This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
There was a jar of this lovely amber Aster-flower honey in my pocket when I attempted to bring it inside with me to see Captain Phillips at the cinema. A rude young man in an ill-fitting blazer told me no concessions were allowed into the theater. This was a ridiculous premise considering our conversation took place within sight of a "concession stand" selling nachos and something called a "jalapeno popper," which I dare not even imagine.
No matter how persuasive and rational my argument, I was refused entry, and this was well into the starting time of the film, meaning I was missing the previews before the show, which I quite enjoy. There was no reasoning with the regime of the AMC Loews Boston Common. I watched as my honey was thrown into the trash bin. It was as if Mussolini and his fascists had returned to power. I felt sick.
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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