Free Rats Saw God by Rob Thomas

hunger.
    I was so wrapped up in my fantasy, I didn’t notice the females of my tribe returning to their seats until Sarah yelled at me from ten yards ahead. My two-dimensional physique aided the body dodging required to catch up. When I’d made the family whole, Mom turned and faced us.
    â€œThere he is,” she said, more to Sarah than to me. She flashed her pupils into the top right corner of her eye sockets to indicate the perpetrator was over her shoulder. A group of four tuxedoed prep schoolers had set up camp in the middle of the aisle. Without asking, I knew the guilty party. He was the one holding court; the other three were merely orbiting their leering sun. I told myself I would be the black hole that swallowed his galaxy or the supernova that vaporized him instantly. But I couldn’t act. My personal gravity prevented me.
    However, Sarah, keeper of the family testosterone, acted in my stead. She approached the man/boy. Smiling up at him, she interrupted his lewdly conjectural discourse on the rich, mellowed savoriness of older women, seized and extended the waistline of his slacks, and slowly poured her Coke into the gap.
    â€œThe pleasure was mine,” she said to him.
    Mortified security guards asked Sarah to leave, so Mom and I exited as well, though I’m certain my ten-year-old sister could have fended for herself on Broadway. As we stepped out of the theater and onto the street, Mom knelt down and held Sarah’s elbows.
    â€œDarling… that was the wrong boy.”
    â€œThat’s okay, Mom,” Sarah said.
    â€œThey all have it coming.” The point of my story is this: I had experienced a branch of jealous rage before. With Mom, though, I’d felt protective; my turf had been invaded. It felt only remotely like what I was suffering now, splayed out in bed considering spying on Doug and Dub from the projection booth at the movie that night.
    As it was a Sunday night, odds were good Desdemona and Cassio would be attending one of the seven o’clock features. Narrowing the possibilities was simple. I eliminated both buddy cop flicks, the teen slasher sequel, the Disney rere-leased animated classic, the Saturday Night Live spin-off (Doug and I had seen it twice already), and the latest Sharon Stone effort (management was particularly diligent in enforcing the R rating for this one). That left only the foreign coming-of-age story and a “magical romp” in which souls and bodies getswitched around, resulting in hilarity and fresh understanding.
    I knew I would have no trouble spotting Doug, and he didn’t disappoint me later that evening. With his blond hair and baseball cap he has a beaconlike quality even without his inherent hamminess. I spied him walking backward down the aisle of the foreign film auditorium, gazing up at the windowettes. When he identified my form behind the glass, he made a cavalier bow, bending low on his left leg while extending his right leg behind him. He held his John Deere cap in his right fist which crossed his body and extended his unbent left arm parallel to the ground. He then morphed quickly from musketeer to Klingon, standing and pounding his chest twice with his fist and saluting the projection booth with his entire hand. I scanned the area behind him for Dub. My heart felt like a transplanted organ trying desperately to appease the surrounding white blood cells. She wasn’t behind him. Maybe she hadn’t come. Maybe she’d called and told him she would wait for me to sow my wild oats. Maybe Doug is the bearer of glad tidings. Maybe…
    Nope. There she was.
    But I had to laugh at the roster of Doug’s big date. Dub was already seated, and on either side of her were Rhonda and Missy. The three of them turned in their seats to give me mock parade waves with stiff hands and rotating wrists.
    Feeling a bit like Lucky, the Lucky Charms spokes-leprechaun, I jigged from projector to projector clicking my heels