theatre stuff


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I lied, in that last post.
It was an accident though, I swear.

It has been hard to estimate lately, how much stock we need at the theatre, and I didn’t get enough small cups–how was I to know we’d go from selling around 1300 one fortnight, to 2000+ the next?–so I had to pop by another theatre and pick up some from them and drop the cups at my home theatre on my day off…

And since I was in the area anyway, I thought I would make an effort to be social, since we can be friends now. So I texted him to let him know he was going to be kidnapped.

And I forgot he changed his number.



I texted a stranger that I was coming to kidnap them.
I did not respond to the subsequent texts from that number, but I did text his new number and we went and got food together and sat at the same table. It was a nice visit, so at least driving to the other side of town wasn’t a complete waste of my time.

In other news…
I finally got to see Fury today. And I sort of wish I had not…I don’t know.

I really enjoy WWII era movies…but it’s a morbid kind of enjoyment. I cannot think of a single one I’ve seen that wasn’t emotionally exhausting and that I didn’t leave without feeling crappy about humanity…but I still go to them. No idea why. Yes, there is something I find aesthetically pleasing about the look of that period…but, really, that can’t be a legitimate reason.

Don’t know. And too tired to think more about it. I just want to sleep and sleep. So hopefully I will end this post and go do exactly that.



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There is a fairly anticlimactic ending to my story about the repetitive phone calls we were getting at the theatre in the dead of night when we are doing paperwork.

I made that little joke that someone was stalking him, since the area code was from his home state…and…well. I wasn’t exactly right, but it was someone he knew and didn’t want to talk to.

They finally did call during the day a few days ago, and I saw it on the caller ID and was like, “THAT person!” *insert brief retelling of the calls to our GM, while the service desk answers the phone*

Aaand the call was for Richard. Aaand it was his ex.

Why on earth one’s ex would call and call and call in the middle of the night when nobody in their right mind is going to pick up the phone…I can’t even. *shakes head*

But that was almost a week ago now that we discovered our mystery caller’s identity. I’m just thinking about it right now because we had another series of three calls in a row, well after closing time, and I’m wondering if it’s the same caller.

I don’t usually try to judge people’s exes that harshly (except for Jai. And Chase. Because they both deserve for horrible, horrible things to happen to them.) since I don’t know their side of things…but…omg. If this creature is calling us at all hours and setting me on edge because I can’t tell if it’s a guest or someone trying to find out if the building is occupied so they can do something terrible to us…then I really do have a few choice words for her. Because I have been groomed to think that I am never safe and that at any given moment, someone may be planning to do terrible things to me…so I could do without this girl–who might actually deserve to be called crazy or an idiot–fueling my paranoia for stupid, petty reasons that have nothing at all to do with me.

So glad I have the next two days off.



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Mm. It’s been curious, these last few months…wondering why I have so little inclination to describe myself anymore as Wolf.

I think I understand though. That whole aspect of me is tied to my anger. And, despite some terrible things that I have said…I have also been less angry, overall. In fact, I think the terrible things have come from my overarching lack of feeling, which was very acute this past summer, and which I was very uncomfortable with…

But I think I’m recovering some feelings. A little. I’m trying to, anyway. As well as a typically inexpressive creature like me can.

Wolf though…
I did not want to feel like that again. I didn’t mean to. But I do.

It’s different though, because before all of those feelings were fire and rage and would set me shaking because I could not conceive of an acceptable way to express them. This new anger is different.

I think maybe it’s different because it turns inward. And instead of so much white hot snarling, it is cold. Cold like the winter air when it worms its way into your finger bones. Cold like the frosted metal that you didn’t mean to touch.

And there is no shaking, despite that shocking cold. Instead, there is a stillness that makes me uncomfortable. It’s hard to comprehend the feeling of estrangement from this integral part of myself. All that anger he represents…turned at ourself, and my mental picture of it is so different from the yellowgrey eyes and greybrown fur that he has always had.

He’s so pale. Not white, because that could not happen. But…pale. With uncanny, pale eyes. And he just glares and glares with those pale eyes. The only other time I really remember having a different image of him was when we knew about her…and he brought me bones to keep us from pretending we did not know…he was dark then. Soot coloured. Not like this.

pale wolf

I can’t object though, to what he is saying to me now. I should be angry with myself. Absolutely. I just…I wish I didn’t say what I did. But I was clicking away and the words just…happened. And there was that uncomfortable span of two or three heartbeats where I wished so badly that a future me would arrive with a Tardis and give me a well-deserved roughing up. But that did not happen.

