Spitball Army

Another day off, another mid-day movie, another theater all to myself. Until, that is, the film started and an elderly man (yes, you wise-acre, older than me) came in and, unlike yesterday, sits behind me. He went all the way to the back row, in fact. His loud throat-clearing didn’t bother me at all, as I’m sure I’ve been on the giving end of that before. But, halfway through the picture, he fell asleep and started snoring: loud, prolonged snores just like my Dad used to broadcast when he’d fall asleep on the living room floor while watching Thursday night boxing. And the repeated roar of the Mumbai subway trains from the surround speakers weren’t stirring this guy. So I pulled an old trick – perfected many years ago on Dad – and shouted every time the snoring got out of hand. “SAAJAN!” I’d shout, or “ILA!” (the names of the two main characters in this Indian film, The Lunchbox). He’d snorffle each time, quiet down, then five minutes later start snoring again. He missed half of the movie and I had a wonderful doubly-entertaining time but, honestly, one of these days I’m going to get my teeth kicked in.