Abandon all hope, ye’ who apply here.

Ah, to reminisce back to the spring of sophomore year; barely any of us had been exposed to the demands of an IB class, and the excuse, “I’ve got plenty of time to figure it out” was still a valid argument to defend one’s lack of college research.

It was at this time that a sophomore, who still very much resembled a middle schooler, decided that it was time to get a job in order to pay for gas. After a few weeks, he found himself the youngest, and newest cast member at the Issaquah 9, and worked enthusiastically throughout the summer.

One short year later, the rigors of the IB Diploma have eroded this prospective senior into a chronic procrastinator with enough stress to bring down a bridge. Now, any peer who hasn’t started college applications is far behind the curve, and those who haven’t settled upon a major and/or career find themselves in a manic endeavor of self discovery and understanding. And of course, the credulous sophomore who worked at the movie theatre has become an overworked, and overall disgruntled senior.

My name is Jeff Lestz. I work at the movie theatre. My job sucks.

Having already worked today, I am in no mood to write this article in any sort of chronological or logical order, so let’s just start at one of the most evident reasons: I work at a movie theatre: the place dorky, acne-clad teens work in sitcoms. If you want to have any sort of social life, this is not the place to work for you. Not only will people immediately associate you with this stereotype, but being available in and of itself is a constant struggle, as weekends are prime times for movie goers, and you’ll be the one to make sure their movie going goes smoothly. If you were considering working here, be warned; when you tell people where you work, they will laugh. No joke.

Well, against all warning, you decided to join the ranks of the popcorn-providing masses. Congratulations! Here is your uniform: a wonderful maroon polo. Snazzy. You also get a nametag! Score! Pair your polo with a pair of black slacks and shoes, and you’re ready to go. Before you know it, you’re behind the counter for the first time, and soaking up knowledge like never before. Way to go! Oh, what’s that on my shirt? Looks like you’re soaking up something other than knowledge, because within fifteen minutes, your preppy maroon polo is beautifully stained with artificial butter. No time to panic, because you’ve got a guest to serve, with a line forming mercilessly.

“Hello ma’am, what can I get for you today?”

“Oh, I’m not quite sure yet.”

“Would you like to try one of our combos today?”

(If you don’t offer a combo, the guest can complain to a manager and receives free tickets. For this reason, “Would you like a combo” is likely the phrase I’ve said more than any other this summer and last.)

“What’s a combo?”

“Any of the six you see up on the wall.”

“Oh… I don’t see any prices. Are they all the same price?”

(Because of course, logic says that a large popcorn and two medium drinks will cost the same amount as a medium popcorn and a medium drink. B-r-illiant.)

“No, they’re all different prices.”

“Well, how much is the number one?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen dollars?!”

(Always with a strong emphasis of disbelief on dollars. Oh, my mistake, I don’t know why anyone would think that I would tell them the price of something in terms of the national currency.)

To save you from the dialogue, this customer will then ask the price of the number three combo, decide to get the number one, ask if the medium drinks really are that big, and expect you to know which way their movie is, without telling you which movie they are seeing. And yes, the line is still growing behind them, and the next customer will let you know.

Hooray, you’ve served your first customer. Just two more hours of racing to the popcorn machine to dump it before the popcorn burns, asking what they would like to drink, asking them again what they would like to drink because they didn’t hear the first time, scrambling for a manager to open your register because you forgot to give change and can not open it without a manager’s password, and of course, frantically searching the three page touch screen menu for that muddy bears button that you just used a few minutes ago, but can not find for your life.

Finally, the set is over. Time to relax, right? Wrong. Instantly, you must restock candy, ice, cups, lids, straws, popcorn seed, syrup for the soda fountain, sweep up out front, sweep up behind the counter, and be yanked out of concessions to go help clean the three theatres that just got out and now have lines forming outside of them. After cleaning the theatres to a passable level, you return to concessions to more lines, and get told to “hop on till” by at least half of the people behind the counter. Lather, rinse, repeat until 11 PM, go home, go to sleep, then return to work at 8 AM the next day.

Did I mention this is all for minimum wage? Last year, the wage was $7.93. Now it is $8.07. I did some math, and discovered that for the average two week pay period, this is a five dollar difference. Woo. Excuse my enthusiasm.

To this point, this article has not done the terrors of my job justice. Let me try again. At the end of your shift, you will emit a putrid odor of stale popcorn, artificial butter, and sweat. On busy days, you will have to park as far away as Barnes and Nobles. This may not seem far, but it’s a decent three minute walk approaching a quarter of a mile. You will drink far too much soda, as it is readily available. Same goes for popcorn. Soon, you won’t even enjoy the taste, but keep eating it because there is a box of it in the back room, and you’re hungry because you didn’t have a chance to eat before coming to work, and your break is still several hours away. People will complain to you about the high prices, and expect you to be able to change them. People will not understand why you can not give them extra bags to share the popcorn in, despite explaining to them that the theatre keeps inventory of the bags. Your first few weeks, you will work so much that you will have dreams filled with getting people popcorn and drinks. I woke one night in a cold sweat, distressed that I could not find the soda fountain in my room. Not only will you have to charge people ridiculous amounts of money, you must encourage people to buy more popcorn or soda for “just 50 cents more!”: incurring further damage upon their pocketbooks already ravaged by a skyrocketing cost of living, and possibly even unemployment.

If you are still unconvinced, try it for yourself. After working at the movie theatre for more than a month, you’d have to be the lamest kid on the block to proclaim anything other than:

“This sucks.”