Instead, an unthinkable disaster occurred, and someone agreed with the idiot noises that had come out of my mouth. And after being little more than a ghost these past months, Wolf in his pale anger arrived and planted himself firmly in the foreground of my mental landscape.

It’s most unfair, because since my elementary school years I have very often wanted exactly this thing to happen…and there it is, happening so easily that I am fairly sure I’m hallucinating…and instead of being pleased, I am coldly furious.

I’m scared at how angry I feel. Because…you know…I’d be worried that I sound ridiculous, but by describing myself in this way at all, I know I’ve passed that point and it’s become just one small speck on the horizon…but I’m afraid of how mad I am, because the extreme emotions that are always tied to this characterization of myself come with a knowing of something that I have no way of knowing. But I feel these things with terrible certainty, and at no point did any of these–I don’t know…perceptions? predictions?–turn out to be wrong.

I never wanted them to be wrong though. But I do now. And I’m extremely conflicted about it…the idea that my Wolf senses something so terrible is very upsetting…

I don’t know what to do about it.




Ah, I don’t know how to explain myself.

On the bright side, I think that mostly I do not need to because you knew you were coming with me despite your weak attempt to pretend that you were not. (I saw what you did there. I did.)

And…I see why you pretended that. The weirdness. I appreciate that you also concede that we’re the worst closing team ever because we get too distracted by being social…you know…despite our attempts to assure people that we don’t socialize and don’t really have friends. (Maybe this is what happens when you’re that poorly socialized.)

So I think those things don’t require an explanation. And I get that you don’t need my help. I get that. I do. You can look after yourself. But–and here is where I am at a loss for what to say–I feel the need to point out that I have a cat because I picked up a tiny black and white, malnourished puffball…because I didn’t want him to get run over and then say to myself, “You could have stopped that from happening.”

But I did. Four years later? He’s sleeping in a cat bed downstairs right now. Not dead.

I’ve said that here before. And I’ve said about the snake I wanted to kill and put out of its misery when it got run over by a lawnmower. And I told about the terrible guilt I feel when I think about it. I could not have saved him, but I could have done something. (Not that, you know, I’m saying I should run you over myself…that’s not what I mean.)

But I don’t want you to get run over. And letting you walk almost 9 miles in the dead of night seems like a bad idea. It just does.

I just want to help. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t.

Except that I have to assure myself that I wouldn’t let anyone else do this. Piece of cake, since I am pretty sure I wouldn’t. Just…you know. Everyone else has friends, family, or a SO in the area who will help them, and you, by your own admission of friendlessness, do not.

Yes. Okay. There is that. I can’t be your friend. Fine. That’s true.

Except…let me point out that if you don’t make it to work on a day we work together, that makes my job harder. So, thinking about it from that perspective…it’s in my best interest that you make it in and I don’t have to try and run the building by myself or call someone in.

And if that doesn’t suffice…look. Last summer, I said to myself that I would not stay with someone because she would be okay. She did not need me, and because of work…I left her with someone. I didn’t feel good about it, but I said to myself that it was easier to leave her with him than to have to explain to anyone at work if they heard about it (you know, since we can’t be friends), or to Jester or to my parents why I had stayed over the night at this guy’s house.

I should have just stayed.

But I did not.

Naturally, something terrible happened to her. And I feel sick with guilt when I think about it. How I could have stopped it. I wouldn’t’ve needed to do anything. My mere presence would have been enough.

I don’t really know how to explain that to you in a way that will sound rational, because this is a rather different situation. But I am glad that you let me drive you home so that I do not have to lie awake, wondering if I will see on the news that you were struck by a car in the dark.

I couldn’t live with that.


Times when I understand the use of my name: when you are introducing me, or when you are talking about me to another party, or when you are attempting to get my attention.

Times when I am dismayed by the use of my name: when Jester or K or Melody says it. That is jarring. I don’t like them to use my real name. But they can call me every variation of Reeser that they want to. It is the only time I like to hear my name said.

Times when I am baffled by the use of my name: when we are talking and you already have my attention and there is nobody else there. Just…why? Why you keep saying it? It lacks the proper aesthetic value for you to be saying it for the sake of its sounds. (Of course, this does not apply to Jester or Melody, as they are calling me Reeser and not my real name, and it pleases me to hear them say it.)

