He wore his school pants—the only pair of longs he owned—and she wore her fourteenth birthday dress, a less comfortable fit than it was a year ago. They slid into their ticketed seats for the Saturday afternoon film, the girl clutching the gifted box of Jaffas, and self-consciously linked hands.
As the Val Morgan slides rolled, the lights about to go down, a middle-aged couple bustled down the aisle, tickets in hand, then stopped, surprised, at the occupied aisle seats immediately in front of the young couple.
‘You’re in the wrong seats.’ The man glared at the row in front of the young couple and thrust his tickets at the elderly couple comfortably settled in what were now contested seats. A fumbling comparison of tickets showed identical theatre, date and seat numbers for each couple. An error in ticket printing? Whatever the cause, the seated elderly couple weren’t about to move—they reckoned possession trumped bombast.
Sorting this out was beyond the teenage usherette who was immediately summoned and as the youngsters snickered at this clash of elders they earnt a reproachful stare from the standing man. All the usherette could offer was, ‘Please come with me and I’ll see if we can find you other seats.’ She turned, intending to lead the fuming latecomers back up the aisle. There was no movement.
‘These are our seats. I’ll see the manager.’ retorted the now red-faced male latecomer shooing the usherette off to bring her boss as he and his lady friend stood their ground. By the time the be-suited manager appeared the lights were down and a second comparison of the identical sets of tickets was conducted by torchlight. The manager could offer no immediate solution and, after heated words in the aisle, the aggrieved couple were eventually persuaded to follow him out of the theatre.
The youngsters had watched the exchanges with growing amusement. ‘What a bighead,’ she giggled.
‘Call the manager,’ chortled the boy. ‘As if that was going to change anything! They shoulda come earlier. Serves ‘em right if it’s a full house.’ He felt a dig in his ribs and a ‘Shh’ from the girl as she turned her attention to the screen.
The film proved less entertaining for the young couple than had been the prelude. And 30 years later, when the boy was a middle-manager, he would often recall the lesson he learnt that day: passing your problem up to your boss doesn’t solve it.
Burnside Writers Group 