Yippee-ki-yay

Did you hear? Die Hard turned 25 this week.

Hard to believe it was twenty-five years ago that a group of friends and I went to see the new Bruce Willis movie. We were so excited, because we’d heard it was so totally awesome. Our parents gave permission; one mom agreed to chauffeur. She pulled into the theatre parking lot, which is now a car lot, and waited to make sure we got in okay. Cash in hand, we giggled our way to the ticket booth. With the others crowded around me, I proudly announced the movie I intended to see. Being my first Rate R movie and all, it was a pretty big deal. The woman behind the plexiglass, in her brown polyester smock, took one look at me before stating the obvious, “That movie’s Rated R.”

We smiled sweetly and nodded.

“No one under the age of seventeen is allowed to see that movie without the accompaniment of a parent or guardian.”

Our smiles wavered. That’s when the Ring Leader took charge. “We’ve received permission from our parents,” she said. “My mom is in the car, she’ll tell you.”

The Plexiglass Woman was unimpressed. “She’ll need to do more than ‘tell me.’ She must buy the tickets and accompany you into the theatre.” Then she crossed her arms and held her ground. She was not about to budge–not even when the token mother came in to explain matters; when she explained she’d previewed it and it really wasn’t that bad; when she promised, no one else would know.

So it was my friend’s mother bought our tickets, accompanied us to the snack bar, and then sneaked out the back–while we sneaked in.

I’ll tell you now, I’m a poor excuse for a criminal.

I sat there worrying and fretting, working myself into a complete and total dither. I just knew we were going to get caught and hauled off to jail. When a friend leaned over and whispered, “I need to use the restroom,” I hissed back, “Hold it!”

There is no rest for the wicked, my friends. No rest.

In all honesty, I do not remember watching the movie that day. I remember sweating the fact that we were hiding from the law; but watching the movie? Not so much.

It’s only later, while watching a VHS, do I remember sitting on the edge of my seat–and crying as John McClane picked glass out of his feet, while asking Sergeant Powell to tell his wife he loved him.

That’s right, Die Hard brought a tear to my eye.

Now that’s a good movie.