But this last one…I don’t understand. But I feel like it would be weird if I asked. Like…I’d be making a slightly weird feeling situation even weirder by drawing attention to it. Which, despite my every effort to not make things weirder, I just keep failing at it.

Oh well. Although dictating an email to myself was fun. I’ll take that one.



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Learned today that a manager from my old theatre fell and ended up with his arm in a fryer and got 2nd degree burns from the 300+ degree oil… It sounded pretty grim when our GM told me, but the guy’s Facebook about it seems much calmer…bad, but could have been much worse.

Naturally, as I am prone to morbid thoughts, I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. And panicking. Because I can’t come to terms with the fact that I am a flesh and blood creature, and the idea of it upsets me…the idea of being injured is unbearable, and thinking about someone else being injured is nearly as bad.

It was very difficult to drive home in the rain. Because I kept alternating between thinking about getting into an accident, and thinking about…you know…cooking my arm.

I’m shaking, just thinking about it now…

On the bright side, I messaged Toni about it to see if she knew anything, and she didn’t…but now we are getting dinner after her class on Tuesday, so that’s nice. And also a huge reason why I am balking at the idea of applying for the hastily opened manager position at that theatre. Because I’d lose my friend.

Not just that though…I mean…Mike and I talked about why I would like to wait before I try to go back, and he seems understanding about it. So. We’ll see.

But even if I did go back…I think I’ve got a work friend at my new theatre (it’s only taken me seven months), so I’d still have a local friend, I think.

It’s fun. We’ve discovered that if we talk about the right topics, we can finish each other’s sentences, which is kind of awesome, considering that conversations with most of my previous work friends consisted largely of trying to top each other’s insults and outdo each other with increasingly shocking or unexpected stories, and very seldom to do with our having a bubble of shared interests in things that nobody else had ever heard of.



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It’s close to 230am, and the phone rings. I look at it and carry on with checking things off on my paperwork. It stops ringing. Then it starts again. Same name on the caller ID. I can see Richard look up from his papers, like he’s thinking of answering it, so I say, “Don’t answer it. We’re closed. Let it go to voicemail.”

It rings forever.

Finally, it stops ringing. There is a pause and papers get shuffled and marked on. Then the phone starts to ring again. I look and it’s the same name on the caller ID.
“That’s it. I’m answering it,” Richard says.
“Ah, no you don’t! I will tackle you if you even try to answer that phone. We’re closed. They can call tomorrow.”

About a half hour later, Richard’s closing duties are done, and I try to send him home…but he insists on hanging about while I finish my closing tasks, and walking out together. Just in case.


It’s about 230am. Corinne and I are done with just about all of our closing tasks. I’m stapling paperwork packets together and she’s grabbing the trash cans to put them outside the office door for the night cleaners.

The phone rings. I look and it is the same name as the previous night.

“Don’t answer that,” I say. A little more sharply than is warranted. It stops ringing and Corinne gives me a look. “This person called three times last night, about the same time.”

“What did they want?”

“I don’t know…I just didn’t answer it and I told Richard I’d harm him if he did. If this person really wants to talk to us, they need to do it when we’re open…”

The phone rings again. Same name. We watch it ring and ring. It finally stops and I start to turn off the office appliances, while Corinne goes to turn off the projectors. The phone rings again with the same name. Fortunately, it cuts off after two rings.

I check that the doors are locked, and Corinne and I leave together.


I am training the new manager on closing duties that she’s never had to do. We’re having a fun time of it, and things are progressing at a decent pace.

We’re entering missed payroll punches, and the phone rings.

“What the fuck?!”

Maggie looks a little shocked at me. “Sorry. It’s just…don’t answer that.”

“I never answer the phone when we’re closed.”

“Good…just…” we both look, and the caller ID doesn’t register a name. Just that it’s a cell phone. We let it go to voicemail. “There was someone who called us three times Friday night, and I wouldn’t let Richard answer it. And the same person called three times last night and I told Corinne not to answer…I guess we’ll know it’s the same person again if they call two more times.”

“How did you know it was the same person the last two days?”

“There was an actual name on the ID…maybe they’re calling from a different phone to see if we pick up.”

The phone starts to ring again. And we watch it, while it rings and rings. Maggie turns the ringer down all the way, but we can still hear the phone in the outer office, ringing away.

