“I can’t wait!” Biff squeals for the hundredth time. We’re walking down the main street towards the little town theater, its outdoor ticket booth filled with Spongebob figures and imagery. I’ve visited this theater more than any other in my life, but this is the first time I’ve seen it with painted doors and knick-knacks in the classic glass ticket booth. “I’ve heard it’s going to be way scarier than the first movie. Oh hey, it’s Spongebob, Mom.”

“Yup.”

“That’s for little kids. We’re seeing a truly, mature, film.” Biff whips the door open and waddle-races his way up the sloping floor towards the counter.

I stand inside the doorway a moment, watch him. Smell the popcorn and pretzel cheese embedded in the old red carpet and walls.

And I see new decorations on the walls, too. Painted caricatures like Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne. But the concession stand’s the same—a rickety wooden structure big enough for a popcorn machine, a few rows of candy, a fridge with soda, and a little toaster for pretzels. No flashing lights or screens advertising deals. Even the sign above the stand requires those little plastic letters you slide into the slats.

“Two tickets for Five Nights at Freddy’s 2, please.”

It’s not my first choice of film. Or my tenth.

But then, I saw 1993’s Super Mario Bros. in this theater, and surely this choice could NOT be worse than that.

Besides, when you have an Autistic kid who loves ONE thing, you do what you can to celebrate that one thing with him.

The key is to make some plans around that idea. I couldn’t just “go to the movies” with my Autistic son. The nearest theater to us is a megaplex with ticket prices equal to a week’s worth of gas. When I was in college, I loved hitting such a theater: the big chandelier over the self-playing grand piano, all the cool displays for coming features, the restaurants where you could buy a piece of pie to tie you over between movies. But the last time Biff was in such a space was when Bo took him to see the re-release of Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and Biff could not sit still. He kept walking the aisles or leaving the theater altogether to explore. Megaplexes are sensory overloads, and how can a child enjoy the thing he loves when he’s overstimulated?

I walk Biff past the concession stand so he sees this theater only has three screens: a big one for Zooptopia 2, a tiny one for Wicked for Good, and a medium one for FNAF 2. There’s nowhere else to go besides the bathroom. Nothing else to explore. Biff nods and zips back over to the medium theater. We’re early enough that he has his choice of seats. Where to go with a hundred seats?

Growing up, I was trained to always pick the middle seat in the middle back for the best view of the screen, so that’s where I point.

So of course Biff plunks himself down in the very back corner seat by the door with the full garbage can behind him. One of the wall lamps shines above his head, and I realize that lamp will never go dark. “This won’t be a dark spot, Biff, it won’t be very spooky.”

“It’s perfect for my notes!” he says, and pulls out his “doodle book.” Biff has a shelf of notebooks at home filled with drawings and statistics about different FNAF characters. “I’ve got to write EV-ER-EE-THING down!”

It’s not my first choice of a seat. Or my tenth.

But Biff’s found a spot where he’s comfortable. Where he knows the way out if he needs the bathroom. Where there’s a light so he can write and draw without bothering anyone else.

And no one else does sit near us, the other couples and families filling the middle-of-the-theater seats instead. Which is for the best, because…

“That’s the Freddy from Pizza Sim! That’s the first iteration of Chica. Oh there’s Cupcake! Oh my gosh they had Shadow Bonnie for a millisecond.”

“Biff, you can’t talk in a theater.” I give up whispering this after an hour. He’s not loud, which is good, but he cannot stop himself. He is so excited by everything he sees he must name it all. Were we in a busy megaplex, we’d have had some (understandably) angry patrons leering at us or complaining to ushers about us. But in a mom-and-pop theater that’s never full, I realize that Biff can safely let out his excitement in his own space in his own way.

Only when the mid-credit sequence ends does Biff raise his voice. “Oh. My. GOSH they’re gonna do Fazbear Frights! That’s going to be EPIC!” I see a few other patrons smile our way as they walk behind us for the exit. Did they hear him the whole time? If they did, they didn’t complain. And maybe seeing that beaming smile on Biff’s face showed that, you know, it’s nice when a kid is excited about something.

Biff walks alongside me now as we leave the theater, his gait a bit staggered. Holding onto that much excitement for that long would drain anyone, and Biff looks ready to sleep on the way home. The marquis lights shine in his dreamy eyes as he looks up again at his movie’s title. “That was epic, Mom.”

It’s not my definition of epic. But we’ve completed a successful adventure that celebrates something no one else in his world loves like he does. His joy’s too infectious to say anything but, “It sure was.”

~*~

Happy New Year, my fellow creatives! I’ve been catching up on some writing and family time during my hiatus, and now I’m ready to get back into the groove. Stay tuned for Story Empire highlights, indie author interviews, storytelling music, writer problems, and more. Here’s to plenty of story-adventures galore in 2026. x

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!