Lucky Jane

Tonight, the longest Saturday night of the year (don’t forget to “fall back,” y’all), I shall arise from my nest of printouts from JSTOR and manuscript scraps. On my patio table I’ll place a glass containing Halloween-themed pencils and a big bowl containing granola bars I got for free with coupons last week. At some point this afternoon I’ll make a festive, glittery sign directing trick-or-treaters to “take one.” I don’t care if one of them empties the bowl; I don’t care if they shun my treats. The only thing I’m concerned about is that I don’t actually encounter any trick-or-treaters. I won’t even be home.

Instead, thanks to complimentary passes from my landlord, I’m going to my town’s “historic” discount theater to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which I didn’t see when it was released this summer and still haven’t seen—until tonight. I never buy popcorn at the movies, since I eat it every day, and thus am too accustomed to making my own and flavoring it more adventurously. Instead, since the proprietors of this theater don’t care if patrons bring their own food and non-alcoholic drink, I’m bringing a box of rosemary Triscuits, which I love, for indeed they put the “crack” in “cracker.” Plus a wedge of drunken goat cheese.

There. A wild night of such wildness that even Emily D could not have imagined it. I love it.