Ratatouille

LMJ slept through her very first movie last night. She, her mother, and I went to the Playtime Drive-In to see Ratatouille, the new Disney/Pixar flick about a rat chef. Yes, we party like rock stars. It’s a really fun movie, and I recommend it to everyone. However, the movie wasn’t the main event, the theater was. The Playtime Drive-In Movie/Flea Market has a rich history in addition to being to being a relic and a dying piece of Americana. When I first moved to Jacksonville in the early ‘80’s I remember passing the Playtime on our way to Orange Park Mall. I remember it because we didn’t have flea markets in Montgomery County, Maryland, and it was a XXX drive-in movie theater. Even as a ten year old I thought, “Seriously?” In the mid ‘80’s, as a teenager, I remember sneaking through the forest that surrounds the Playtime with a couple of buddies and confirming, “Yeah, seriously.” It was 60 feet by 40 feet of hardcore pornography. Not that watered down weak stuff you get on Cinemax and in music videos. All I can think about now are the employees, “Yes sir, I understand that I’m wearing latex gloves, but until the Teflon tongs finish their cycle in the napalm and boiling bleach I won’t be able to take your money. And under no circumstances will there be any discussion about imitation butter on your popcorn.” I thought this was the Bible belt; actually, this is supposed to be the buckle. Someone remembered that around 1987, and an ordinance was passed stating that you couldn’t broadcast Ass Me No Questions, I’ll Tell You No Lies randomly into the night. So the theater closed; I don’t know if the flea market closed or not. I guess around ten years later someone figured out that they could show non-pornographic movies, and the Playtime Drive-In reopened.

Last night was the first time I’d been since trekking through the wilderness. LMJ, MJ, and I stopped at Publix to load up on goodies: Swedish Fish, Twix, and Starbursts. MJ got a Sprite, I got a Sprite Zero, and LMJ was good with breast milk. We got to the theater, paid our $8, found the right radio station, and settled in for Ratatouille. It was about 8:30 so the sun was still up and we could people watch – better than any preview, ever. We felt bad for a mom who was arguing with her older son, possibly 14, about the movie choice. There was no violence but the youngster stormed off to go see the new Die Hard. Then mom slammed her younger son’s toes in the mini-van door. He was camped out on the van roof with his feet dangling over the edge, then SLAM! “Open the door, open the door!” It was almost too sad to be funny, almost. I guess the stress of the night was too much for them because they barely made it ten minutes into the film before they started up the mini-van and left. LMJ started getting antsy so MJ fed her, and she fell asleep on her mama’s chest. Florida is hot, even at night. LMJ is made out of fire or some close approximation, so MJ got hot. But we couldn’t start the car and turn on the AC because the car has daytime running lights that can’t be turned off. At night daytime running lights are just plain headlights, and we didn’t want to be rude by shining our brights into the car in front of us. In hindsight we may have wanted to be rude. In my nigh unfathomable wisdom I found a way to turn on just the fan without starting the car so we would keep the air moving without taxing the compressor or ruining the drive-in experience for the car in front of us. We had to do something because with LMJ comatose on her mama’s chest it was just a matter of time before MJ burst into flames. The sun finally went down around ten past nine and everyone seemed to settle down. The temperature even dropped from 85 to 84 degrees. The movie ended around eleven and people started filing out or just moving to the next screen to see a different movie. We had a Chinese fire drill getting LMJ back into her car seat. We’d had a previous drill getting LMJ out of her car seat when she got antsy at the beginning of the movie. Then MJ turned the key and click click click.

We’d run the battery down. I guess the compressor had been drawing power from the battery without the engine being on and yet failing to blow any cold air. Earlier MJ had scoffed at a negative review of the theater that complained the management didn’t have any jumper cables. Fortunately, MJ drives a stick shift so we could pop the clutch. This didn’t really stop her from falling into panic mode, but it did mean we weren’t necessarily dead in the water or dirt as the case may be. I told her that I would get out and push, and once the car started rolling she should let go of the clutch with the car in first gear. A few minor problems. I was wearing flip flops. We were on gravel. The ’06 Honda Accord weighs significantly more than her ’00 Civic or her ’87 CRX, the cars we had done this to before. I had better traction than I thought, but because MJ was worried about running into the cars in front of us she let go of the clutch before we had enough momentum a couple of times, which forced her into a deeper panic. When MJ panics she doesn’t curl up into the fetal position waiting for the inevitable. She prefers the "follow whatever impulse enters the transom of my mind, sooner or later something has got to work" style of panic. She jumped out of the car, in her flip flops, and suggested we trade places. She would push the car and I would pop the clutch. I ignored her suggestion like I was Dick Cheney ignoring a subpoena. There were words there but they didn’t mean anything to me. LMJ is still comatose, bloated on milk and summer heat. With no response from me, MJ turned and asked the people next to us if they had any jumper cables; they didn’t, so she got back in the car. I asked her to wait until we got going a little bit before she released the clutch, she did, the car started, and off we went. There could be a moral to this story, but I grew up on Seinfeld: No hugging, no learning. We had an absolute blast, and we can’t wait to go back. I love the fact that no matter what we do it always winds up being an adventure.