MAX ON RUPTURED SPACE

"IMAX" BY I, MAX

Space. Something easily ruptured. Like in an elevator when it’s crammed and a baby is crying hysterically. Or a subway cart when it’s packed and stinky people are singing, dancing, or murmuring in the seat right next to you. Not cool. Not fun. Or it could be in a movie theater – a place that is supposed to be peaceful and stress-free.

Over the summer, my friend invited me to go see Pineapple Express. The movie is about these stoners who go on an adventure because they are really paranoid (I wonder why). With every stoner movie comes your usual stoner moviegoers who don’t laugh because they understand the jokes…they laugh because they are too high to know what’s going on.

I had my huge popcorn and my huge drink. I was in my comfortable seat, ready to laugh and enjoy my two hours away from reality when all of the sudden I hear, “Transformers. SCOOBY-DOO!” In New York, you develop a sense for danger and possible threats. You know when something is wrong or is going to be wrong and you know to avoid it. But in a movie theater, you can’t go anywhere. After I heard those two words, all I thought was, “Fuck.”

The high person kept on shouting, “Transformers. SCOOBY-DOO!” His high friends kept laughing. Stress filled the room. I saw heads keep turning back, shooting nasty glares at the noisy assailants. I looked at my friend to my right. He’s slowing being driven to insanity. I could see him unraveling. I looked at the gentle man to my left. He had his hands over his ears and a constipated look on his face. He’s not happy. All I could concentrate on were the loud noises that were preventing me from enjoying my movie. Now I’m angry. I’m zoned in on the noises. My heart was pounding. My anger was rising. I snapped. I jumped up out of my chair, turned around, grabbed my huge drink and yelled, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” And I rifled my drink at the loud guy’s head. Crack. Direct hit. Silence. The kids are quiet. All eyes in the theater were on me. Now, I was that guy who ruined the movie.

What happened was a transfer of ruptured space. From my patience being pushed to the limits, I exploded and turned in to the bad guy. But who is to blame? Is it the high people’s fault for rupturing everyone’s space for a prolonged period of time? Or is it my fault for throwing a drink and rupturing their space taking the focus off of them and putting it on to me?

All good questions… all will be answered in time.

[This piece is a contribution by Max E Kestenbaum, 22, who studies Marketing & Advertising, and is one of the most personable people I have ever met]