"They were absolutely disgusting is what they were," Brainert said. "There was some sort of a… a crust on them."

"Whatever," said Seymour, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth. "They look pretty good now."

"Pretty good?" Brainert spun and glared. "I'll have you know we're going to get landmark status from the local historical society! And be careful with that popcorn. You're spilling it."

"It's the movies, Parker. Haven't you heard the term popcorn flick?"

"Theater should be where literature goes at night." Brainert snapped his fingers. "Comprende?"

Seymour squinted. "English, please."

"There are enough movie screens in this state devoted to comic-book heroes and computer-animated kiddy schlock," Brainert replied. "Quindicott's Movie Town Theater has a higher purpose: to uphold the light of the modern cinema. We are a regional art house! We do not show popcorn flicks!" He lowered his voice. "Frankly, I'm perturbed that my partners outvoted me on even selling popcorn."

"You shouldn't be. When it comes to the movie theater business, concessions are where the cash cow moos." With a loud slurp, Seymour sucked on the straw of his extra-large soda. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but your little redecorating job here"-he waved his giant, plastic cup toward the restored art deco columns and shimmering chandeliers-"I'm guessing it all cost a tad more than an associate English professor carries around in mad money."

With a huff, Brainert turned to face front again.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I hate it when he's right," Brainert muttered. "And I wish that hot buttered popcorn didn't smell so good. I was so nervous about a crowd showing, I didn't eat a thing at dinner."