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As this is an early draft, please excuse typos.

            “Once upon a time” -             When the Maya Creators made the world and the animals, they quickly became disheartened because there was no one around to admire their work.  Therefore, they decided to make Man.  The first prototypes were crude mud people that were too stupid to talk or take care of themselves.  The Creators decided they wanted Man to be able to verbally praise them, so they tried again, this time creating Man out of sticks.  They were slightly smarter, but cruel.  The animals rebelled against the stick men, drowning them in sap until they melded into a new animal - monkeys.

            At last, a mountain cat, a coyote, a crow, and a parrot went to the Creators and suggested that they try making Man from maize in order to give them brains. The Creators mashed up enough corn meal to make four men and four women who were exactly what they always wanted in human beings.  The First Fathers and First Mothers were grateful, intelligent, and too perfect.  The Creators then worried that Man would grow more powerful than them.  They used a mist to make certain Man could not see as clearly, but still believe they were intelligent.

            And that was the start of human’s always thinking they were smart, but really being dumb.

Peoria, Arizona

December 20, 2012

            The ending credits rolled and the Saturday crowd filed from the screening room.  I stayed, waiting for the names and various jobs to finish dancing from the camera lens behind me.  I muttered the information under my breath, wanting to see which names held power.

            “Jerry Banner, human.  Kasey Swartz, human.  Oh, Joe Wentz.”  I felt a little dip in my stomach and said the name a second time to double check.  “Joe Wentz.”  My stomach bottomed out once again and I nodded with reassurance.  “What is your job, Joe?”  I caught his occupation before his name disappeared to the top of the screen.  “Best boy?  You can’t be very powerful or you’d have a better job.”

            A disembodied woman’s voice replied in a hushed tone, “Joe Wentz is an elemental. Earth.”

            As the last of the credits rolled and the pop song faded, I rose out of my seat. My feet stuck to the floor as I walked from the row.  “And he’s working on an apocalyptic picture? Lame.”

            “You’re the one watching it,” the woman’s voice scoffed.

            The voice went silent as I passed a pair of teenagers waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a trash bin and brooms.  “Have a good day,” one with severe acne said to me with the sarcastic cheerfulness typical of a thankless job.  He was new and obviously not too keen on his duties.

            “See you on Tuesday,” the second teenager told me.  I recognized him as one of the higher-ups on the food chain, probably in charge of training the new recruit.

            I grunted at him and kept walking.  As I was almost out the door, I heard the trainer whisper to the pizza face newbie, “That’s the one I was telling you about.  She’s in here about three days a week.  Sometimes she comes and sees three or four movies in a row.  She’s always alone.”

            “She’s kinda hot.  Does she go to our school?” Pizza Face asked hopefully.  I shuddered at the thought before escaping out to the lobby.

            An elderly couple stood near the concession stand and I felt the pit in my stomach once again.  They were watching me. They were Latino, probably someplace in South America.  She was petite and round, not fat, just carried a plumpness in her face and calves, giving her the friendly appearance of a grandma. I almost wanted to ask her for a piece of hard candy. Long silver hair was half pinned in a bun atop her head with a few locks free to rest against her loose fitting yellow dress. 

            The man with her noticed me watching, offering a sharp look. The age showing in his wrinkled face did not affect his imposing posture. He wore brown slacks and a white shirt.  A beaded necklace sat close to his throat. Setting his arm across the woman’s shoulders, they turned away from me.

            “Xmucane and Xpiyacoc,” the woman’s voice explained from my pocket, sensing the old couple’s presence.

            “Yeah, I know.”  I wondered what the pair of Mayan creation gods were doing at a movie theatre in Arizona, but kept my curiosity to myself.

            “You going to go talk to them?” the voice asked as her subtle way of saying, “You should go talk to them.”
            “Nope.  None of my business.  And they were nice enough to leave me alone. I think I’ll respect that decision.”  Pivoting around toward the exit, I could sense the annoyance of the voice and added a quick, “Whatever you have to say, keep it to yourself.  I just want to get Phil and go home.  There’s an ‘Alf’ marathon on tonight on that retro TV channel.”

            “Oh yes, because the cat eating alien puppet is so much more important than finding out why Meso-American gods are hanging out in the same city you live in,” the voice pestered.

            “Hey, hey, cat eating alien puppet with his own talk show.  You’re always saying I should take more stock in contemporary culture.”

            “Alf is not contemporary.”