The other night I went to a movie with a couple of friends. There were probably about ten films playing at the complex, all starting at roughly the same time, and feeling kind of whimsical I asked the cashier if she could guess what movie I was going to go and see.
Unimpressed, even bored by the game I was imposing on her, she said, “What’s in it for me?”
“Good customer service,” I replied primly.
She sighed, might have rolled her eyes, “Girl Cops Off Duty,” she said.
“Is that playing?!” I asked with all too much enthusiasm.
“No, I made it up. It’s not a real movie. You’re going to see Moneyball. You’re obviously going to see Moneyball. You could be seeing no other movie than Moneyball.”
This depressed me as she was correct. I thought for a moment about lying and going and seeing a different movie, but as I was with friends I figured I was obligated.
“I could easily have been going to see The Killer Elite or Drive, you know.”
She looked at me, smarter than me, “Oh, then why aren’t you?”
“Brad Pitt is a friend of mine,” I lied, “I feel I owe it to him.”
She snickered, “You owe it to Brad Pitt, your friend, to go see his movie Moneyball?”
“Yes.”
“In this world you live in, how is that you met Brad Pitt?”
I launched into what I thought was a pretty convincing story about how, since I worked in media and wrote about popular culture, I met him at a press junket for Babel, had drinks and kind of hit it off. I admitted that we weren’t really friends, but that we’d exchanged social emails a few times with a vague commitment to meet up next time he was in Toronto.
“I think you’re a liar and that you’re just a middle-aged man who likes fantasy baseball.”
“Brad Pitt would hate you,” I replied.
“Brad Pitt would hate you, too, enjoy the movie.”
I looked at her, trying to think of something to say, but my friends pushed me along, bored and embarrassed that I wouldn’t let the matter drop.
“Oh, “ she continued, “ and don’t get your hopes up, there’s no nudity.”