People milled around the lobby, murmuring in low whispers. The air smelled of freshly popped corn, each molecule saturated with butter, indundating my nostrils. As I was ushered into the movie theater, the soft plush walls enveloped my tiring senses. I sank into the leather recliner as the lights dimmed, my heart giddy with anticipation.
What movie are we watching again?
About a week ago, I dreamt I was at a movie theater. Sometimes I analyze my dreams, sometimes I don’t. This one was easy. I craved a sense of normalcy. Of being out in the world again, doing the things we love, with people we love. I dreamed of smelling again. (It’s been 92 days and I am getting hints of clove and jasmine, but herbaceous scents like basil and rosemary smell like brackish water, and the only things I can make out completely are still citrus and burnt steak. There’s no science, as far as I know, about why stinky, strong smells are coming back first, but intuitively, evolutionarily, it makes sense (no pun intended)).
Before medical school, indeed, the summer right after college, I had no idea what to do with my life. So, like any good college grad, I moved in with my parents in Toronto and worked at the local movie theater. In my head and on my interview, I said that it combined my passions for the arts and customer service. I guess that still makes sense. In reality, though, I didn’t watch any free movies and I got sick of the free popcorn. I swept out the emptied theaters after a show and marveled at the slovenliness of humans. I stood at the concessions counter, somehow greasy from head to toe because the fake butter oil sank into your pores, your clothes, and every imaginable surface. For years afterwards, I couldn’t eat popcorn because the smell made me nauseated. The best thing to come out of that summer was that I somehow convinced the owners to have a show of my art right in front of the movie theater, right inside Fairview Mall. I had forgotten about that until this moment. Having my own art show was the highlight of my life.
It’s been a long time since working in concessions and having a mall art show. I’ve come a long way. But, in some ways, I am still the person I have always been. I am still that kid, having big dreams, doing what needs to be done to get by.
I don’t have anything to sell (yet). I don’t have a product to speak of, not besides my writing, anyway. For right now, what I’m peddling is a sense of hope, a sense of wonder, a bit of introspection, through the vehicle of an email here and there.
Do you remember the kid you were? The dreams you had?
“It’s not too late. It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” - George Eliot
In case you missed it, I had one poem published on Inspiration In Isolation this month. They saw my poetry on Instagram and requested it.
Other things you may have missed:
Collected COVID-19 Frontline Stories
I'm a Doctor, but I'm also Human
This is a short one. Till next month! Always go black tie.