Gruner & Gruner Entertainment
1514 Broadway, 9^th floor
New York, NY 10036
C/O: Compliance Department
Re: Detroit location

Dear Sir or Madam,

As a life long movie fanatic, a believer in the healing powers of a movie - if not on your health then at least on your spirit - and in the hopes of keeping that value system alive, I bring to your attention some of the most unpleasant conditions this seasoned customer has ever seen.

1.Bathrooms: Disgusting. Real pigpens. I wouldn’t allow my farm animals to defecate there.

2.Sticky floors; this is an easy one. Mop and clean the floors. In all theaters, with hot water and soap. Customer shouldn’t be expected to peel themselves off your floors.

3.Your theater employs a union projectionist? He doesn’t do his job. The theater in downtown Detroit is suffering from a projectionist that seems to be completely lost here on planet Earth. His home should be in a quiet tree-lined pasture, a cemetery, or a morgue. The movies start late, or not at all. Some preview trailers light on fire and melt on the screen. Other times the frame is incorrectly placed on the front of the projection camera and the image is cut in half. Many times the sound is incorrectly calibrated, so the audience can barely hear the movie.

4.Your employees, in your Detroit location, are inept, preoccupied, and basically lazy. If you ask for the sound to be adjusted they look at you like you’ve just asked them to inhale the gas from an idling car’s tailpipe. They are disheveled, lazy and basically left to their own devices.

5.The amount of employees is pathetically low. One person working the ticket counter on a Friday night? Thirty-five people in line? How is this efficient? A manager walks past the line and looks upon those weary souls with an expression of resignation. He or she doesn’t care. You don’t care. Clearly.

Your theater in Detroit needs a complete overhaul. New seats, new screens, and please replace that carpet in the lobby. The ceiling tiles are all stained and look like they might drop down on an unsuspecting patron at a moment’s notice. The staff needs to be fired immediately and replaced by movie lovers, not the drones you currently employ.

Sincerely,

Franklin Mintz
1121 South Canyon Road
Prescott, AZ 86303

From where I’m sitting the office is set up like a small pen, except we’re not chickens waiting to be shipped off to the slaughterhouse. We’re not pigs either, but that wasn’t the idea of this set up I’m sure. At least not the people who run this place, they didn’t have that in mind when they set up our “work environment” here in the newly constructed Gruner & Gruner office plaza: the shining, glistening anchor of new commercial expansion at the base of the Upper West Side.

We’re the foundation.

We’re the model.

We’re leading by example.

We’re selling widgets…I mean, books.  Which isn’t completely true. We’re making places to sell books, too. Bookstores. Shops, mall stores, stand alones, strip-mall locations and yes, yes, finally we’ve come to our senses and decided that the film business can’t live another year with out Gruner & Gruner.

We make movie theaters.

Intellectual property is just a by-product.  If smart stuff happens? Great.

But then again that’s not why I’m here. My goal was to get a job that actually paid some real money.

So this is what it must mean when they say, “real job”.

We’re sitting alone, each of us in our own small cubicle: four tiny walls up against one another, four to a cluster, as they like to call them.

“So where do you work?”

“Oh.  Ummm…. In a cluster.” Enthusiastically as I can, really, that’s the answer I give to that question. I’ve been asked it a lot. 

Emily Procter. A great example of compact beauty, thin, small, she’s like five foot… five foot nothing. Haircut Ellen DeGeneres style. She took offense when I compared her to the comedian. She’s got the wardrobe down to a science. Black on black, ready to set that funeral pyre aglow.  Sometimes I just sit and listen to her on the phone. You can learn a lot. Example:

“Good Morning. You know you kept me on hold for ten minutes? Is there a fire?”

Short pause.

“No?  Hmm… okay. Since I’m a customer, how long did you expect me to wait?”

