Wayne has a strict protocol for seeing a movie in the theater:
First, you must go on Monday or Tuesday night to avoid a crowd. Maybe Wednesday but never, ever on the weekend. Weekends are for amateurs.
Second, arrive exactly when the film is scheduled to begin so you don’t miss the previews.
Before finding your seat you must procure the third, fourth and fifth requirements: popcorn without butter, a medium diet coke, and a box of black licorice. If they only have red licorice then you lodge a complaint and get Junior Mints instead.
It is best to sit in the middle of the theater, halfway down the aisle; if there’s only room in the front or back ten rows then get your money back instead.
Wayne’s cell phone has never rung during a film—if it did, he would probably crush it under his heel like a cockroach.
When the house lights darken, Wayne asserts his possession of the armrests and leans back in his chair. This is the magical moment when everything fades away and the ceiling overhead can only be sensed distantly like a soft, loose mantle. His mind must open and stretch to fill the space around him; his imagination yearns to be consumed, hijacked, occupied by someone else’s reality.
Victor turns to Wayne and whispers, “What’s up with the glasses?
A large portion of this chapter has been deleted.
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