Duo Maxwell is the new seventeen-year-old concession virgin. When he started out a couple of days ago, he was bright and chipper and actually looked like he wanted to be here. I mean, when I first started working here, I was perfectly fine for about a week before I was jaded like the rest of the staff. Working for minimum wage in a movie theater will do that to you, you know? Sometimes I notice him at odd moments in time, though... like when we both have nothing to do or when I glance at the clock on the wall... or when he wipes off the counters.
Smitten.
The only time we all actually do something is during the rushes, and believe me, a lot of people show up during those. The good movies start, and the flocks of richies rush in to waste two hours of their lives watching a movie they would eventually be able to rent much cheaper than the ticket itself. And it depresses me more and more to realize that two hours of my hell is wasted on paying for a movie ticket... a worthless piece of paper that costs too much and could lead to a bad movie. I work my ass off for the kind of money it takes to buy a ticket... and for what?
Who knows?
Anyway... I don't want to complain. I do like my job.
When the rushes are over and done with and all we can really do is wait for the next, I can look out of my box and see him leaning against one of the counters. Never walking around or doing anything productive, but leaning against the front of the counter near his register, one of his hands wrapped around his obscene length of hair like it was a pet or something. He looks so completely out of place in front of the frozen drink machines, the swirling red and green contraptions moving about inside. He looks out of place because he looks like the type of high-class person who wouldn't be caught dead working at the country club, let alone a damn movie theater with cheap folks like myself.
Not minimum wage material, if I have any right to speak on the issue.
This is the third job I've managed to snag in about a five month time span, and admittedly, the one that I enjoy the most. My first job was at some awful fast food restaurant with horrible food that I wouldn't have fed to my dog if she was laying on the ground near death. This Duo kid doesn't look like he would even be the type to nibble on a fast food burger, so I can't really see him in a paper hat that says "Frankie's Food Corner" on the front in blocky red lettering.
No...
Duo Maxwell is standing in front of the frozen drink machines, sporting his snazzy maroon vest and black bowtie almost like it was a meaningful fashion sense and not the horrible uniform it was made to be. He never seems to be uncomfortable in the damn torture outfit, never once reaching up to loosen the collar like I do every four minutes. Never once looks at his fellow concessionists to tell them how horrible the idea was for him to work up here.
The one thing I don't quite get about him is that after about the fourth hour of work, anyone could clearly tell that he's experiencing some aches and pains from standing so damn long. I mean, it's not like we get to tromp around in tennis shoes and jeans. No, that would be too easy. If we got to wear what we wanted to wear to work, I would be showing up in my boxers or quite possibly my birthday suit to scare some of the old lady customers... maybe even kill them if they get a good enough look. Comfort is not an issue, though, because that would seriously be too easy. I'm sure all the concession workers would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if they didn't have to wear dress shoes, for Christ's sake. I work in the box, so my ass isn't standing up the majority of the time like they all do. I give people their tickets, and that ends our temporary companionship.
The concession gets all the... how can I put this delicately... bitchy, indecisive people. They ask for one thing, the concession workers ring it up, and then the customer changes their mind. Up sale, up sale, up sale! You don't up sale, you don't have a job anymore; the door and box people don't have quite so many... constrictions? Trowa Barton is a good friend of mine who works door, and I swear to God he gets paid to run around the theater and assault people with a broom. Can you even begin to imagine how frightening it is when you're sitting in the box with nothing to do, and you suddenly get smacked in the back of the head with a theater broom?
Death take me now.
Trowa used to work in box with me, but apparently he actually considered that "work", and he just couldn't have that. As soon as he moved to door, which really made me mad because I didn't have anyone to talk to as soon as he left, I didn't have much to do except watch the likes of the concession. Somehow, by the powers of whatever God Trowa tends to pray to, he even managed to get out of taking people's tickets and directed them to the right theater. Damn bastard has a wonderful way of getting people to like him, and when people like you, you can pretty much do whatever you want. About twelve feet away from the box area is the Customer Service place where another one of my friends works. Granted, I only met him in the movie theater, but I still like to consider him my friend because he's really nice to me.
Quatre Rebarba Winner is about twenty-two right now, about six years older than half of th e concession workers, Duo included. He's about six years older than them because most of the concession ranges from sixteen to nineteen... for some odd reason. I'm eighteen right now, so the Blonde Wonder manages to outrange even myself. Quatre once told me that working at Customer Service has aged him at least forty years because of all the horrors he has to face when around people for so long. Once we had a blackout in the whole shopping mall we're at and nobody could see their movies. Oh Heavens, I think I would have sobbed myself to death if I had to sit back and endure hundreds of angry people complaining to me about wanting refunds. No, no... hundreds of angry, rich people who could have Quatre unemployed for life with one phone call.