She doesn’t care. Emily will get right to the point. She goes for the jugular. She wants that minimum wage bookseller to wriggle uncomfortably, counting back from ten to calm the screaming voice coming from inside that is telling them to scream at Emily, tell her that this isn’t the only retail job I can get. Don’t talk to me like that.

Actually we have to be careful, Emily especially, because if you’re too nasty they just hang up.

“Okay. Great. I’m looking for a book, I don’t know the title, or the author, but I saw it on television last night. Can you help me?”

See how she leads, dips in and out of sharper tones? Listening as the temperature rises in the bookseller? She’s a secret shopper.  She’ll mention to the bookseller that she doesn’t have use of her legs or arms. She’s on an electronically voice activated and operated phone. She wants the audio version of the book because she can’t turn the pages. She won’t tell the bookseller that until he finds the book for her, in about thirty minutes. Then the poor bastard will really get pissed.

In the cube next to her is Mike Smith. Plain, rule abiding, order taking, script reading drone. Mike won’t deviate an inch from the path. His looks are middling.

If I were a girl, I wouldn’t fuck him.

Five foot ten, blonde hair, acne, long fingers that look like stalks of asparagus. Dresses like a fifth grader: NY Giants sweater in the winter, in the summer, Yankees jersey; usually Derek Jeter’s. He used to wear Giambi’s, but now with the whole steroid thing he sticks with Mr. Yankee, Derek Jeter. His lunches are simple; they consist of two oranges, three granola bars and a protein drink. Which doesn’t explain the chronic acne. He eats this everyday. Probably goes home with a Happy Meal followed by a dozen Oreo cookies.

He also likes his stress ball, and has learned to bounce it off the floor of his carpeted cube, one hundred times an hour. He keeps an Excel spreadsheet on his laptop which gives a day by day history of just how many times he’s bounced that stress ball off the floor and how many times an hour he’s squeezed it with each hand. The desk in front of him is clinically clean, like an operating room. Headset hook up, laptop. One pen. One script. One small 5x7 notepad for notes; he keeps them simple, about the people he talks to, names, time of call, even though the company records all our calls. We don’t make personal calls here.  We just call the stores. All 1,898 of them.

There is a celebrity watch; contest really, that’s going on between the three of us.

Wait.

Before I talk about that I have to tell you about the fourth cube; the vacant spot that holds the mystery man of darkness. The man with the smile. We call him ‘Smiling Sam’.

He is in charge of the area that I’ve got now, movie theater compliance. We get a digital download from the 1,700 different theaters that we have across the country.

Every week. Ten pictures per theater. Ten bathrooms per theater. Ten pictures.

Each.

Concession stands. Popcorn makers. Parking lots. Outside walls. Inside walls.

And of course, pictures of the staff. Thirty pictures for each theater. These pictures have to come in to me, my desk, by Monday, 8:00am. After that I look at each picture, and then call the theaters that don’t comply with the standards. It’s easy. Right?

Smiling Sam? He got promoted because he thought this up. He got a deal on digital cameras with built-in time codes. He figured out that it would be cheaper to have these cameras in the theaters than it would be to send around a secret shopper. The camera takes pictures of the different areas of the theater, each screen, bathroom, and of course each employee. The cameras are durable, built to last, and part of the building. The camera in the manager’s office is built in to the wall over the desk where their computer sits. Each employee must stand in front of this camera once a week, on a little yellow piece of tape on the floor that’s worn out from everyone standing on it, week after week.

I look at these pictures all week and call each theater to talk to them about the compliance issues. If your pictures come in blank, you know you forgot to stand in front of the camera. Well, then you get a call from me. Okay, you forget once. Maybe twice. After that you’re called and told that your presence is no longer required at the theater. Your last check is in the mail. Sam got promoted for this. He moved up. He got a big raise. Window office. Now he sets other ideas in motion. You know, like double-siding interoffice memos to save on paper, recycling paper clips, or buying everyone his or her own coffee cup, the durable plastic kind. You lose that, you don’t get coffee unless you bring it yourself. You know, in your own recyclable paper cup. No one wants to do that. Free coffee - who can guarantee that anymore?

