By midnight, on the opening night of Rogue One, the new Star Wars movie, I felt dizzy with adrenaline. My fight-or-flight response had little to do with the sci-fi drama unfolding on screen, and everything to do with the guy sitting next to me.He looked and seemed to be acting as if he'd been sent from central casting to play a mass shooter, like, say, the gunman who killed a dozen people four years ago and injured many more in Aurora, Colo., at a midnight premiere of The Dark Knight Rises, then the latest Batman sequel.As I settled into my seat, I first noticed this guy's camouflage pants - no big deal, since camo is often less about function than fashion, but his side pockets bulged. With what, I could not tell. But that fact, too, I might have dismissed, if not for the odd black satchel he clutched in his lap. He also had earbud-style headphones on, and he wore a bulky black bomber jacket - another case of military garb as fashion, or...'While most patrons were easing into their La-Z-Boy-like seats, taking advantage of the electronic reclining control and footrest, the guy next to me, who appeared to be in his 30s, kept sitting up straight, on the edge of his cushy recliner, cradling that satchel. He had an aisle seat, to my right, and he was alone.It had been a busy day in my personal gig economy, and now I just wanted to relax and enjoy this movie with my son, who sat to my left. I really wanted to believe that this guy next to me was just some eccentric but good-natured character, the kind I have encountered many times in many places, and certainly around Santa Monica, where we were about to see Rogue One - and in a theater full of Star Wars devotees you'd expect to find at least a few characters.The lights went down and in addition to the usual public service announcements about turning off cell phones and not talking during the movie, there was one along the lines of "If You See Something, Say Something," a safety campaign that originated in New York City after 9/11 and has since been adopted by the Department of Homeland Security.As the previews began, this guy left his seat, heading to the back of the theater. By now curious and somewhat concerned, I waited a moment and then followed, first whispering to my son, whose legs were outstretched in the comfy seat, that I would be right back.The twists and turns of the multiplex corridors were such that I immediately lost sight of my seat neighbor, but as I entered the men's room, he was already emerging from the large, wheelchair-accessible stall, that black satchel slung over his shoulder and something else dangling from his hip. He had wiry dark hair, not quite shoulder length, that sprouted from beneath the brim of his Kangol cap. He strode briskly past me and out of the restroom, like a man on a mission. (The Aurora gunman, I remembered, had left the theater to gear up before returning to start his ghastly rampage.)I waited a moment, then followed again. I could see from the back of the theater that he had retaken his seat, next to mine, and a few paces from the front, in row D."If you see something, say something."I stopped a passing AMC theater employee - a fresh-faced kid who reminded me of Anthony Michael Hall's character in The Breakfast Club - and I said something like: "Hey, there's a guy sitting next to me who seems a little intense and looks like he's carrying a lot more gear than you really need for a movie. I don't mean to sound paranoid, but it's 2016 in America and, well, you know what I mean..."The kid seemed to know exactly what I meant. He said he'd have someone take a look.I lingered just outside the theater doors, not wanting to go back in before I was sure someone actually checked this guy out - however they might do that. There's no TSA for movie theaters. Not yet, anyway. The kid reappeared and assured me that another employee had entered by a door near the screen, looked around, and didn't see any cause for concern.Well, OK. Fair enough. I had done my civic "see-say" duty and the theater wizards had spoken, like Oz from behind a curtain.I went back to my seat, easing into my hefty recliner between this dubious character on the aisle and my son, who's 23 and a decidedly non-violent character who produces pop music.Like everyone else in the theater, the guy next to me had donned 3D glasses, his earbuds still inexplicably in place, as if he were listening to favorite psych-up tunes, the way athletes do. From time to time he raised his left hand to his face, giving it a nervous rub with thumb and index finger as he cradled the satchel, whose shoulder strap I could see; and because he was still sitting on the edge of his seat, I could also see the back of his waistline and noticed something sticking out from under the fringe of his bomber jacket. Could that be a...gun grip'I was pretty freaked out - but what more could I do' What should I do' Questions and scenarios ricocheted around my beleaguered brain.This being a Star Wars movie, it wasn't long before a noisy shootout erupted on screen, which, under the circumstances, was none too comforting. As the movie went on, I caught glimpses of the action, but mostly I kept my eyes fixed on the character next to me, who was slightly forward of me because he never left the edge of his seat.It occurred to me that whatever seemingly suspicious moves this guy made - certain gestures gave me repeated adrenaline rushes - he was unlikely to instigate a horrific bloodbath before taking off those 3D glasses. So as not to be caught off guard, I kept watching him, preparing to pounce, and wondering: Would the glasses come off'I heard the droid K-2SO utter that iconic Star Wars line - "I have a bad feeling about this" - and I could thoroughly relate, silently fretting as I was, like some catcher in the rye intent on protecting the innocent viewers around me, not to mention my own son. At some point the guy glanced at his watch, and so I looked at mine. Almost midnight. My heart thumped harder.A very long half-hour later, the new Star Wars story finally reached its explosive end. I heaved a genuine sigh of relief that, on this night, the numerous casualties were only on screen - with the possible exception of my overworked adrenal gland. I turned to my son, still jittery: "Let's get out of here!""Aren't you going to stay until the very end of the credits, like you usually do'" he asked."No," I said flatly. "I'll explain later."Or I would try to, anyway. -- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.
Click here to read full news..
