No Regrets by Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky

up on the seats in front of us, tossing popcorn at the screen, carrying on a running dialogue with the movie, rolling empty beer cans down the aisle. This naturally had the effect of drawing attention our way, and pretty soon one of the ushers was standing over us, flashlight in hand.
    “Gentlemen, you’ll have to keep it down or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
    I laughed, tossed a handful of popcorn in his face.
    “Fuck off, man.”
    The usher scurried away. Poor kid was just trying to do his job, and here we were, a couple of loud-mouthed drunks making his life miserable. On the long list of atonements I’ve made (or should have made) over the years, this one is probably near the bottom. I mean, there was no long-term damage. But still… the kid deserved better.
    He came back a few moments later, again told us to lower our voices or face expulsion. This time I didn’t say a word. Instead I jumped out of my seat, curled my hand into a fist, and clocked the kid right on the jaw.
    “What the hell?” he said, rolling toward the screen. His flashlight cracked against a seat and went dark, but in the flickering shadow of the film I could see his hat turned sideways on his head. And I could see something else.
    The kid was crying.
    He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the lobby, shouting “Somebody call the cops!” as he bolted through the doors at the rear of the theater.
    I looked around the theater. Everyone was staring at us. Then I turned to Gene.
    “What do you think?”
    “I think we should get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I don’t feel like getting arrested tonight.”
    We bolted for the nearest exit door at the front of the theater, adjacent to the screen, and sprinted down an alleyway before heading back to my place, which was only about five blocks away. Budding alcoholic that I was, I was careful to grab the Mad Dog and Colt 45 before we made our exit, which allowed us to spend the remainder of the evening getting loaded in my room. It wasn’t until about an hour later that I realized I was missing something.
    “Can you believe this?” I said to Gene.
    “What?”
    “I left my fucking diploma at the theater.”
    Gene started to laugh—a stupid, amused, drunken cackle.
    “Oh, well. Guess you’re still a dropout, man.”
    Now I was pissed—in more ways than one. Drunk, yeah, but also really angry about having lost my diploma, and about the whole embarrassing situation. I was supposed to be meeting Jeanette the following night, and I’d planned to show her my diploma. Silly as it might sound, I was kind of proud that I’d actually gone back to school and finished the job. And I knew she’d be proud of me for having done it. The diploma was merely a piece of paper, yes, but it represented something. And now I’d lost it.
    Or maybe not.
    “Come on,” I said to Gene. “We’re going back.”
    He looked at me like I was nuts.
    “Back where?”
    “To the theater. I have to find my diploma.”
    “Oh, you gotta be trippin’, man.”
    By the time we got back, the building was dark and the front doors locked. This was one of those elegant old theaters, with heavy, oak-framedoors and brass handles. I pulled at the door for a moment to see if I could pop the lock. No chance. Gene was about to give up, figuring reasonably that we’d used up our allotment of stupid behavior for the day. Just as he began to walk away, however, I spotted a garbage can on the sidewalk. And not one of those cheap plastic kinds, either. A good old-fashioned metal canister, about three and a half feet high, two feet in diameter.
    Perfect…
    I could hear Gene laughing as I heaved the pail through the front door, sending shards of glass in all directions. For some reason there was a delay before the theater’s security alarm kicked in, just enough time for me to sprint into the place and begin rummaging for my diploma. I combed through the seats located in the general vicinity of where we had been