The rest of the audience in the crowded theater had already moved on. “Spiderman: Far From Home” was over. The credits started rolling. A mid-credits scene came and went. Ooh-ahh. And then they headed for the exits as more credits streamed by.
“Hold on,” I told my 13-year-old daughter who started getting up. I used my “super spy” voice, which actually sounds kind of creepy. “There’s another post-credits scene at the very end. After ALL the credits. Like 30 minutes of credits. And I already know what it is. It’s probably not even worth it. You want to stay to see it?”
“Sure,” was her answer.
SCORE!!!
We sat back in our seats. Our feet stuck to the sugary, crusty goo that accumulated on the floor. More people got up and left. Maybe they had dinner plans. Figured it wouldn’t be worth it. Or were certain their friends had lied about the secret scene tucked at the very end where, by the looks of the remaining moviegoers, only super-fans or people with extremely boring lives even knew existed.
And then it came on. Ohh-ahh. Fade to black. Curtain please. Everybody out. We have another film showing shortly.
I smiled. “I told you it wouldn’t be worth it,” I said. But, boy, was it.
I can barely get my daughter to do anything with me at this age. Darn teenagers. The house could be on fire, and if I screamed, “GET OUT … HURRY!!!” she would reply, “Seriously?!? Are you going too? Can we go separately? I mean, come on. Is this just another trick to get us to do something together?”
“THERE’S FLAMES … THE TV JUST BLEW UP … AND YES!!!”
Superhero movies, though? Oh, I found her kryptonite. (Well, at least until she reads this column.) They’ve become our unifying force. A super-bonding agent that unites us in a common good – dropping big bucks at the movieplex. It also provides us with endless philosophical discussions at the dinner table: “So, dad, I’m supposed to believe Captain America was frozen in some kind of iceberg and then woke up all those years later without any kind of freezer burn?”
My wife can’t really get into it. Which is to say she has no interest. When we ask if she wants to go with us, she gives cryptic answers we have to decipher like, “Let me see: Would I rather have my toenails torn off and then sewed back on, or go see ‘Avengers?’ Let … me … see …”
We look at each other and wonder, “Why can’t she be more clear?”
But that’s OK. This is OUR thing. Our fix. Our bonding time. And thankfully, there’s a new superhero movie released every 15 minutes.
We stood in line early in the morning to see “Avengers: Endgame” when it first came out. We discuss timelines and theories and how the movies differ from the comic books. We compare originals to reboots, and debate the merits of each. And generally, we pretty much drive my wife crazy at the dinner table. “Can’t we just discuss politics, or sit in absolute silence like normal Americans?” she asks.
But this is OUR thing. Something that brings us together. Busts through the 13-year-old curse that makes fathers appear like evil interdimensional slugs with bad hair and a penchant for embarrassing offspring. With our feet stuck to the sugary, crusty goo and the promise of another post-credits scene, it’s always worth it.