It really wasn't the first movie Jamie had ever seen. They always got that wrong in the forums and click-bait articles. He'd known what a movie was before he saw Bicentennial Man. Of course he had.

The thing that made this movie so special though was that, while Jamie had been down in that bunker for those nineteen years, it was the only one he had.

The VCR was simple enough to work out, and once he got the movie going, he found he never had much need to mess around with it again. After all, it wasn't as though he had another one to swap it out with.

Oh, it had been so mesmerizing that first time. Jamie looked back on the experience often, knowing he'd been too young for it. If only he'd waited a few years, even if just so the marvel of that initial viewing could be fresher in his memory.

He remembered sitting up all night thinking about it afterward. The next day, he’d bound out of bed, desperate to watch it again. No sooner did the credits start rolling up the screen than Jamie rewound it once more and watched it a third time. By the end of the day, Jamie had watched Bicentennial Man five times in all. Early the next morning, he couldn't wait to watch it again.

There did eventually come a day when Jamie found he didn't want to watch the movie anymore but was compelled by some force within him, or maybe by the little black box itself pulling his finger to the play button. He felt like he had to watch it, not because there was nothing else to do or even because he wanted to, but simply because he had to.

When they dug him out of the capsule, Jamie took his VCR player under his arm and set out into the world. At the first safe place he found, he hooked it up to the nearest television and watched the movie again. Afterward, he felt much more at ease and prepared to take stock of the situation.

It was quickly apparent that outside of the bunker, Bicentennial Man was far from the only movie to exist. There were so many more, in fact, that when Jamie brought up Bicentennial Man in conversation, many people didn't seem to remember it.

"Bicentennial Man?" They'd say, frowning. "Oh yeah, yeah. Robin Williams, right?"

Jamie had read the white columns of names that crawled up the black screen at the end of the film and was proud that he had most of them memorized down to the Art Department. Robin Williams, which appeared at the very start of the list, was certainly one he recognized.

Jamie was sometimes surprised when he asked people how many times they'd watched Bicentennial Man and they said things like "once or twice." Then there were those who hadn't seen it at all. A few times, before he met Lydia the journalist, Jamie would invite people back to his apartment to watch it with him. Most would decline, and the ones who accepted seemed oddly distracted and didn't pay proper attention despite Jamie's polite warnings of the pivotal parts coming up.

One man did watch it with him all the way through, although he didn't seem particularly invested and wasn't up for discussing it after. Jamie suspected that he was meditating on what he'd just seen. Jamie didn't get frustrated but reminded himself that it had taken him several viewings to truly understand and appreciate the movie. Even now, he felt like he could pull something new out of it if he tried.

When the movie ended and all the white names had climbed up and out of sight and the screen blinked to that electric blue, Jamie asked the man if he needed to use the restroom before they watched it again or if he was ready now.

The man turned slowly to him, gaunt head wobbling on a skinny neck. "You got any food?" He asked Jamie.

"Oh, no. I don't have any food," Jamie replied.

The man nodded and stood up, but instead of going to the restroom, he left through the front door. From the couch, Jamie listened to the creaking of footsteps descending the stairs, followed by the whine of rusty springs as the main door to the apartment building opened then shut.