“I guess we’ll know for sure if they call one more time,” I say. We look expectantly at the handset, waiting for the red light to start blinking, and to hear the ringer in the other room. Nothing happens.

Awesome. We finish up our closing tasks and close up the office. We go out to start turning off projectors, and a door alarm goes off. We go to the alarm panel and find out what theatre the alarm is in.

“So, how do you feel about calling the police?” I ask.

“Not so good…”

I grab a broom from behind the concession stand–if someone is breaking in, it won’t be a huge help, but I might be able to give someone a smack with the wooden handle. If I have to. Maggie grabs the dust pan, and I wish she’d picked up anything else. Dustpans are not good for hitting.

Alba, the little hispanic woman in charge of the night cleaners, is sweeping outside the theatre in question. We ask her if anyone had opened a door in that theatre, and she says no. Nobody has gone in there yet.

Maggie and I check the doors for the theatre, and they are both solidly closed. Maggie speculates that maybe there is a malfunction with the door alarm, since our maintenance supervisor had been working on that theatre recently…

We go through the rest of the booths together, shutting off breakers and projectors. We check the front doors again, and clock out. And go to the parking lot together.

“Wow, that’s a big-ass hummer,” Maggie says.

“Yeah it is. And that doesn’t belong to the night cleaners.” The hummer in question is parked right beside my car. I am not pleased.

“Um…do you want me to drive you over to your car?” she asks.

“Yeah…I do, actually.”

We get into Maggie’s van, and she pulls up behind my car. “Oh my gosh…is that hummer running?”

Sure enough, there is warm fog coming out of the hummer’s tailpipe.

“Ah, this just got super creepy…”

Maggie circles away from the parked vehicles. “What do we do?”

“Well, I’m not gonna leave my car here overnight or ask you to drive me home, since I live across town…”

Maggie pulls into the exit, right beside my car. “I’m gonna wait for you to get in and start your car, just in case.”

“Good idea.” I motion with my lunchbox and drink cup. “Can I leave this in your car and I’ll get it back next time we work together?”



“Don’t die, okay?”

“I love not dying…despite things I may have said to the contrary.” Maggie laughs and I think about getting the knife out of my bag, but there isn’t time, and I am getting out of the van and clicking my door open and slamming it shut behind me and backing the hell away from that creepy hummer. I do look though…and I can’t see anyone in it. But there is someone. Has to be. (And, you know…I check my back seat, just to be sure they aren’t somehow there. Too many creepy movies, you know?)

Drive home, feeling on edge.

Wishing I had written down the name from the caller ID.
Wishing it had been light enough to see the license plate number.

And tomorrow night? Welp. If we get creepy, clockwork phone calls when we are CLOSED and all the not crazy people should be SLEEPING, I am 100% calling the police. If we somehow don’t get the phone calls, then great. But there’s no way in heaven I am letting Richard leave early. And if there’s creepy cars in the parking lot, we’re going back in the building and then calling the police.

I’m not having any of this nonsense. And I don’t want any of us to be creeped on. Or get murdered.


Now I have to try and sleep.


Can’t sleep. Cold and obsessing incoherently over dumb stuff.

…I wish I was good at anything. Anything at all. But I guess I’m not. I just used to think maybe I was or could be good at anything. Wrong.

It’s disappointing, I guess, but the kind of disappointing that I feel like I’ve forever been bracing myself for. It’s not that much of a shock. I don’t even have a sigh to offer in acquiescence.

A little bit of it stems, I think, from the sluggishness with which my Wolf has turned to look at someone who we might have been friends with. We’ve had some good conversations, but already I sense Wolf is looking after our interests and trying to cut them off. All to the good, I expect. Because I pick the wrong situations to see those little glimmers of me in other people…the ones that make me selfishly want to befriend them because they “are” me.

I suck at interacting. I can never understand why I turned out wrong like that.

It’s just awful because not only am I no good at basic relationship formation and social interactions with other members of my species, but I’m not really good for anything else either. I have no talents. No valuable skills to speak of. And I suppose that in a better adjusted creature, this would be cause for putting forth greater efforts for his or her improvement. But I am not that creature. I think I’d rather just curl up in despair. And I probably will (heck, maybe I’ll even be warm if I do, since it is freezing in here).

…what is the point of me, anyway?


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