Mix-Up at the Quartz

Every team needs a mascot, even the teams that always lose. We weren't a sports team, but Mix-Up was kind of like the Quartz's mascot. He gave me and the other movie theater employees a strange sense of pride, quiet as he mostly was. He even saved a life once. It was raining on the day that he did it and it rained again the day he left for good. It's weird how every day feels like a rainy day when you're at the movies.

It wasn't the name on his name tag, but the whole staff at the Quartz 16 knew him as Mix-Up. It didn't seem to bother him, but nothing much did. Mix-Up was a tall guy in his late twenties with super-short blonde hair, freckles splayed across his pointy nose and high cheekbones, and he always looked as though he had just woke up from a fitful sleep. I guess you might accuse someone that looked just like him of being a druggie or a night owl at the very least, but Mix-Up wasn't spaced out or anything; he just seemed kind of over all the nonsense that comes from working at a place like this.

He had torn tickets and shoveled popcorn at the Quartz for over ten years, making him the longest running employee to push Old Betsy, our oft-malfunctioning vacuum, across the lobby's old domino-patterned carpet. The math didn't quite add up, but Mix-Up's tenure practically went all the way to the 1990's, back when the theater first popped up by the Riverway Mall. I guess that's why I say he was like a mascot: Mix-Up was a permanent fixture in the Quartz's history.

I was not the permanent type, however. I found it hard to believe anybody could have worked at the movies for longer than six or seven months. The days and nights were all the same and most of the movies we showed weren't that much different from one another. Once you'd seen a giant alien snatch a car from midair and devour it, you could bet a big robot or pissed-off dinosaur would do it pretty much the same way. I had started with an exit strategy from the beginning, and a big part of me felt sorry for the long-timers like Mix-Up or our slimy manager Doug (who seemed to live at the Quartz, which would explain his constant want of a shower).

I used to work a lot of weekend nights next to Mix-Up at the concession stand. He was lousy at up-selling soda sizes and all the other extras, but he was fast with scooping popcorn and making change. Every now and then a customer would try to make small talk with him and he'd try to steer the conversation to the latest thrash metal album that he'd bought. It seemed to shut the customer up pretty quick, but I wasn't so sure that shutting them up was necessarily Mix-Up's intention. I think he really wanted somebody to talk about thrash metal with.

I once asked Jordan Delmonico if she knew why Mix-Up was called Mix-Up, and she just looked at me as though I had asked her why the sun was hot. We were prepping the big room, Theater 1, for the 8:30-to-10:15 transition (an every-Friday-night headache courtesy of Doug the Slug). Jordan didn't answer my question at first, she just kept on picking up trash and spraying away sticky floor gunk with a squirt gun filled up with Windex. But I could tell she was thinking about it.

"I don't know, Trace," she said after a minute. "Maybe he used to mix up orders. Like if somebody asked for a Sprite, he'd give them a Dr. Pepper by mistake." Jordan had worked there longer than I had, but I could tell she was just as ignorant on the matter as I was.

"I guess that could have been the case once." I was using my dustpan to scoop up a trio of chewed-up Jolly Ranchers someone had spit onto one of the aisle floors, desperately hoping I wouldn't have to touch them with my hands. "But, you know I've never seen him mix up anything. Especially not at the concession stand. He never gets an order wrong or lands in the weeds."

"Well, he's been doing it since the dawn of time. I don't know, Trace." She sighed. "Maybe it's just like a, you know, ironic nickname then." Jordan stopped rolling the trash bin to consider that a second before adding, "Though, I don't know why anybody would hold onto an ironic name for all those years. Not one that puts him down, anyway."

"I wouldn't put up with it," I said. "You wouldn't either, probably. But I don't know about Mix-Up. He's too...it's like nothing gets to him. I'd hate to see what bad news would have to come along to break that ice."

She contemplated this as I accidentally smacked one of the Jolly Ranchers with the dustpan, launching it somewhere to the back of the screening room (as good as gone in my book). Jordan was standing next to the lobby door with the roll-bottom trashcan while I finished checking my section. Finally, she said to me, "I think Mix-Up is just mixed up in general. How else do you explain somebody his age working here without ever complaining about it?"

I had to agree with Jordan's logic. I had only worked at the Quartz for two months by that point, but even my grand exit strategy (which was no more complicated than quitting right before school started back) didn't keep me from telling the whole world how much working at the movies sucked. It wasn't what I anticipated, working at the Quartz. Sure, the movies were a disappointment, but it was more crushing than that. Usually it was so boring that I'd make any kind of dumb small talk to avoid having to think about how much my feet hurt. Other times, it was embarrassing, selling Junior Mints to Terry Hampton as he took some girl to the latest Sandra Bullock movie or explaining to my friends that I couldn't sneak them into shows or even give them free popcorn.

Finally, curiosity got the best of me and I finally just asked Mix-Up to his face how he got the name. We were working a Tuesday afternoon concessions shift together and the whole lobby was deserted, the pah-pah-pah of the popcorn popping serving as the soundtrack.

