Misanthropy at the Movies

At the restaurant inside the movie theater, Olivier & I sat down at the table.  He started eating.  I was struggling with the impenetrable plastic package holding my napkin & brittle plastic fork.

“Man… did you get a load of those fucking people that were in line in front of us?”

Olivier responded by nodding his head.  His mouth was full of sandwich.  He swallowed.  “Yeah, they were pissing me off, too,” he said.  Sip of soda.  Swallow.  “The wife was smashing her elbow into my ribs while she bitched about napkins to the person working behind the counter.”

My fork was now free.  I pulled my sandwich apart & began flicking bits of tomato off of it.  “Seriously… you’d think that her husband could have corralled their kids while she did her bitching.”  Tomato.  Flick.  “I thought that they were going to start climbing my legs as if I were a mighty oak.  I love how people think that any other adult in the room is obligated to assist in the supervision of their larvae”.

Olivier nodded in agreement & mumbled something about rudeness.  A little bird landed on our table.

“What the hell… ”

“It’s a little bird,” Olivier replied.

“Yeah,” I said.  “I can see that it’s a little bird.  Where did it come from?”

He shrugged.  “Outside.”

“Very helpful,” I said.  “Thanks.  I guess what I mean is, how did it get inside a restaurant that’s inside a theater?”

“The roof is open,” he said, pointing with his cup.  I looked up.  A few stories above, I could make out bits of sky in between rafters, stairwells & bodies.

He was halfway done with his food.  I was halfway through cleaning my sandwich of vile tomatoes.  Most of our meals are like this – he eats, then he waits patiently while I finish eating mine.

I said, “I told that fool no tomatoes.”  My task completed, I put the sandwich back together & started eating it.  “You know… I really hate people.”  I watched the little bird flutter away to search for breadcrumbs on an empty table.

In the past 5 years or so since we’d met, my husband has heard me say this countless times.  Enough that he probably knows in advance each time that I’m about to announce it again.

“It’s bad enough, the people in places like this – paying no attention to anyone else’s personal space, letting their kids run amok & talking like shit to each other.  But, I think I’m getting worse.  I have less & less patience for the humans on a daily basis.”

Olivier took another sip of his soda.  “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Maybe it was moving from a small town like Loveland, Colorado & into a crowded & condensed city like Paris.  Maybe it’s just me.  But, really… I blame a lot of it on the internet.”

“Why the internet?  You don’t have to see those people.”

“No, I don’t.  That’s true.  I don’t even know them.  But, think about it… some days, I spend more time on the internet than I do outside.  There is an advantage – the people on the internet can’t invade my personal bubble like the morons incapable of standing in line at the goddamn grocery store.  However, the people on the internet take advantage of anonymity & distance.  They talk out of their asses, comment on shit that they didn’t take the time to read, so they end up bitching in ignorance & make no sense.”

Olivier laughed.  “Yeah, I actually see that a lot,” he said.  He crunched a handful of chips.

“Ugh… & what’s worse,” I went on.  “These fuckers can’t even spell.  Seriously, as if the texting lingo weren’t bad enough, some of them have to completely eliminate vowels.  That’s not communication – that’s just typing.  Any monkey can do that… & probably better.  I mean, on a day-to-day basis, how difficult is it to type things out in adult-speak without being an asshole?  Can’t people be nice to each other?  There are too many people who seem to think that the anonymity provided by the internet is some sort of douche license.”

He scooped up my pile of discarded tomato chunks.  “But you like people,” he said.

“Dude,” I said.  “You haven’t been listening, or what?  People bug me.  Just look at the shit that they do: beating & killing each other, lopping off fingers because of a bit of nail polish, painting their fucking posters about who God hates more… they’re sickening.  Besides all that, you’re the people person.  You’re nicer than I am.”

Olivier shrugged.  “That’s only because I don’t have any expectations.  You have hope for people.  You want them to be better.  They’re not, so you’re disappointed in them.  Me, I’ve accepted that you can’t expect from people what you can’t expect.  I’m not disappointed.  I didn’t expect anything to begin with.”

“Yeah… maybe,” I said.

“See… so if you think about it that way, you’re probably nicer than me,” he said.  “I’ve already given up on them.”

I looked around & saw that there were now several birds hopping on tables, hanging out near trash cans & perched up above.

“This is crazy,” I said.  “Look at all these little birds.”

“Ferret,” Olivier laughed at me as he wadded up his empty food wrappers.  “You say that every time we come here.”

“I do?”  I took a sip of my Coke.

“Yeah,” he said.  “You do.  I guess you were just too preoccupied with the people.”

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[tags]rant, writing, movies, misanthropy, Paris, people, eating, birds[/tags]

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