Little Steve couldn't stop fidgeting in the fresh leather plush seat of the Theater. It was the first Saturday in June 1964, and his grandmother had taken him to the movies as a reward for passing sixth grade with honors. The theater itself was something to behold—it had spectacles of shiny glitter on the ceiling, and thick crimson curtains framed the massive screen.
"Sit still, little Steven," Grandma Maple whispered, her silver hair perfect despite the summer humidity. She wore her Sunday best—a navy blue dress with a small pearl necklace —even though it was just a movie.
"But Grandma, I'm trying to see," little Steve whispered back. At twelve years old, any trip to the movies was a treat, but with his grandmother, who rarely left her home except for church and groceries.
The lights dimmed and the projector flickered to life. The film was in color—a romantic comedy his grandmother had chosen. Little Steve would have picked the sci-fi picture playing in the theater next door, but he wasn't about to complain.
He sat mesmerized by the film's New York setting—upscale apartments with doormen, fancy restaurants, and beautiful people dressed in stunning clothes. The main character was a bachelor stepping back into the dating scene, only encountering a series of eccentric women.
About halfway through, a scene played where the bachelor met a stunning woman at a mansion cocktail party. She leaned in close to him, her red lips nearly touching his ear.
"Do you mind that I'm a nymphomaniac?" she asked in a breathy voice.
A chorus of soft "oohs" and nervous laughter echoed through the adult audience. Little Steve noticed his grandmother shift uncomfortably in her seat.
Little Steve had an impressive vocabulary for a twelve-year-old—he'd came in fifth place in the county spelling bee that year—but this word was completely foreign to him. It sounded scientific, like something from a biology textbook.
He tugged at his grandmother's sleeve. "Grandma, Grandma," he whispered loudly, "are you a nymphomaniac?"
The. theater seats around us fell silent for a split second. Then the man sitting directly in front of them—a skinny fellow with thinning hair and a mustache and a bowling alley shirt—calmly said.
"Anytime, anywhere sweet like syrup," he said.
Little Steve's grandmother made a loud sigh. Several people nearby burst into poorly suppressed laughter.
"No, no, shhh! Little Steve, no questions," his grandmother hissed, mortified. She clutched her handbag tightly against her chest like a shield.
The laughter spread through nearby rows. Someone a few seats away snorted loudly, which only made others laugh harder.
Little Steve sat back in his seat, confused. He'd clearly said something inappropriate, but he had no idea what. Was "nymphomaniac" a bad word? It didn't sound like the curse words the older boys were saying at the bus stop.
His grandmother stared straight ahead at the back of the skinny man’s head, pretending she couldn't hear the snickering around us. Her lips were pressed into a thin, rigid line.
For the remainder of the movie, little Steve tried to focus on the story, but his mind kept returning to the mysterious word and the strange reaction it attracted. When the credits rolled, his grandmother practically yanked him from his seat and power-walked toward the exit.
“Ms. Maple?” The skinny man yelled out.
"Grandma, who’s t—".
"He’s a Nobody, Steven," she cut him off sharp and loudly as they emerged into the bright afternoon sunshine. Her voice softened when she saw his dejected expression. "How about some ice cream?"
That evening, back at his parents' house, Steve tried asking his father. Dad what’s a nymphomaniac? He choked on his after-dinner brandy and exchanged a mean with his mother.
"Where did you hear that word, son?" his father asked carefully.
"At the movies with Grandma."
His parents look at each other again—this look had a little smirk and with amusement.
"It's a grown-up word," his mother said firmly. "You'll learn about it when you're older."
To Be Continued……..