“Please,” she pleaded over the phone, “Arman is going!”  This was used to insinuate that my manhood would be intact if I went.

“Do I have to check my manliness at the door?” I asked.

She paused.  “Probably.”

I swore that I would never go to see the movie Rent. The uplifting musical based on the wildly popular Broadway show of the same name is, first and foremost,

something no man should have to endure.  Eight characters in New York City love, lose, battle AIDS and do various other tear-inducing things. 

It is the kind of movie that lowers the testosterone count in one’s body.  It is the kind of movie that bores a male to tears, while everyone else in attendance is crying for a different reason.  Needless to say, I would never be caught dead attending a movie of this type.

So there I was, watching Rent.  In front of me was my friend and perennial don’t-tell-anyone-about-this buddy, Arman.  I could see the boredom oozing off of him and dripping onto the already sticky floor.  His head hung limply to the side, attempting to form any sort of comfortable position to ease the discomfort his eyes were witnessing.  On the screen before us, a man and a woman were holding hands gazing at each other.  He was leaving her.  He exited the screen, leaving only the distraught female.

“She’s going to sing...” I mumbled to myself, “Please don’t sing. Please.”

Music started.

“Please don’t sing.  Please don’t sing.” I muttered to myself.

Her voice rose and stabbed into my heart like a dagger.  I groaned out loud, elicting confused but angry glances from my female companions.

“What?!” my female companion whispered sharply.

“She sang!” I groaned.

I slunk into the back of my chair, waiting for the torturous monotony to be over.  I looked in front of me.  Arman was in the same slouched position, no doubt wondering to himself what good could come from his $7.50 ticket.  Origami perhaps. 

To the right of him sat the silhouette of my friend and perennial I-actually-kinda-like-it buddy.  He was sitting in the upright position, eager to soak up every corny lyric and suggestive dance move.  I envied him.  How he basked in the light of this terrible, terrible movie.  How did he do it?  Super powers?  Some sort of pill? A strong will?

All of a sudden the solution hit me.  Though he’d recover it when he left, he had certainly checked his manliness at the door.


This work written by Zach Claywell. Reproduction requests or general questions should be directed to Zach Claywell care of Zach Claywell at yahoo dot com

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