In anticipation of the upcoming Alameda International Film Festival, where a cavalcade of fans will gather to celebrate the myriad of cool types who collaborate, cogitate, and create cinematic art—screenwriters, actors, directors, costumers, make-up artists, foley operators and gaffers—it seems only appropriate to shine the spotlight on someone intrinsic to the imaginative experience: the kid who scoops your popcorn.
So here we go. Unwrap your candy, shut off your phone, settle into your seat, and attend to that person who’s never listed in the credits, yet who deserves a kernel of credit for the fun you have watching stories told on a bright screen in the dark.
At what moment did you discover that you wanted to be an artist?
Well, uh, I never really thought of myself as an artist, but if you say so, sure, yeah, that’s cool. If you mean when did I decide to apply for a job at the theater, this job, working concessions, making popcorn, heating nachos and filling soda cups, uh, well, my mom and dad got tired of me asking for money so they said get a job. And since I like movies—I mean, dude, who doesn’t—this seemed like a cool place to work.
Who was the most influential person who helped you achieve your goal?
I think you mean the popcorn stuff, so for that I gotta say it was my manager/trainer, Jennifer. At first, I had no idea how to make or serve popcorn, I just ordered and ate it when I came to see a movie. So, she was the one who taught me how to make it all happen, and bruh, it may look simple, but trust me, it’s complicated. First, you go to the popcorn machine, that big vat where you gotta scoop the kernels then pour them into the contraption. That thing is hot—hot oil is hot, no joke, so you gotta pay attention. Popcorn freaking explodes. Jen showed me how to scoop with a sweeping motion, pause, then pour it all in the vat. Each time I do that, it feels so good. It really does.
Tell about the best—or a best—experience you had as a performer.
Oh man, there’s so many. When you’re back there behind the counter, with your crew, and the lines are full of your buddies and families and some hotties, you gotta step up. You gotta work fast, be on your game, and try not to slam into anyone as you’re sliding back and forth on the floor that can be pretty slippery. It’s harrowing, for real.
I’d say the best experience was when Barbie and Oppenheimer were rocking the screens. Night after night, all those people, crazy in pink, and they were hungry. They wanted everything—Whoppers and Sour Patch Kids and even the hot dogs which, bruh, I can’t even talk about them. But by then I’d become the Popcorn King, keeping an eye on the crowd, how much inventory we had, were we fully bagged, and knowing exactly when to refill so each batch was fresh and salty and buttery and just ready for the bag and your mouth. I ruled those nights, I truly did.
Conversely, tell us about a pretty bad experience.
Well, those of us in the game know it’s the unpopped that bring you down, that cause the managers, even Jennifer, who’s so chill, to shake their heads and threaten to make you sweep the auditorium if you mess up again. So, we all pay attention to that and try not to waste the product. But for me personally, the worst experience, the one that still haunts me, was opening night of the Taylor Swift movie, the Eras Tour thing. Place was jammed, we were bringing it, and I was especially on my game.
I’m not really a fan, not a Swiftie for sure, but yeah, I like some of her music, “Bad Blood” and “Look What You Made Me Do.” They told us to dress up if we wanted, you know, make it all more festive. So, I borrowed my sister’s bracelets, had like a hundred on each wrist, jangling as I went about my business. And that’s when it happened. My best pal and his significant other were up to bat, had ordered their faves (large popcorn, extra extra butter, large Diet Coke with two straws), and I had it all ready to go, ready to place it on the counter for them to gawk at, when bam!, not one, not two, but three bracelets broke, sending those baby letter beads all over the place. And when I went to try and grab them, I knocked over both the popcorn bag and soda, spilling the perfect little yellow flowers and cold drink across the counter, of course, but, bruh, worse. It all shot out and sprayed Jamie and Leslie exactly where you do not want to be sprayed—yep, at the crotch. It looked like they had, well, you can imagine.
We cleaned it all up, they got new supplies, and did not miss Tay-Tay, but still, such a dork move.
Any advice to folks out there hoping to pursue a life in the arts?
Advice? Get lucky and work with Jen, don’t eat too much of the complimentary corn, put at least 25% of your paycheck into a savings account, try not to spill stuff on customers, and hope you get a lot of shifts during the Alameda International Film Festival, cause those folks know how to curate and show first rate artsy films—even short ones like Missing You made by my pal and classmate, the amazing Anika Jensen, shout out girl, woohoo. (Pssst, text me when you come to see a movie, I can get you free refills when no one is looking.)
Gene Kahane is the founder of the Foodbank Players, a lifelong teacher, and former Poet Laureate for the City of Alameda. Reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gene-Kahane.
