If one were to view a graph of my nerdiness, one would notice that it reached a local maximum yesterday.
Since I don’t usually work on Fridays, I like to go to the movies in the morning. (Doesn’t hurt that I’m cheap and morning movies are usually half the price of later ones.) Anyway, I’m also a fan of pretty much all superhero movies, especially the X-Men ones, and the newest movie in the franchise, Days of Future Past, came out yesterday.
So, I always get to the movies early. Like, really early. I like to sit close enough that no one would dare sit in front of me. And, I’m one of those weirdos who loves previews. Anyway, I’m the first one there. And for the next 40 minutes, guy after guy comes and I find myself surrounded by a dedicated army of comic book aficionados, many of whom had taken the day off just for the movie and all of whom had come alone. They looked at me with a kind of awe and curiosity typically reserved for zoo animals. Eye contact was averted and no one spoke. At least, not at first.
The movie ended and the credits rolled. And I waited. Because that’s what you do at superhero movies. Well, the villagers found it curious that I knew their customs. Evidently since I lack a Y chromosome, I am assumed ignorant of the existence of post-credits scenes.
First to broach the subject was the man a few seats over on the left.
Lefty: “There’s an extra scene.”
Me: “Yeah. A button.”
Lefty: “A button?”
Me: “The extra scenes. They’re called buttons.”
A guy a few rows back, yells, way louder than necessary.
Overly loud guy: “She’s right. I Googled it.”
Emboldened, the guy on my right chimes in.
Righty: “Did you see The Avengers?”
(Editor’s note: This guy’s North of Boston accent is a revelation. You’ll just have to trust me on that since my attempts at phonetic spelling always result in something akin to Portuguese Pig Latin.)
Lefty: “It had one of them buttons.”
Me: “Yeah, shwarma.”
Overly loud guy: “What’d she say?”
Righty (to me): “Shawarma?”
(Editor’s note: If you know anything about the Boston accent, you know that “r’s” get dropped – “Hahvad” “Lobstah.” That’s only half true. What you may not know is that the residents North of Boston recycle all the missing “r’s” by inserting them in curious places, resulting in pronunciations like “cheater” for “cheetah” or “Lear” for “Leah.” Or, in this case, “Shawarmar.”)
Righty (to overly loud guy): “Shawarmar! She said Shawarmar!”
Lefty: “What the hell is shawarmar?”
Now everyone wants a piece of this.
Guy #4: “Is it like a Mexican thing?”
Guy #5: “No, it’s African or something.”
Righty: “You’re both wrong, it’s like a kebab. Like meat and bread and shit.”
(Editor’s note: Curiously, he pronounces “kebab” like Hugh Grant’s character in Notting Hill. No joke, this guy’s accent deserves its own movie.)
Overly loud guy: “He’s right! I Googled it.”
Thankfully, the (very lame) button came on at this point. The lights went up and I escaped my run-in with the fanboys turned foodies, but not before someone asked me if I was planning on seeing “Guardians of the Galaxy” in a few weeks.
The droids you’re looking for…
Why shawarma? Why not?