“You’re at the movie theater and it’s the climax of the summer’s big blockbuster hit. And someone is talking on their cell phone. When you go to confront them, you find that it is your boss. What do you say to them?”
He was too much.
I didn’t pay $10 for a ticket and $4.99 for popcorn to listen to this oaf chatter away. What was he doing at a chick flick anyhow? Like he wants to watch Ryan Gosling sweep Rachel McAdams off her feet. I’d love to watch that, but I can’t because someone thought it would be a great idea to sit their rude rear-end right in front of me and chat on his cell phone.
I’d had enough.
I excused and pardoned my way through the narrow aisle (why do they make those aisles so narrow?) and walked in front of the railing, ready to confront the mystery jerk.
Then I gasped.
Not because Ryan just laid a kiss on on Rachel, which was gasp-worthy. But because Mr. Chatterbox turned out to be Mr. Somersworth, my boss.
He looked about as startled to see me as I was to see him. His shock only lasted for a moment, without missing a beat he continued yelling into his phone, “Larry, I told you. I don’t want any waffling on this decision. This is a huge acquisition and I don’t want any mistakes.” He listened for another second, “I’m not playing hardball, I’m playing business. Look, just get it done.” Abruptly he slammed the phone shut.
You have to understand, I can’t stand Mr. Somersworth. Sure, I work for the guy but that doesn’t mean we have to be BFFs. I’d pulled my share of late nights in the office and bringing work home over the weekends. He was demanding and insensitive. My weekdays were spent waiting for 5 o’ clock, not because I could meet up with my friends but because I could finally escape from Mr. Somersworth. Why I was still staring at him, and in the middle of a Ryan Gosling swoon moment no less, is beyond me.
“Amy, what brings you out tonight?”
Was he actually speaking to me? Yes, yes I think he was. “Um, uh…” I stammered, “I’m just here for the movie.” Then it occurred to me, I’m a single twenty-something woman. I have every right to be at a chick flick. Here was a who-knows-how-old married man at the same chick flick, completely alone. “Why are you here Mr. Somersworth?”
“I’m a Ryan Gosling fan.” He said.
I’m turning in my two weeks notice tomorrow.