”
“But movies sell out, especially at Christmastime—”
“And people throw up and accidentally spill drinks and get picked up by fraternity guys and can’t go to the 10:20 showing because it gets out after the last light-rail train home. But the last showing of every movie I named gets out after the last scheduled light-rail, and I’ve tried to get into Switching Gears for the last five days and haven’t made it. What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up. “We’ve gotta get going if we’re going to make it to Christmas Caper.”
“Exciting, suspenseful, and unbelievably romantic!”
—Front Row
“But I thought you said it doesn’t exist,” I said as he dragged me out of Gusteau’s.
“It doesn’t. Come on.” He led me through Hogwarts and Neverland and down an aisle of shops selling Toy Story and The Great Oz and Son of Lion King souvenirs.
“This isn’t the way to the theater complex,” I protested.
“We’ve got some shopping to do first,” he said, leading me into the Disney Princess Boutique.
“Shopping? Why?”
“Because we can’t afford to have management notice us, and the surest way to draw attention to yourself in a Drome is by not spending money,” he said, riffling through a rack of Tangled T-shirts.
“Besides,” he said, moving to another rack, this one full of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs hoodies, “this is a big date. You should have something special to wear. Something the usher hasn’t seen.” He flipped through the entire rack and then one of Twelve Dancing Princesses tutus, pulling them out and then hanging them back up.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“I told you. Something special,” he said, searching through yet another rack. “And something that doesn’t make you smell like Mrs. Claus’s kitchen. Ah, here we go,” he said, pulling out a yellow Dora and Diego Do the Himalayas T-shirt, with Diego pointing his trademark camera at Dora and the monkey, who were standing atop Mount Everest. “Just the ticket.”
“I am not wearing—” I began, but he’d already thrust it and a bright pink Little Goose Girl baseball cap into my hands.
“Tell the clerk to deactivate the tags so you can wear them now,” he said, “and then go in the dressing room, take off your top, and put the shirt on. I’ll be in the store next door.” He gave me a push in the paydesk’s direction. “And no questions.”
I did as he said, pulling my top off over my head—he was right, it did reek of gingerbread—and putting the T-shirt on over my singlet.
It was too tight, which I suspected was part of the plan, and looked even worse on me than it had on the hanger. “You could have at least had me get something cute,” I told him when I found him in the shop next door, trying on Risky Business sunglasses.
“No, I couldn’t,” he said. “What’d you do with your top?”
“I put it in the bag,” I said.
“Good. Come on,” he said, taking it from me and steering me out of the shop, back toward Gusteau’s, to a recycler. He dropped the bag in.
“I liked that top,” I protested.
“Shh, do you want to go to this movie or not?” he said, leading me through a maze of balloon artists and tattoo laser techs and kiddie rides and candy stores to the lobby.
He stopped just short of it. “Okay, I want you to go over to the kiosk and buy a ticket to Dragonwar.”
“Dragonwar? But I thought we were going to—”
“We are. You buy a ticket to Dragonwar and then—”
“One ticket? Not two?”
“Definitely not two. We’re going in separately.”
“What if the machine tells me I have to buy it at the ticket counter?”
“It won’t,” he said. “Once you’re inside—”
“Or what if they say I can’t go in yet?”
“They won’t do that, either,” he said. “Once you’re inside, go to the concessions stand and buy a large popcorn and a large 7-Up with two straws, and go down to Theater 17.”
“Theater 17? But Dragonwar’s playing in Theater 24.”
“We’re not going to Dragonwar. Or to Au Revoir, Mon Fou, which is what’s showing in Theater 17. You’re not going into any theater. You’re just going to stand in the doorway of 17. I’ll meet you there in a couple of minutes.”
“And you promise we’ll see Christmas Caper?”
“I promise I’ll take you to Christmas Caper. Large popcorn,” he ordered. “Large 7-Up. Not Coke.” He jammed the Goose Girl cap down over my eyes. “Theater 17,” he repeated, and took off through the crowd.
“Based on a true story…but you won’t believe it!”
—At the Movies
He was right. No one got in my way or spilled a felony frappe on me or stopped me to give me a free pass to You’re Under Arrest, and the usher didn’t even glance at me as he tore my ticket in half. “Theater 24,” he said, and motioned to the right, “End of the hall,” and turned his attention to a trio of thirteen-year-olds, and I went down the plush-carpeted hall.
There was no sign of Jack, but he could be hiding in one of the recessed entrances to the theater or past the point halfway down where the hall took a turn to the right.
He wasn’t. I stood outside Theater 17 for longer than a couple of minutes and then walked slowly down to 24, where Dragonwar was playing, but he wasn’t there, either.
He got caught trying to sneak in, and they threw him out, I thought, walking back to Theater 17 and planting myself in the recessed doorway.
I waited some more.
Still no sign of Jack, or of anyone else, except a kid who shot out of Theater 30 and down to the restroom, banging its door loudly behind him. I waited some more. I would have gotten my phone out to see what time it was, but between the giant 7-Up I was cradling in my left arm and the enormous bag of popcorn, there was no way I could manage it.
A door slammed farther down the hall and I looked up eagerly, but it was just the kid, racing back to 30, obviously determined not to miss a second more than necessary of his movie. I wondered what it was that was so riveting. I moved down the hall a little so I could see the marquee above the door.
Lethal Rampage. And next door to it, on the marquee above Theater 28, Christmas Caper.
“The cast is terrific!”
—Goin’ Hollywood
That rat! Jack had told me it didn’t exist, and yet here it was. And all those pr
oblems I’d had, all those people who’d gotten in my way, weren’t Drome employees hired to keep me out. They were just moviegoers like me, and the things that had happened were nothing more than coincidences. There was no conspiracy.
When are you going to learn you can’t trust a word he says? I thought, and if he’d been there, I’d have taken great pleasure in dumping the 7-Up—and the popcorn—over his head and stomping out.
But he’d apparently gotten himself caught and thrown out of the Drome. If he’d ever intended to come. And I was left, quite literally, holding the bag. And now that I thought about it, Nick Nolte had done the same thing to Julia Roberts in I Love Trouble—sending her on what else?—a wild-goose chase. With real geese.
I’ll kill him when I find him, I thought, and started back toward the entrance, fuming, and then stopped and looked back at Theater 28. I had come to the Drome to see Christmas Caper, and it was right here, with the 4:30 showing due to start at any minute. And it would serve Jack right if I saw it without him.
I walked back to the turn and peeked around the corner to make sure no one—especially not somebody on the staff—was coming and would catch me going into a different movie than the one I had the ticket for, and then hurried over to Theater 28 and pulled the door open. That was no mean feat given the popcorn and the 7-Up, but I managed to get it open far enough to hold it with my hip while I sidled through.
It was pitch-dark inside. The door shut behind me, and I stood there in the blackness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. They didn’t, even though there should be some light from the movie screen, or, if the previews hadn’t started yet, from the overhead lights. And weren’t these hallways supposed to have strip lighting in case they had to evacuate the theater?
This one obviously didn’t, and I couldn’t see anything. I stood there in the darkness, listening. The previews had definitely started. I could hear crashes and clangs and ominous music. It must be a preview for one of those shot-totally-at-night movies like The Dark Knight Rises or the Alien reboot, and that was why I couldn’t see, and in a minute, when a different preview came on, there’d be enough light to find my way by. But though the sounds changed to laughter and the muffled murmur of voices, the corridor remained coal-mine black.
A Lot Like Christmas Page 41