"What?" he asked, maybe not paying attention or maybe deflecting the question.

"I asked why everybody calls you Mix-Up," I said. "You don't seem to get stuff wrong, or...you know, mix things up." He looked at me like I was explaining a calculus problem. "So, I thought maybe you used to get into fights or something. Like, mix it up with people?"

"You thought I went around hitting people?"

"Well, no. I mean...I don't know."

"Yeah, that's not it," he said. Mix-Up stared out the lobby window after that and I thought we'd reached the end of the conversation, if you could call it that. I was about to ask him if he'd heard any new thrash metal bands over the weekend, but then he started talking again. He continued to stare out the window while he told me about the mix-up that had given him his name. It was ten times more than all the other times he'd ever spoke to me before combined.

"Before Riverway Mall took over the Quartz, this old guy named Mr. Laytner owned the place. He was a cool guy. Well, he was way behind as far as technology went, kept saying that projectors were projectors and didn't want to shell out for digital. And he thought Ms. Pac-Man was the last great arcade game. You know, a really old dude. But he was cool."

"Laytern," I said. "Never heard of him."

"Laytner," Mix-Up corrected. "This was like a decade ago. Anyway, I was young when I started working here, younger than you. My mom had to sign something to say it was okay. But we really needed the money and Mr. Laytner wanted to help us out." Mix-Up shot me a quick glance, just for a second. "She's fine now, by the way, my mom. Inheritance stuff from her parents when they passed."

I didn't know how to respond, so I let out a relieved "Oh, good."

"Anyway, things were rough for a long time and I started stealing." If Mix-Up saw my eyes get wide, he didn't pause to address it. "Just candy and junk at first, but then I started pocketing cash. I knew there weren't any cameras around, so it seemed like something that I could get away with. Doug and I used to work concessions together, but he spilled a super-large Coke into the popcorn more than once and Mr. Laytner told him he'd be better off selling tickets."

It was hard for me to picture Doug the Slug as a clumsy kid being pushed around, but I liked the idea quite a bit.

"Anyway, it was around that time that the girl got hit by a car right out front."

I knew this story, or the broad strokes at least. I didn't know what part Mix-Up had played in it, but the Quartz had three speed bumps right out front because of the girl we only knew as Judy. Customers were always complaining that the speed bumps were unnecessary, so Doug made sure that we knew about Judy so that we could defend their being there if the conversation ever got too heated.

"It was raining just like so super hard, like a typhoon. I never talked to the girl after the ambulance took her away, so I don't know for sure, but she could have looked both ways before darting toward the parking lot and still might have missed a car that didn't have its headlights on. Anyway, we didn't hear the car hydroplane and slam into her, but we heard the screams and honking after. I was working Popcorn Town when it happened. I was standing right here, actually."

He shot me another glance, maybe just to see if I was still listening. I don't think my face could have possibly hid my rapt attention. I was so glad we were talking about this - real stuff - rather than the latest Marvel movie or how Halloween was less fun for kids these days. And the next time that Mix-Up wanted to talk about thrash metal, I'd be sure to repay him for this story with my attention then.

"So, I jumped over the counter and ran out into the rain. She was just like this twisted mess in the middle of the road, but she was still alive, still breathing. But her breath was short and labored; you could just tell she was in so much pain. She wasn't the one screaming though, that was coming from people that had gathered over by the ticket booth. None of them were helping her though, I'm not sure why. Even the driver that had hit her was sitting in his car. He was on his cellphone, but I think it was to call 911. I hope that's what it was. Because that's too much if he was talking to someone when he hit her.

"Anyway, the downpour was so heavy, water was just pouring into her mouth, and her neck was just about snapped so there was no way she could turn her head. I called for Doug to grab a jacket or even a garbage sack, just something to shelter her face until the ambulance came. He just shouted back that he couldn't leave his post. He sounded normal, but I know he must have seen the whole thing happen. It probably threw him into shock.

"So, I took off my shirt and did my best to hold it taut above her, like an umbrella. And this whole time she was just looking at me, her eyes so wide. She couldn't do anything but look at me and take those short breaths. I told her to stay calm and soon...well, I don't know how much time passed till the ambulance got there. Could have been a minute, could have been fifteen. They put her on a gurney and then she was off to the hospital. I put on my shirt, but my clothes were all soaked through. Doug told me that I needed to make sure that nobody had taken anything from the concession stand when I 'abandoned my post'. I might have given him the finger as a reply. Mr. Laytner wasn't here, but he heard about the accident somehow and called to give me the rest of the day off, along with the whole week if I wanted it. He told me he'd pay me for every shift I missed. Like I said, he was really cool."

Mix-Up paused for a moment and laughed a little under his breath. He said, "Doug told me later that Laytner had told Doug that he was proud of him for not leaving his post at the ticket booth, but I'm pretty sure that's bullshit. But Doug's Doug, you know?"

