13 OctTchaikovsky or Turbo

The other night I took two of my sons, thirteen and eight, to classical symphony. Their older brother was a member of the symphony playing the double bass. We ended up missing it. I discovered by the time I end my bus run there isn’t enough time to get to Provo by 7:30. It was dark when we got to the campus. We didn’t know which building the concert was in and we couldn’t see where to park. The start time had already passed, so it was 120 mile round trip wasted. What a bummer.

My thirteen-year-old was undaunted. “Let’s have some fun—a boy’s night out,” he said. He said this in much the same way a college fraternity brother with a beer in his hand yells out, “Let’s Party!” My son’s enthusiasm was contagious. I couldn’t help but catch the spirit.  We found a dollar theater that was playing “Turbo.” We were half-an-hour late, but decided to go in anyway. I made the mistake of deciding to buy popcorn and a drink. We lost another ten minutes there. I started to question my decision to go to the movie.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” I said looking at my watch. We were still standing in line for popcorn.

“No, Dad. We’re having a great time!” said my thirteen-year-old. He meant it. He made me believe it. We gave the man our tickets. He gave us our 3-D glasses and we walked into a nearly empty theater. We sat down, put on our 3-D glasses, and “Turbo” came to life. It was so amazing that my boys started chattering about it excitedly. I had to shush them. We ate popcorn, devoured a box of Red Vines, and guzzled a large Sprite. The movie was great. Many times we looked at each other as we laughed. Looking at someone else when you laugh and seeing them laugh too makes laughter all the better.

On our way out of the cinema we found an arcade. Among all the proffered electronic entertainment was PacMan and an old-style pinball machine. I couldn’t pass them by. My sons had heard of such things, but have never played them. I put a dollar in the token machine and gave two tokens to each of my sons. My eight-year-old took on PacMan.  He was so excited he bounced.  The ghosts got all three of his PacMen within ten seconds, but he was happy. He hugged my legs and said, “I can’t believe I played PacMan!” The common place world of his Dad was legendary to him. My thirteen-year-old didn’t fare any better on the pinball machine. A pinball wizard he wasn’t. He was all grins after it was over anyway.

We found a Del Taco and ate cheap chicken tacos. Then we found their big brother as he came home from the concert. He showed us the blood blisters on his fingers from his bass strings. To his little brothers he doesn’t play the double bass in a university symphony; he’s a rock star. We chatted for a while.  Then it was a sixty mile drive back home. The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but as my thirteen-year-old said, “We had a good time.”