It had been a long time since I meandered down the aisle in a dark theater, at midday, and settled into a seat somewhere along the theater’s midriff. Not too close to the screen nor too far away; safe enough to the exits and a good distance from a group of teenagers who flopped their feet over the row of seats in front of them and fidgeted ever after.

Standing in line for tickets, I earlier had experienced two teens who couldn’t make up their minds which movie they wished to see, what size carton of popcorn, whether buttered or plain, diet or regular soft drink, chocolate or fruit-flavored candy. Eight minutes and $8 later, the silly boy left the concession area with his stash and without looking back at the line his indecision caused; or at the girl who had taken off in an opposite direction after deciding to see a different film after all.

Caught in the generation gap, I couldn’t help but wish they had chosen the basketball tournaments instead of intruding on my day at the movies.

A small popcorn, I said to the man; no butter, no beverage, thank you anyway. “That’ll be $4.87,” he said nonchalantly as I grabbed the counter to steady my balance. That is more than the ticket, I complained. “It’s Orville Redenbacher’s,” he said, handing me the skimpy change.

Waiting for the movie to begin, I tried to calculate the number of popped corn in my carton and how much each kernel cost, give or take the sprinkles of salt. A penny a pop or even more, I figured, while recalling how quickly that could mount up, using the example of worming in Down East flats, when worms – even years ago at 10 cents apiece – could bring $150 per tide. ‘Course that was for 1,500 worms, which brought me back to the question of how many popcorns there were in a small container. And brought my attention to the wiggle-worming going on in front of me.

By the time the public service announcements appeared on the giant screen, there were far fewer popcorns, so I quit tallying, and began eavesdropping on two seniors behind me who were discussing the recent Westminster Kennel Club dog show and how, they opined, the Brittany should have won Best in Show.

“I saw one like that at the vet’s the other day getting pruned,” said the man to his companion, who blurted out laughing, “You mean groomed, not pruned … pruned. Oh, dear.”

“Whatever; the Brittany should have won,” he said as the opening scene from “Chicago” flashed across the screen, and his voice trailed off in a whisper, muted by the crescendo of strident jazz, more jazz and all-that-jazz.

By the end of the opening act in the movie, the youngsters draped over two rows were quiet and still. The oldsters in the audience were the ones fidgeting, swaying and tapping our feet.

Somehow, the musical had melded the two age groups. And at the end of the matinee show, our lifted spirits were somewhere mid-air.