atrons just can't wait to get that handful of popcorn with the fat equivalent of a Big Mac to their mouth. They scamper up to the theater, desperate not to miss the previews, all the while dribbling and spitting popcorn bits. Soon you have a hansel and gretel trail leading from the concession stand to the theater. Regardless of the lax cleanliness standards that permeate the rest of the theater, this particular untidiness must be swept clean before the show lets out. Patrons will leave with a clean impression of the theater, whatever the cost.

Only fellow theater workers will know the pains of this task. Popcorn denies all existing laws of physics and, with every swipe of the worn-to-nub theater broom, it jumps in the opposite direction like a steroid-pumped flea. Some try to use that weird hand-powered vacuum to suck up refuse and spit it up one foot away. But I choose the worn broom. It takes hours, but you feel a religious rush after that last kernel is safely in your amusement park trash-holder.

Of course the trail reappears with the very next show. It, like life itself, is part of a never-ending cycle.

We all have a cross, some heavier, etc.