And please refrain from talking!

The wonders of Hollywood never cease. Except this time I haven’t been shocked and amazed by a raging, honking, cell-phone tossing suit in a Mercedes (what could you possibly have to honk about when your steering wheel alone costs more than the entire yearly income of the elderly Mexican woman crossing the street in front of you?) This time, Hollywood has surprised me in a good way.

Hollywood has turned me into a public speaker.

This may not come as much of a shock to you – unless you also happened to be present during my ill-fated musical auditions in tenth grade – but trust me, it’s a shock to me. I have officially become a greeter at ArcLight Hollywood.

Def: Greeter, n. Person or persons who introduce a film of quality (or a $300 mil collection of random light and noise, in the case of Transformers 2) before the opening of a show. Basically, ArcLight has abandoned the tradition of pre-movie commercials and little animated popcorn boxes telling you to turn off your phone and keep your children from crying and Enjoy the Film! So they’ve sent in employees to transfer this message instead.

The gig involves commanding the attention of large crowds and speaking at maximum volume, which is why I’ve avoided it until recently. But, seeing as how I keep inexplicably rising through the ranks at my minimum wage job – a depressing fact to which I devote as little thought as possible – it was only inevitable that I eventually become a greeter.

Which I did. Yesterday. And I think I might have done an okay job. Granted, I was greeting during the morning shift on a Thursday, so I mostly just spoke in front of small crowds of 5-30 (or even just one dude, as was the case in a depressing showing of Gamer), but it was a small victory for me nonetheless. I didn’t pass out, or shake uncontrollably, or go completely blank and ask to start over *cough* 10th grade auditions *cough.*

I did okay. It was sort of like karaoke, actually, except without the aid of a microphone and lots and lots of booze. And the lyrics of Paula Abdul. And then more booze.

People always ask if I came out here to become an actress, and I always say no. But hey, maybe that’s not an unviable career choice, after all. I mean, I’ve now proven I can memorize short bits of information and spit them back out in front of large crowds. That’s pretty much acting, right? Or, barring that, I guess I can always become a stewardess.

Confessions of a Hollywood Usher, Pt. I

I’m not entirely sure what would want to make a (technically) grown woman give up a potentially lucrative, i.e. bill-paying, career in journalism to move clear across the country to work for minimum wage in a movie theater.

I really don’t.

I know I had reasons at the time. They were vague, idealistic reasons that had something to do with writing and creating worlds people would enjoy and making a difference. There also might have been a more specific reason that involved never having to walk to work through an unforeseen blizzard wearing only ballet flats ever, ever again.

But these reasons are more faded now. Why? Why did I give up a good job with benefits in a city I loved, a desk, and a near certainty of advancement? A job I worked for, through sweat, blood and unpaid internships, for the better part of five years? I had such clear reasons for leaving it all behind then, if only I could remember them.

What I do remember is taking a tour of Central Michigan University as a naïve, 17-year-old freshman and feeling superior to my fellow tour-mates because I was the only one in the group to have already chosen my major, the only one who knew what I wanted to do with my life. Publishing. I wanted to work in publishing, and I thought having that knowledge already put me light-years ahead of the directionless Chucks-wearing froshes next to me. I had direction, I had purpose, I was so sure.

I was a fucking moron.

Because now here I am, hitting my mid-20’s stride and following roughly the same employment path that I was on at 16 (although my then-job as an ice cream scooper afforded a slightly nicer uniform). I wear $15 black shoes from Target that have so many layers of chewed up popcorn and gum on the bottom I feel like I’ve gained an inch of height. I am almost daily lectured on the correct and incorrect ways to push a broom across a floor. The phrase I utter most throughout my work week is ‘would you like butter on that?’

And why? Why did I give up health benefits, casual Fridays, office parties and an actual, tangible future as a real human being? To move to California? To meet Jason Segal? To become the next Diablo Cody? Did I mention the getting-away-from-blizzards-part?

I forget.

Here is what I do know: My name is Lindsey Klingele. I am almost 26 years old. I have a college degree that I’ll be paying off until the year 2018, and I wear a uniform with my nametag on it.

More to come.