Sometimes when our breaks fall together, the two of us sneak off together and smoke a cigarette where no one could possibly see us. Policy or some shit like that doesn't allow for workers to be seen smoking on the theater grounds... so we're just not seen, plain and simple. The people who work in Customer Service get to cruise around the theater in suits and whatnot just like the flocks of managers, and Quatre definitely sports his suit well enough to fit in.
Long story short, and as stated before, the guy's my friend. One of my few, but... still a friend.
Sharp as a knife, too. Everything I do, he manages to bring it to his attention and tell me that he knows...
"Cute, ain't he?"
Whenever he notices that there's someone who's caught my eye, in this case the concession virgin, he tries to find out whether or not I like them enough to try and be their friend. There was this one kid who worked here for about a week and a half before quitting, and that made me sad because Quatre managed to make the two of us friends. I think Quatre notices that sometimes Duo Maxwell watches me like I tend to watch him, but I could care less because it seems to be mutual curiosity on our part. Duo's been working here for about a week now and the two of us have not spoken one single word to each other. No "hello" or "good weather" or "see you tomorrow"... nope. There haven't been cheap greetings shared between the two of us because we aren't around each other more than necessary.
It's only been a week and I feel like I'm hopelessly in love with the kid with the dangerously long hair and the rich demeanor. The guy who sports his outfit like a movie star playing a strategic role of your average, middle-class worker. The one who frightens me and has my teenage hormones racing when he leans over by the popcorn burner to scoop up more kernels to pop into the kettle. My heart stops when I see his long braid swinging a little too close for comfort, and the fear of it actually going in and whatnot. On the other hand, typical teenage hormones kick in and a mental image of bending him over that same burner and making the concession virgin a concession man...
... oh god. Ignore that.
Actually, now that my mind is officially in the gutter, I remember a couple of days ago when he was changing in the break room after getting off work, taking off his tuxedo shirt... his pants... his snazzy maroon vest. That was sexy, if I have the right to say so, and he wasn't the least bit embarrassed as I walked in. Just kept changing...
For someone so beautiful, he sure knows how to show the world that he does, indeed, know of his attractiveness. Normally it's the beautiful ones who like to believe that people aren't looking at them for what they are on the outside, but he seems to appreciate beauty even if it is his own.
I want to tell him something... anything, really. I'm a chicken at heart, I do believe, so it's hard for me to just walk up to someone and tell them that I find them interesting. Or annoying.
Or drop dead gorgeous.
Sexy.
Should be illegal!
I find it difficult to tell people much of anything, but I would kill myself and my mother if it meant that just before the bloodshed I could hear the voice that matches the face. If I could witness the puzzle pieces falling together, solving this mystery, then I think I could die a happy minimum wage worker, indeed. Trowa could sweep up my body... it'll be grand.
Nobody wants to hear me go up to the kid and ask him if he wants to bend me over some random item in the movie theater like I want to do to him. Nobody wants to hear me tell him that I want to be his friend because his beauty keeps me from being bored during the dead times of the evening. Nobody wants to hear me tell him that I think I've fallen into some form of love with him even though he is a stranger... but a beautiful one.
Nobody wants to know that I want to tell him my name and have him remember it even if I cover my nametag with one hand just so he can't cheat. I don't want him to know that I keep calling him the concession virgin to Trowa because he burned a batch of popcorn on his first try making it, but quickly recovered before any managers could notice something wrong. I don't want him to know that when Quatre said "Cute, ain't he?", I replied quite quickly with an honest "yes" because I meant it.
I didn't want him to know that I was experiencing my first crush, and he happened to be the source of my secret affection.
I wanted to hear him say-
"Excuse me?"
Oh, god.
"Excuse me?"
Oh, lord, he's so much more beautiful up close.
He blinks back at me with bright eyes, smiling a little as I spin around in my chair to give him a questioning stare. Hey, what can I say? Us box workers get to have these uncomfortable chairs that I like to spin around in all day whenever nobody's watching.
... his voice is so lovely.
"Do you have change for a dollar? I'm out of quarters in my register and I need to use the phone to call my mom."
This is my chance to say everything that I've been wanting to say for the past week. I've wanted to tell him so many things, and the distance between the two of us is finally gone because he needs to make a phone call. He could have gone to anyone else, but he came to me. He could have asked Quatre over at Customer Service for a couple of rolls of quarters and the Blonde Wonder would have done it without hesitation. He could have gone to the second box and asked the newbie training in there with one of the vets.
He could have gone anywhere else...
... Hell, we have a fucking change machine by the restrooms.
Have to be smooth, have to be smooth...
Sound smart, but not dorky.
Make a good impression.
"Um. Sure."
Great, Heero. Just fucking great.