It was not surprising to Nicole that the majority of the theater was packed to the gills with men. However, F1 (or F1 the Movie) also attracted its fair share of women to the audience, mainly those who were the girlfriends of the boys in attendance, or those who wanted to see Brad Pitt in all of his IMAX glory (though, of course, it has to be said that his true state of IMAX glory would have been as J.D. in Thelma & Louise). As for Nicole, she came for the foolish purposes of “being a cinephile.” This meant, much to her dismay, that she felt obliged to see even the lowest of art in cinema in order to understand and be knowledgeable about its full breadth. And the lowest of art in cinema was nothing if not the blockbuster—though, of course, there were some film enthusiasts who would fight her to the death on that firmly-held belief. She could see where they were coming from. For there was no denying the skill it took to deliver the ultimate in bread-and-circuses spectacle to the masses. The aim of F1 was clearly that.

Unfortunately for Nicole, she could not fully enjoy the spectacle of it as intended thanks to the presence of a quintessential toxic male audience member. One who sat directly behind her. She shouldn’t have been thrown by either of these details: 1) that a toxic male would be the primary demographic at an F1 showing and 2) that he would be most likely to sit in Nicole’s vicinity. That was just the “energy she attracted,” as her mother would probably tell her. That because she despised this sort of person, it was always the kind that gravitated toward her. She supposed she couldn’t argue with such logic at this point in her life, for it explained so much about why she was perennially surrounded by assholes (either that, or it was the undeniable truth that the world was overrun by them). Why she couldn’t shake them at every turn. And, speaking of every turn, long before she got to enjoy the “high-octane,” “just like being there” vibes of the first race of F1 (complete with being soundtracked to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”), the Toxic Male seated behind her—in tiered seating, mind you, which meant no view obstruction—had the audacity to tap her on the shoulder before the lights even went down and command her to take off her hat.

This was, of course, the first instance of Toxic Male indicating his character (or lack thereof) to her. His sense of entitlement. Like he “owned” the space and everyone in it. Particularly women, still treated like second-class citizens wherever they went, but probably especially at a showing of F1. Because honestly, would this man have dared to tell Nicole shit about her hat if she were a man? No. He would have been too afraid. Too fearful of potentially encroaching on the “rights” of some other would-be alpha male to take the risk. But with a “little lady” in front of him to harass, how could he possibly resist the opportunity? The chance to oppress, even if only in the most microaggressive way? The fact that he didn’t so much as give her a chance to take off her hat also said something about his lack of tolerance for a woman doing anything he didn’t “agree with,” let alone breathing.

As for the hat in question, it was a tan Panama with a black band encircled above the brim. An absolute essential to Nicole during the insane heatwave that had overtaken the city in the last week. So insane, in fact, that it seemed to be causing rolling power outages. Maybe that was why the theater opted to go air conditioningless for this screening. Even though half the reason people even went to the movies in the summer was to stay cool on somebody else’s dime.

But because the power grid couldn’t sustain luxury, Nicole was met with yet another issue contributing to her lack of enjoyment of this movie: an audience member who decided that, even though Nicole had placed her bag directly in the seat next to her, this woman (henceforth to be referred to as Stink Bomb) ostensibly felt she needed to be in that seat. Thus, she asked “oh so sweetly” of Nicole, “Would you mind if I sat there, I think this other seat is on the verge of breaking.”

So, of course, how could Nicole say no? In fact, both of these people—these fuckheads—seemed to size Nicole up as the avoidant-of-confrontation type. Meaning they knew that she could be trifled with, stepped all over. Or, to use a phrase more in keeping with F1, ran over. And while Nicole wouldn’t totally have minded this stranger insisting upon sitting next to her (which is an obvious violation of the rules of cinema-going—rules that everyone had thrown out the window sometime around the post-Covid era), it was her sweat-coated stench that caused her to be most offended. A stench that was beyond mere average “sweating-from-the-heat” reasons. It was instead attributable to the sweat of the day plus not showering for several days (or maybe weeks). Thus, the woman’s affronting odor kept wafting in Nicole’s direction every time she adjusted in her seat, which was rather often.

And yet, despite this, it was Nicole who was called out by Toxic Male in the middle of the movie for leaning forward in her seat. Because yes, it was an uncomfortable row of seats in general. Different from the other rows in that it allowed for more leg room as it was “out there” “in the open,” whereas the seats of the “normal rows” were more confined. After all, it was a “vintage” movie theater. An Art Deco edifice that was built in the early 1930s and had (mostly) stood the test of time. Minus the faulty air conditioning and uncomfortable seats. In fact, the tradeoff for having more leg room was that this batch of seats offered decidedly less ass room. Which meant constantly having to adjust. And one of the positions Nicole felt obliged to try was leaning forward in the seat every now and then.

This, evidently, was too much for Toxic Male to bear. To the point where he felt “obliged” to actually tap her on the shoulder—tap her on the shoulder!—and say (with irritated bombast), “Can you lean back in your seat?” Nicole was stunned, utterly gob-smacked by this bravado. In one of those instances where she was so stunned that she stared at him blankly before “just obeying.” Like a good little girl. The good little girl that all men still expected women to be whenever they were asked (a.k.a. commanded) to do something. Again, she knew that this fucko would never dare to make such a “request” of another man. That her gender was the defining attribute that made him think he could speak to and treat her this way. Which, apparently, he could. Because he also knew she would do nothing to “bite back.” ‘Twas the “woman’s way.” To be docile, catering, obsequious. Especially, Toxic Male imagined, if she was the type of woman to see F1. Because, contrary to the potential stereotype that only “butch” (therefore, “masculine” and “forceful”) women would be interested in viewing such a movie, the truth was that the more likely type of woman to go was one who fell into a “tradwife” category. A woman who really just wanted to “spend time with her man” in any accommodating way possible. Nicole was not that woman, yet here she was being typecast as such.

For the entire rest of the movie—the interminable movie—Nicole could feel her face hot with rage more than it was hot from the actual heat. Between this shithead and the stink bomb next to her, it was all she could do to get through this so-called cinematic experience. But the only “experience” she was having was a nightmarish one. Yet maybe it was her own fault for thinking she could go into a movie like this and not be subjected to such outraging clientele. After all, these were the shitkicker fans of the actual racing event more than people who were there to see a movie. And while Formula One might be a “sophisticated affair” from the European side of things, in the U.S., it seemed only to attract the trashiest of enthusiasts. So yes, like a good little girl, Nicole put all the blame on herself for mostly hating the movie. Surely it had nothing to do with the uncouth patrons around her or the propagandist content of the film itself.