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He rolls the oversized trash bin down the aisle, a dust rag and broom in hand to clean out the debris we moviegoers have left behind. Actually, there are two of them; they always work in pairs in this theater. I am familiar with the pattern: The lights come up, a sea of people rise and maneuver into their coats and hats, the chatter begins, and just as soon as it seems that everyone must have exited, the cleaners swoop in to ready the theater for the next wave.
This is the second time in three weeks that this particular worker has found me still sitting there, my coat and pocketbook casually plunked on the seat beside me, intently reading the credits. I start to explain that it’s OK to just clean up around me, when he says, “I remember you from last week; you’re reading the credits. That’s nice.”
I quickly shift my gaze from the screen to look up at him, to note him, too. It takes so many often invisible, rarely acknowledged, people to make things happen—everywhere.
“Thanks,” I say. He looks at me quizzically.
“For what?” he asks.
“Why, for the work you do,” I answer.
“This? This is nothing.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not nothing.”
He looks at me as if a vaporous cloud has suddenly combusted to reveal a creature from another world.
“Who would even come to the theater if you weren’t doing your job?” I say, and then add, “You’re certainly as important as a second company rigging grip,” just having read that job title on the screen.
“A grip?” he says doubtfully.
“They’re enormously important. Really.” And I go on to explain how grips set up trusses for the lights and rig cameras to cars and helicopters, boats, too, how they work dollies, lay dolly track, and must tie the strongest, surest knots on the planet. I’m sure I never knew that they even existed until I read the credits and decided to find out what they do.
He joins me for a minute as the screen lists hundreds of names, hundreds of jobs we rarely consider, like foley mixer and boom operator, greensperson, gaffer.
I’m not sure when I started doing this, but it seems like it’s been forever. Whenever I go to a movie with someone else, I sense their impatience with me as I sit and read until the last name, the last assignment, has rolled itself up and off the top of the screen.
I know I’ve missed some of this film’s credits while in conversation, but that’s OK. There’s a live “credit” right here.
For all this movie talk, you’d think I was some aficionado, an expert in all things film. Not so. I can go months without seeing a film, and then I might see what seems even to me an odd conglomeration: Water, Half Nelson, Dreamgirls, Children of Men. I’m not the person to consult about the “best” film. I don’t religiously check reviews and find out what the critics are saying. I’m a stumbler, for the most part.
The truth is, I bet my sweeper is an expert on all things film. Next flick, I’ll ask him.
Annaliese Jakimides’ work has been published in journals, magazines, and books in the U.S and Europe. Her short fiction and poetry will be included in two collections in 2007, and she has recently recorded essays for broadcast on public radio.
This is the second time in three weeks that this particular worker has found me still sitting there, my coat and pocketbook casually plunked on the seat beside me, intently reading the credits. I start to explain that it’s OK to just clean up around me, when he says, “I remember you from last week; you’re reading the credits. That’s nice.”
I quickly shift my gaze from the screen to look up at him, to note him, too. It takes so many often invisible, rarely acknowledged, people to make things happen—everywhere
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“Thanks,” I say. He looks at me quizzically.
“For what?” he asks.
“Why, for the work you do,” I answer.
“This? This is nothing.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not nothing.”
He looks at me as if a vaporous cloud has suddenly combusted to reveal a creature from another world.
“Who would even come to the theater if you weren’t doing your job?” I say, and then add, “You’re certainly as important as a second company rigging grip,” just having read that job title on the screen.
“A grip?” he says doubtfully.
“They’re enormously important. Really.” And I go on to explain how grips set up trusses for the lights and rig cameras to cars and helicopters, boats, too, how they work dollies, lay dolly track, and must tie the strongest, surest knots on the planet. I’m sure I never knew that they even existed until I read the credits and decided to find out what they do.
He joins me for a minute as the screen lists hundreds of names, hundreds of jobs we rarely consider, like foley mixer and boom operator, greensperson, gaffer.
I’m not sure when I started doing this, but it seems like it’s been forever. Whenever I go to a movie with someone else, I sense their impatience with me as I sit and read until the last name, the last assignment, has rolled itself up and off the top of the screen.
I know I’ve missed some of this film’s credits while in conversation, but that’s OK. There’s a live “credit” right here.
For all this movie talk, you’d think I was some aficionado, an expert in all things film. Not so. I can go months without seeing a film, and then I might see what seems even to me an odd conglomeration: Water, Half Nelson, Dreamgirls, Children of Men. I’m not the person to consult about the “best” film. I don’t religiously check reviews and find out what the critics are saying. I’m a stumbler, for the most part.
The truth is, I bet my sweeper is an expert on all things film. Next flick, I’ll ask him.
Annaliese Jakimides’ work has been published in journals, magazines, and books in the U.S and Europe. Her short fiction and poetry will be included in two collections in 2007, and she has recently recorded essays for broadcast on public radio.
