Viva Brighton September 2015 Issue #31

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Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
My partner is going to (not
so) Secret Cinema in London.
It’s The Empire Strikes Back.
Being born in the 80s has relieved
me of fanatical Wookieworship,
and it’s the reason
I’m 80 Galactic Credits better
off and not searching for the
perfect rebel fighter gloves to
go with my faction scarf.
My partner though, was born
in the 70s. ‘If you don’t get the
scarf,’ he explains, ‘then the
other rebels won’t ask you to fight with them and
the whole thing would be pointless.’
I feel like suggesting, at this juncture, pointless is a
fairly accurate description even without the scarf,
but horses for courses. Instead, I posit the theory
that the Galactic Empire* has grown increasingly
infatuated with commercialism and that the
Cantina’s new craft beer fridge should have been
the first warning.
‘The appearance of craft beer at Mos Eisley* is a
good thing, though, because it means the Empire’s
economy is stabilising and people can buy new
face scarves when the purges turn all of the planets
into poisonous wastelands.’
He frowns. He senses a feminist argument in the
Type 1 atmosphere*.
‘There are loads of us going,’ he reminds me,
swiping across to the next page of suede over-theknee
boots.
Except me, I think. Then, unexpectedly, I get that
feeling you get on a Sunday when you’ve been
dreaming about chickens all morning and some
pushy so-and-so who
stole the bartender’s eye
mere seconds before you
is ordering the last of the
chicken roasts.
His fingers hover over
sand-camo ‘knee armour’.
Knee-pads, I translate.
‘Can I look?’
‘No.’ Swipe... swipe.
‘How come?’
‘Because you’re not part of
the Rebel Alliance.’ Well,
isn’t that just the story of my life. I sit back, frown.
He shifts so I have to watch the swiping over his
shoulder. I’ll look at Vanity Fair, I think, glancing at
Taylor Swift in a suit. There’s an article on Botox,
Tinder AND Chelsea Clinton - hours of fun.
But my eyes keep straying back to the screen.
Even though I really, really want to see Taylor’s
photo spread.
‘You should get some trading crystals,’ I say,
pointing.
He ignores me.
On the next page, there are starfighter jumpsuits.
I’m envisioning him, in that, space-cocktail drunk.
‘Do you think,’ I begin casually, ‘that you’ll be
wearing this home?’
He shrugs. He’s moved on to the baseball scores.
My fingers are itching to go back to the Empire’s
superstore. I don’t even like fancy dress. But exclusion
is a powerful, unconscious persuasion.
‘If I come with, what are the chances they’ll let me
be Han Solo?’
*Don’t be silly. Of course I googled this.
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