Smiling Sam now also has the unenviable task of answering the hate mail, the letters from the customers. I heard he’s coming up with a plan to develop a computer system that will automatically answer the letter. All mail comes to him electronically; it’s the only way the customer can complain. Supposedly the program would come up with an infinite number of responses, from the banal to the obtuse, to the just plain old simple and easy.

From thank you to fuck you.

That’s how we think of it down here in the “cluster”. Sure, the letters won’t tell the customer to fuck off, but they’ll be blunt. The responses could also be glowing, thanking the customer for their comments. All e-mailed letters, good or bad, must be 100% replied to. No exceptions. Just like those contests for a trip to Tahiti that you see advertised on the back of a candy bar or jug of orange juice - you know, the ones you win if you send in a thousand proofs of purchase. There also is a winner. Has to be. In this case, there’s always an answer to your complaint, and free movie passes. Usually everyone gets one set of passes.  Right now, Sam and a team of assistants are answering the letters by hand. He hasn’t come up with the system to eliminate the human element. Leaving the computer to do its own letter writing is going to take a leap of faith.  Smiling Sam, he’s got the idea. He’s paid to come up with ideas.   

Must be nice.

Like I said, Smiling Sam used to have my job. He comes from a family of high-powered executives. Imagine that.

“Your Mom, what does she do?”

“She’s an executive.”

“Doing what…exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

Sam’s mother works in the industry. Sam lives just outside town in a one of those places that was built to be a perfect community. Good solid schools, primary through high school. Town streets are paved perfectly and well lit. No fast food chains only ‘Mom & Pop’ stores selling things homemade. Taxes are high…sure…but you get what you pay for. Garbage pick-up twice a week and the snow plowed in the winter.

Sam’s mother got him the job. My job. She made a phone call. That’s what I heard…anyway.

Smiling Sam gets that name from his overall persona, you know: positive, outgoing, smiling. Even when he’s coming up with ideas to eliminate jobs or down size entire departments he’ll smile and spin the positive. The company loves him; he’s been promoted twice since I’ve been here. Once to Vice President, then to President of Compliance, replacing the former president, who was well liked, and had something like thirty years under his belt.  It was a shock. The president left for coffee (this is before the plastic cup idea), came back and the lock to his office door was changed. The big office at the end of the hall on the sales floor. With the windows. The one that looks out over downtown.

Smiling Sam met him in the hallway.

“No hard feelings.” He smiled, handing the former President a brown envelope, business size.

“What’s this?”

“Your package. You’ve been taken care of. Thanks for everything.” Smiling Sam walked away. Did you ever think thirty years could fit into a 4-1/8 x 9-1/2 inch envelope?

Sam’s body is a thin rail, tight physique, close-cropped black hair a tight weave of afro curls, not African American, just tight little individually-spiraled tufts of steel wool-like textured hair.  You can get mesmerized by his hair; even me.  

People stare at his hair. 

That’s the story I heard. If it’s true, so be it. That’s how things work around here.

Smiling Sam gave me one instruction when I got hired. New hires all have the same thing happen to them. You have to meet with the President of Compliance.

Talk to him.

Have a little chat. 

This is where he told me it wouldn’t be easy firing people he knew, his friends, but it would have to be done. He asked me if I agreed. I remember just shaking my head and saying, “Yeah.”

Smiling Sam told me I’d be fine.

“Good luck,” he said.

He finished our meeting by taking out his calculator from a little drawer on his desk. He started punching numbers while I excused myself. His secretary gave me the thumbs up as I left. Her desk is covered with pictures of her dogs.

She has thirty Scottish Terriers. She owns a kennel and does this job for the benefits.

So now I pore over the pictures. The compliance pictures are taken randomly throughout the day. If you’re working at the theater you could be photographed without even knowing it. That’s the point.

