Metro Man

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who learn the hard way, and those who learn from the first kind.

I was in Melbourne a couple of weeks ago, shopping, eating, exploring. On the Tuesday, my good friend Jenny and I were at Hoyts, about to watch The Amazing Spiderman. She thought it would be wise to use the bathroom beforehand lest she either miss a pivotal moment or wet herself; so I waited in the corridor for her, unaware that the to-be victim of ridicule and laughter, nicknamed Metro Man, was about to enter the scene. His get-up wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; but the way he walked was like he owned the show, like everyone should stop what they were doing and acknowledge him. He swung his shoulders with every step and wore sunglasses as if no one was worthy of gazing upon his face (I couldn’t think of any other reason. The corridor wasn’t exactly well lit); and he took pride in his adept balance of large drink in one hand, large popcorn in the other, and second large popcorn in his mouth. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he wanted everyone to know about it.

Analysis complete, I turned my gaze down to my phone where the news feed was still loading. A group of tweens whispering to the left revealed that I wasn’t the only one who thought the guy was too cool. They giggled as he walked past; his back was to me now. And as I looked up to appease my boredom with the immediate surroundings, he stopped, just for a second. But it was the longest second, and the greatest, for Metro Man sneezed! Popcorn sprayed; heads turned; and laughter ensued. He almost dropped the second carton, but prevented further awkwardness by catching it between his arms. Regardless, a torrent of buttery deliciousness painted the floor around him, and high-pitched, poorly-concealed giggles only added to the amusement. I, however, ensured that my snickers went unheard, and smiled only because I knew he wouldn’t see me. He asked for it.

At this point, I expected him to embrace the awkward and join the party – of laughter. But instead, as slow motion wound back into real time, he simply kept walking - as if the bucket-dropping sneeze never happened; as if the heckling laughter didn’t occur, and as if slow-motion sequences of epic awkward weren’t a thing. Yet, with an episode of unanimous nods throughout the whole room, it was quite clear that they were, in fact, a thing. Meanwhile, the giggles continued as the girls proceeded to mimic the disaster, turning around to make sure mister Metro couldn’t see, and then laughing some more at their own silliness. Silly indeed, those tweens.

Replaying the scene in my head for maximum satisfaction, and growing more and more disappointed that Jenny missed it, I was oblivious to the fact that Metro Man’s performance was not yet finished. As he came to some glass doors that led to nowhere, it occurred to him that he was going the wrong way. I aimed palm for face, but he turned around and would’ve seen me; so I quickly and aptly turned it into a head-scratch while pretending that something on the black screen of my phone was interesting. He retraced his steps, traversing the sea of popcorn, then trailed bits of it over the poor carpet as if he writhed in embarrassment and defaced property - to which my expression was now a confused mix of disgust and suppressed laughter. Speaking of suppressed laughter, I could feel it welling over by the girls. Pressure continued to build; then, just as Metro Man strutted out of sight, it burst in an uncontrolled bout of high-pitched squeals. All this before the film had even started! Life is good.