What Movie is This? Part 1

I haven't written lately in part because I've been finding it harder to be positive about life in Lubbock, and really, a list of complaints doesn't make for good reading. I think part of the difficulty is that I'm finding it more and more difficult to figure out what kind of movie I'm in. As a film scholar, I tend to think about life situations in terms of movies, as in "If this were a romantic comedy, that thing that just happened would mean..." Of course, it never actually means that, because life is not a romantic comedy, but it's still a fun game and it's useful to pretend that things make sense and follow genre conventions. A number of recent events have caused me to wonder, which film am I in? Consider this the first in a series.

American Pie/American Beauty/American Psycho

The other day, one of my graduate students came to speak with me about ideas for her final paper. When she arrived at my office, she apologized for not having more material to show me, but her notes had been stolen. She is working on a Master's degree in Education, so she spends much of her time working in the local high schools. It seems that one of her students is a kleptomaniac, and he had stolen all of her things from her desk, including her research notes for my class. When she left the school to come meet me, he was still be interviewed by the police, and was being tight-lipped about the location of the purloined items. I offered my sympathy, and I considered revealing that it was really empathy, but thought that might be overstepping a boundary. Why empathy, you may ask?

Some weeks ago, I arrived home from teaching a night class, and realized I had forgotten my cell phone on campus. I hemmed and hawed about going back to retrieve it, but decided that it wouldn't be smart to spend the night without a cell phone. I ate some dinner, and then put Mollie in the car to head back to campus, as it is mildly safer to have your dog with you. After getting the phone, I stopped by the grocery store for a few things, then headed home. I had been gone for about 40 minutes.

When I went inside, I walked first to the kitchen to put away my groceries, where I noticed that the back door had been smashed in. In a move that reveals my priorities, I ran to my office to see if my computer was still there, and was relieved to see its power light blinking in the darkness. Then, I called the police. The dispatcher asked me if I had checked the house to see if the robber was still there. My feeling at this moment would be well expressed through what cinematographers call a "throw and go" - an effect where you simultaneously move the camera while adjusting the zoom lens to create a feeling of disorientation. It was famously used in Jaws to represent the feeling you might have when you realize that a shark is about to eat everybody. Or, say, that a person who kicks in doors is hiding in your house, in the dark, with you.

I took Mollie and ran outside, then called my neighbours, Ann and Miles. Miles came over to wait for the police with me. When the cops showed up, they had their headlights off, asked me if anyone was supposed to be in the house, then drew their guns and searched the place. Fortunately, the culprit was long gone, and the police asked me to check what had been stolen. As I looked around, I was surprised that seemingly, nothing had been taken. My jewelry boxes were open, but nothing had been removed. Miles suggested that I had probably arrived home seconds after they broke in, so they ran away before taking anything. This sounded like a plausible explanation. The police agreed, and told me to secure my back door. I thought "How? Late-night carpentry?" but they suggested that I just move my fridge in front of the door. Miles helped me with that, and I packed a bag to go spend the night at their house.

The following day, my landlord fixed the door first thing, and I returned home. I thought "Well, this has been a stressful experience, so I'm going to be sure to go to yoga class after I teach today." To be sure I would make it on time, I decided to get my clothing organized. I started to put together my yoga stuff - mat, t-shirt, pants - and then I went to get my sports bra. I opened my dresser, and paused. I thought for a moment "Did I do a bunch of laundry?" Then it dawned on me - the thief had stolen all of my brassieres. All of them. And only them. He (I'm assuming) was very precise on that point.

When faced with a situation like this, the question that comes to mind is "What movie am I in?" since that information will dictate my emotional and practical response. Is it a teen sex comedy in the spirit of American Pie, where I am the target of harmless youthful hijinks? If that's the case, it's stupid, but not terrifying. Or, am I in an independent film in the spirit of American Beauty, where people are acting in obsessive, neurotic ways, but are ultimately only hurting themselves? Or, alternately, am I in American Psycho, and I'm about to find myself on the business end of a chainsaw? Note that there is a whole series of movies that have "Texas" and "Chainsaw" in their titles, so that's a factor to consider re: the local culture.

I reported my discovery to the police, and received a call back from a detective. He asked if there were any "ex-boyfriends we should know about." I thought "You, sir, have not been reading my blog." No, an excess of boyfriends has not been a problem. He asked if any other items were missing, such as shoes or stockings, i.e. things that people have fetishes for. Nope. (Although, I have to say, if someone had taken my shoes, they would find themselves in a vengeance fantasy directed by Quentin Tarantino, and I'd be the one using the chainsaw.) At the end of our conversation, I mentioned an incident that had happened the previous summer, when I was walking Mollie and a creepy guy groped me on the sidewalk (yes, the men of Lubbock are really putting their best foot forward). The detective said it wasn't far-fetched to think that those events might be related. This added credence to the American Psycho interpretation of events, so I moved into Ann and Miles' guest room until my alarm system was installed. I shared my anxieties with Ann, who tried to reassure me that if I were in American Psycho, I would already be dead, so there's nothing to worry about. Oh, in that case, carry on.

One thing the detective suggested is that I ask my neighbours if they had experienced any similar incidents, as people often don't report such things to the police. I didn't really feel like discussing my underwear with the frat boys who live next door, so I told Ginger about it, and I felt confident that she would canvass the neighbourhood in short order. Apparently, she sent Norman over to speak to the boys, who mentioned that another house just a block over had been broken into last Christmas, and all the thieves took was men's underwear and white socks. I found this news reassuring, as it slides the creep-o-meter closer to American Beauty -- we have an area weirdo, but he (again, I'm assuming) is equal-opportunity and only interested in inanimate objects.

The upside of this is that my friend Renee responded to the situation by holding a "bra shower" for me to help restore what had been lost. Most people got me gift cards, but one friend was considerate enough to get me a camouflage-pattern number in my size. I unwrapped it and said "Awesome! Now I'm ready to go hunting!" I suspect that there is also a film genre devoted to women in camo underwear carrying big guns, but I never imagined it would serve as a model for my life experience.