An Old Anecdote That Has NOTHING To Do With Tutoring

I had a nice lunch with my family yesterday, specifically Teddy and I met up with my grandmother and aunt (who had flown in for a week of visiting and sightseeing in the area), my brother and his wife, and my mother at a very large (intimidatingly large, in fact) buffet restaurant. We wound up telling the most ridiculous stories, and when I told mine, I was told I had the best story of the day. I hadn't thought about this particular event in just YEARS, but it seems like the sort of story that belongs on a blog.
I went to go see Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers at midnight the day it opened. Yes, yes I am a dork. I went with my two good friends, who for the purposes of this story shall be called Imelda and Marcos. There is an extended battle sequence in the movie, the battle for Helmsdeep, I believe, and during this battle, the fire alarm went off. When the fire alarm goes off in a theater, the movie stops apparently. However, the soundtrack doesn't necessarily stop as well. Now, because we've all been to school and were trained in the fine arts of not actually leaving when the alarm goes off without being told to by an authority figure, everyone just sort of sat there. When no authority figure was forthcoming to shoo us out, it was decided by the rabid geekboys that the alarm was false, and that the movie should be rewound to the appropriate point and continued. Imelda, Marcos, and I were less concerned with the movie than dying a painful, fiery death in a polyester and plastic-"wood"-panel fueled fire.
Marcos, being the take-charge kind of young man, said "follow me, ladies" in his best John Wayne voice. We followed, since we weren't entirely sure what to do either. We'd been publicly edumacated, too, you know. Marcos leads us out into the lobby, where the late night management all-star team is having a conversation about what to do. Marcos marches up and asks what the situation is. The apparent leader of this little group of mental midgets responds, "there's like...fire alarms? And they're like going off in the ducts? Above the theater?" You know this voice. I won't type it anymore. Marcos asks if they plan to evacuate the theater. Superstar manager asks if he thinks they should. Marcos, suppressing the understandable urge to slap her silly, gum-smacking face, says "if I were in charge, I would evacuate." The manager looks at him, doe-eyed and trusting, "so we should?" "Yes, yes you should." We are impressed with Marcos's inner fortitude, because he managed to do this without eye rolls or biting sarcasm.
Because it was a weekend evening, there were several theaters still showing movies, and so the management team splits up to send everyone out. We follow the girl assigned to our theater, mostly because we have purses in there. The girl is about 5 feet tall, and has the body type of a gymnast. She is a petite, quiet little thing. And they sent her in to deal with the angry geeks. I got the feeling management didn't like her much.
If you've ever seen the movie Police Academy and are familiar with the adorable young black woman with the perfectly round afro who spoke in near-whispers, you will have a good idea of what this girl sounded like. I could barely hear her, and I was standing next to her. She stood at the back of the theater whisper-shouting "Excuse me? Excuse me?"
I rolled my eyes at Imelda and Marcos, who looked at me, and gestured in an "after you" sort of way. Because I do not have a quiet voice. I have a deep alto voice that resonates across football fields when necessary. I threw up my hands in a gesture of frustration, and marched down the aisle to the front of the theater. And then, in a moment of inspiration, filled my lungs and shouted at the top of my considerable voice:
"YO, GEEKS!"
The theater was suddenly quiet. Amazing, isn't it?
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, in a not-quite ear-shattering tone, "the fire alarm we all hear is going off in the ducts above the theaters," and I gesture, open-handed, upwards. There is muttered distress. "Do not panic. We are going to vacate this theater through the clearly marked exits," and gesture to them. "Now, first row, get UP," lifting hands, "and move OUT!" sweeping them towards the exit behind my left shoulder. After letting the first row get about halfway out, I shouted, "Second row, up and OUT!" gesturing to the exit behind my right. It took a couple of rows for them to get the pattern, but after about four rows total, the group was now moving in a nice, orderly fashion. I sent Imelda and Marcos to fetch our belongings, including my Milk Duds, thankyouverymuch, and we left.
When we got outside, the madness had continued. This theaters exits both led into the same alleyway, which was flanked on three sides by the building. And people were just milling about. You could almost hear cud-chewing and the low "moooo" of the pasture. Imelda, Marcos and I all exchanged another significant glance. I again get to move to the front of the group and give them directions.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if there is an actual fire, where do you think it will go? Move into the parking lot, please," and then I start walking. They follow me. Gooooood little herd. The stupid, it hurts us, precious.
Marcos decided it would be a good time to get his hands on some freebie tickets because, well, we should get a refund, dammit! (I learned later that the moment at which the movie cut off was right before Legolas surfs down the stairs on a shield. I felt so robbed.) Marcos gets into the area of the mall to which this theater is attached, and it is an utter madhouse. He manages to grab someone (I wasn't there, so I don't know how he did it) and gets them to come out and hand out their vouchers to the people milling about in the parking lot.
The vouchers are taken care of. We get ours, and decide to just wait for a few minutes until the madness has stopped. And then we realize that there is a HUGE group of people crowded around us, all pretending like they're NOT following us. Little family groups, huddled together, casting occasional glances our direction. Imelda, this time, decides it's her turn to be Ms. In-Charge. Go for it, my dear. Go for it.
"Did you get your vouchers?"
"Yeah."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Huh?"
"You have your vouchers. Go home. Go. Away." They look hurt. "Get in your car," Imelda says, pointing helpfully at one of the metal and fiberglass rocks near which a small group of the herd has gathered, "and go home. You're not going to get to see the movie tonight."
So help me, they turn to look at me. I shake my head in amazement. "You heard the woman. Gooooo hoooooooome."

My goodness. I fear for the future.