"Yeah," was all I could say.

"So, yeah. I had done the right thing once, there with the girl in the rain. But I'd done the wrong thing about two dozen other times and finally I was caught red-handed by guess who?"

"Doug the Slug," I said, my voice so low it cracked a bit.

Without smiling, Mix-Up laughed a bit and nodded. "You know, I called him every name in the book when he threatened to turn me in, but I didn't think of that one."

"What did you call him?"

"Eh, just the normal stuff. It was pretty pathetic, but I was just ashamed, felt like a real piece of shit. I promised to repay every dollar if he wouldn't go to Laytner. I really respected the old guy, like, for real. So I knew that was a big part of it. But I also needed the job still. Bad. I promised Doug that I'd clean bathrooms when he was picked to do it and all the other extra work that he was asked to do. No good though. He marched right into Laytner's office and told the old guy that he'd seen me pocket money from the register."

"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So, I know you didn't get fired. I mean, c'mon." Mix-Up just looked at me. "Okay, so what did he do to you?"

Mix-Up smiled, but not at me. Just to the world in his head. I don't think I'd ever seen him smile for real until that moment.

"He let Doug say his piece, a pretty clear and damning case, really. And then Mr. Laytner turned to me. I really thought he was about to ask me for my side of the story. I knew I wouldn't be able to lie to him, so I was basically screwed. I might have had tears in my eyes. Yeah, I probably did. But the old guy didn't say a word to me. He just turned back toward Doug and said that he didn't think I'd done anything wrong, that Doug was mistaken somehow. Doug was furious, saying that he knew what he saw. Mr. Laytner told him that he totally believed that he'd seen something, but that it wasn't what he thought it was. Laytner told him that there must have been some kind of mix-up."

A chill hit me and continued up the back of my neck.

"That was pretty much the end of it. I stopped stealing, of course. It was hard to look Laytner in the eye at first, but he made sure that I did soon enough. I guess he saw something in me." Mix-Up shook his head. "Doug didn't see anything except a charming thief though, so he took to calling me 'Mix-Up' every chance he got. Never around Mr. Laytner though, that wouldn't have been good. But by the time the old guy had packed up for Florida, everybody here knew me by the name."

"Whoa," I said. "So, Doug gave you the name?"

"Well, in a way they both did."

"Yeah, but Doug's the one that used it against you." I was upset. "That's so not okay. I feel like me and everyone else has been a part of this cruel joke that we didn't even know was, was...hurtful."

"No, no," Mix-Up -- Trevor -- said.

"I feel like so awful and I think Doug's a piece of shit for doing that to you. I think we ought to get him back."

"No, you don't understand, Tracy. I like the name Mix-Up."

"What? Why?" I was already starting to see 'Trevor' spelled out in big letters over his head.

"It means that even though I'm capable of doing bad things, it doesn't make me a bad person. And it means that if somebody can still look me in the eyes when faced with something shameful about me, then I can do the same for anybody else. Even slugs like Doug."

Mix-Up smiled again and so did I. "Okay," I said and that was it. Trevor was gone and Mix-Up was back. We leaned against the counter and stared out the window across the lobby, enjoying the buttery smell and the soft pah-pah-pah sound coming from the popcorn machine.

Later that night, I tried to look up that girl Judy on my computer. I searched for almost an hour, but I couldn't find anything about her or the accident out in front of the Quartz. I guess it could have been something small enough that nobody reported on it - it's not like every accident gets in the newspaper, especially if nobody dies. But it seemed like such a big thing to me. And I hated that it was just a story people told each other now, that there was nothing to prove it was real.

A few days passed and a gentle storm settled over the city for much of the following week. I showed up for an evening shift at the theater; Jordan rushed to meet me at the lobby door. As I shook the rain off of my umbrella, she told me that Mix-Up had quit not an hour earlier. The speed of gossip caused her voice to flutter from talking so fast that she could hardly breathe. She told me that Mix-Up had apparently just walked into Doug's office and told him that he couldn't work at the Quartz anymore, didn't really give any specific reason. Doug wasn't taking it well, she said.

I felt as though I'd been sucker-punched. I hadn't had a concessions shift with Mix-Up since the time we had the talk about his name. I wanted answers, wished more than anything that I could have asked him about it, even just to get one more piece of the puzzle. I didn't know where Mix-Up lived (not that I would have felt right going to his place to pry more information out of him anyway). I would just have to live with the mystery. If there was a beauty to that realization, I didn't feel it then. I just felt defeated and a little angry at the man who loved thrash metal.

In the end, the story of his name was just one of many. My remaining shifts at the Quartz overflowed with all sorts of Mix-Up stories and quotes we all remembered, making the days seem to go by lightning fast. It was a generous parting gift that I hadn't anticipated. And then August arrived, making it my turn. I put in my notice with Doug the Slug, which didn't seem to surprise him much. I was really just a summer hire, after all. School would be starting back in two weeks; my friends and I would all have so many other things to talk about soon enough.