Since my mother’s application of the Mozart effect to me in utero, I’ve come to fruition as a reasonable man in most aspects of my life. I find a symmetrical existence in the virtues of temperance, modesty and magnanimity to name a few. (I took an ethics class one time, and I own a thesaurus.)
But with this nurtured reason came the reasoning that life is more precious than the thrill; that it is needless to risk the possibility of death just to say you’ve been parasailing in the Teton Mountains. Even as a child, my reason kept me deficient in the virtue of courage. I viewed the risks of falling from the high branches of a neighborhood banyan as more consequential than the promise of fulfillment and thrill from towering confidently over the suburbs. It’s obvious reason has made me a coward, but while you might label me as such (my pals prefer to call me a p***y), I’m fine with that. Death by the jaws of some cartilaginous carnivore is not a worry for me because I get my kicks from Netflix, not snorkeling.
It is becoming increasingly difficult to be Aristotelian about the virtue of courage — if and when I ever wanted to start. While on one hand I brandished bravery the other day by ordering a New York strip steak medium-rare from Café Risqué, I’ve also stopped, out of fear, frequenting the placidity of one of my preferred pastimes: going to the movies. A wonderfully inactive activity that involves three underrated joys: sitting, staring and snacking. When I go to the movies with friends, I can proudly pretend that by indulging in this act I am a concrete example of extroversion. Hold the adrenaline, and bring on the extra butter and Sno-Caps.
I go less often these days because the burden of thrill has invaded the sanctity of my movie-going. Instead of biting into a Kit Kat during the trailers, I’m biting into my nails and anxiously surveying each and every body that takes a seat in the theater. I wonder whether the loner in the front row has an AR-15 tucked away in his JNCO jeans. I then breathe a sigh of relief and feel a brief ease in tension when the rest of the bandmates from Korn catch up to him bearing sodas and gummy bears. I mean, it’s reasonable to assume if you’re going to shoot up a movie theater, you’re not going to be with a company of snackers. You might be able to tell the stress is an anathema to my young heart.
Yet for all my cowardice and crippling reluctance, there have been some benefits. For in my cinematic trepidation, I’ve developed a three-check system when scanning the audience for potential murderers that can be used by anybody looking to avoid having their life rifled while enjoying themselves at the cinema.
I’m talking, of course, of The Three C’s: company, clothing and concessions.
Generally speaking, if the person in scrutiny has friends, regular clothing that can’t hide a bazooka or is chowing down on a theater hot dog, there needn’t be cause for alarm. What type of movie theater marauder grabs nachos for the slaughter? It’s not a thing. Only when the trench-coated loner sans soda appears is it time to make haste for the exit and watch the bootleg on your couch.
It’s a terrifying gun-toting world out there, and I think it’s reasonable for me to sometimes wish I could roll through it in a bulletproof bubble. While holding back on visiting the theater for this reason, I think it’s also time to give some thought to abandoning any activities outside the comfort of my home. Or maybe I’ll start carrying my own rifle around for my own safety… maybe not. Sounds risky.
Justin Ford is a Santa Fe College journalism junior. His column appears on Tuesdays.
