Over the weekend, I went to see a movie and the kindly old man who took our tickets looked at me, smiled his best condescending smile, and said, “Hey, you’re going to a movie! Alright! That’s real good!” I wanted to tell him, “Yes, every once in a while the facility lets me go on an outing. But I can’t wait to get back because tonight they’re serving us Jell-O with those little marshmallows in it. They even said I could pick between red or green Jell-O! And Derek–that’s my roommate–he usually doesn’t eat his dessert because on Saturday nights he likes to sit in the community room and watch the cars go by on the street outside. So maybe I can have his dessert too!”
But I didn’t say anything. Instead I smiled, nodded, and found my seat in the theater, where I proceeded to watch a movie that depicted Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello doing a sixty-nine and included graphic depictions of gangsters getting their faces blown off. I must confess, after receiving the old man’s benediction, I felt kind of dirty about sitting there and enjoying the copious amounts of on-screen sex and violence. But only for a little while.