Compliance.

Detroit.  This theater is in trouble. Fifteen of the thirty employees called out sick for picture day. So I’ve got to look at a smaller set of pictures than usual. The manager has coffee stains on his shirt. The assistant theater manager’s shoes are untied. Some of the cashiers have their hair braided, intricately. This theater isn’t close to compliance. 

To fall out of favor, or become a Not at Standards Theater, you have to have over half of your theater fail. In this case, the employees were ruining it for everyone else. Now if there were anything wrong with the rest of the theater, I’d have to kick this over to Smiling Sam’s secretary.

Looking over the pictures of the bathrooms. The men’s bathroom outside theater one is filthy. There’s toilet paper on the floor. One stall has its door swinging off its hinges. The mirror is cracked in the bathroom by theater five.

The women’s bathroom. You’ve got to be kidding me. They should have called this in to the repair center when it happened. That’s what the theaters do when something is broken - call the repair center. I have the repair requests for each theater in a separate spreadsheet. Looking over that sheet now, I don’t see this request or the broken bathroom door requested for repair either. Looking over the last pictures of the movie theaters themselves, I can see a slight glisten on the cement floors; this means the floors are sticky with spilled soda. A dull floor means it’s been washed. I know this from looking at hundreds of movie theater floors.

Hundreds.

The automated voice comes on the line.

“Welcome to G&G Movie Entertainment”

Pause.

“We’re proud to welcome to our screen…” I punch a code into the keypad on the phone next to my laptop. This gets me directly on the line with the Manager. When his phone rings it give a special four-ring sound. This is the home office calling. They know it and they walk to a place that is empty of customers and quiet so they can listen to the things they’re not doing correctly. The challenges. That’s what we call them. Not, “you’re doing this wrong”. It’s more like, “I see some challenges in these areas, and these are the opportunities”.

“Allen.  Home office here.” My voice is polite but firm.

“Yeah man, what’s up?”

His tone is too collegial for me. “Remember, Allen, I wouldn’t be calling if there wasn’t an opportunity.”

“Got it.” His voice gets deeper, taking me seriously. I wriggle in my chair a little, feeling good.

“Bathrooms. You’ve been in them lately?”

Pause. I hear the sound of a door closing. The next sound seems like a chair unfolding, a theater seat perhaps.

“Where are you?”

“In theater two. No screenings for the next hour.”

“Good. Bathrooms. When will they be fixed?”

“I’m making the call today.”

“Calling the repair service?”

“Yeah.”

Proper response is “Yes.”  But I don’t say that. You have to know where the line is.

“Cleaner. This is a chance to improve, to shine.”

“Does it say when the pictures were taken?”

“No. I can’t tell you that anyway…so don’t even ask.”

“Okay. I’m on it.”

“Allen this is our first conversation. After this I have to go to compliance.”

“I got it. Anything else I should know?”

Pause. Sighing. This is hard.

“You’ve got major issues with your staff and their attire. Neat and clean. No style. No fashion statements. Just the standard attire. Shirt and pants.”

“Were the pictures bad?”

“Bad’s not the right word. Unusual. Shoes untied. Five o’clock shadows. Downtrodden looks. Just not sharp and crisp. The way we like it.”

“Okay. We’ll be better next week.”

“Good. Talk to you then.”

“I hope not.”

“All right.” I hang up.

If a theater is compliant, I don’t call. No call means good news.

Emily steps into my cube. Suddenly I can only see the black pearl silk fabric of her sweater. She doesn’t really have a set of breasts. I’m this close to her. I could let out a sigh, expel a breath and the material of her sweater would move, that’s how close I am.

Looking down on me. “Meet me in the break room in thirty seconds.”

Emily doesn’t like to use the term minutes. She loves seconds. She spends all of her time talking about seconds.

In the break room. White walls. White tiled floor. White counter tops. Stainless steel coffee maker. We both stand there holding our cups.

The plastic cups.

“The latest. You want to hear it?” She seems uncomfortable and at ease in the same motion. Her hands hold her cup slightly, gingerly.

Looking around the room seeing if we’re being seen, I nod ‘yes’.

Then, feeling like I should voice my agreement, “Sure.”

I feel like a trespasser. A thief. Stealing this time away from my desk and the photos.

“They’re going to add a human element to the compliance team.”

“No kidding.”

“Sure. Why would I kid?” Her face goes flat.

“No, I know. So what is it?”

“They want a guy to go to each theater and check compliance.”

“Even with the cameras?”

“Yep.” Emily does it too. Use the word yes. That’s all. Is it that hard? It’s only the preferred response in the human language.

“Okay. Good. Less for me to do.”

“No, they want you to keep the pictures going. You’re not going to change. But the human factor is already a real tangible thing. John Gruner is already freaked out by it. He loves it.  Apparently there’ve been some letters. Someone is taking compliance more seriously than Smiling Sam. Sure he’s good, but this guy who’s writing these letter is amazing.”

“Smiling Sam?”

“He does what he’s told.”

“Sure.”

Emily walks away. Leaving me alone with my coffee mug.

So finally, it had happened. The letters got through.

Wait. I forgot to tell you about the celebrity watch. Mike, me and Emily have a spreadsheet on the wall of our cube. As you walk towards our space, you can see in each column is a celebrity’s name, every celebrity that lives in the city; we got a list from the publicity department. We write next to each name the date and time we saw that person. So far my name is next to the most celebrities.

On my way home from the Internet Café off Vanguard Square, below the Madison Park, I spotted two at once. Last night I saw Johnny Depp and Mickey Rourke get out of a limousine. There were all these photographers lined up in front of Montrose Café, which is about three blocks from the café I was hanging out in. These photographers were all yelling at each other, screaming, saying no one would be in the car, forget it, it’s nothing, and as I walked by, these two big deal actors stepped out onto the sidewalk, sliding carefully between the photographers as their entire bodies were covered with flash bulb light. I wrote my name next to theirs the next day, early, before Emily and Mike got in. Emily’s response was great.

“Bullshit.”

“What?” Faking it. I knew what she meant.

“Where?”

“Downtown.” Pretending like it didn’t matter. Each month, whoever saw the most celebrities got a free lunch in the commissary.

Rules of the cluster.

Last year I saw Robert DeNiro at Club USA, I even shook his hand. That got me an automatic free lunch. Emily was drooling when I told the story. Mike stewed in his seat. He’s only seen Robert Sean Leonard parking his car, and Ethan Hawke at a diner downtown. Other than that he’s seen Connie Chung three times; I guess he walks past her office everyday.

Stalker.

That night after work I went home and changed out of my work clothes, checked my messages, and left for the evening. Unable to decide what to have for dinner, I settled for a burger at the diner I know Sean Penn likes to hang out in when he’s in town. He doesn’t live in the city, but you never know.

He wasn’t there. But there was still the off chance that he might be on the street, walking. I could bump into him. That would get me back on the board at the office.

Spending the last two hours at the Internet Café, things were slow. It was a weeknight. I wandered home. The message light was blinking wildly on my phone. I pushed play as the sound of my mother’s voice filled my small apartment. Looking out the window over a parking lot and past that to the ornate spires of the church that sits across the street from my building, I listened as she went on and on.

“And one last thing. We keep getting these movie passes from Gruner Entertainment in the mail. Thank you for thinking of us. We love to go out to the movies. We love it even more now that it’s free. Call us soon. Love you.”

Her voice ended. My room, one bedroom with an attached bath, fell into silence. Slipping off my shoes and then my pants, I laid down on my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. Thinking to myself about the photos in Detroit and the morons who ran the company I work for. Sighing aloud, forcing the air out of my nose, I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.