Des Moines, IA — You can almost see the blue flicker of the phone screen in the room. Eric Steinberg—39, never married, wearing the usual Midwestern uniform of jeans and an Iowa Hawkeyes hoodie—scrolls through Twitter. The room smells faintly of burnt popcorn. He’s scrolling like everyone else, skimming through the usual mindless digital noise, when he finds it. Musk’s tweet. Something about a theater in California, some small town no one’s ever heard of, canceling a film.
Elon says it’s censorship. Says it’s another blow against free speech, or what’s left of it. It doesn’t really matter what the issue is. Steinberg sees Musk tweet, and he reacts. Doesn’t think. There’s no reflection, just reflex, like a muscle memory. He retweets it with some vague, self-righteous comment, and now he’s on his phone, texting his friends—who he probably hasn’t seen in years, if they even exist anymore—talking about boycotting the Del Oro Theatre in Grass Valley, California. A theater 1,700 miles away that he’s never been to and probably couldn’t point to on a map.
But Steinberg feels connected now. Like he’s part of something bigger. Like he’s fighting some vague war against censorship that’s already lost, if it ever really existed. He tells a local reporter—me—that he’s taking a stand.
“I won’t stand for this kind of censorship,” he says with all the conviction of a man who’s just repeated something he read online. It’s performative, like everything else. He’s miles away from the actual controversy, but in his mind, he’s there, holding the line. “If the Del Oro Theatre thinks they can silence voices I agree with, they’ve got another thing coming. I may be 1,700 miles away, but my absence will be felt.”
Felt by who? The theater manager, Linda Müller, laughs when I ask her about it. “We appreciate his passion,” she says, smiling. It’s that smile you give someone who’s trying way too hard to sound important. “But since he’s never actually bought a ticket here, we’re not sure how his boycott will affect us.” And she’s right, obviously.
The Del Oro Theatre, this old art-deco place in a town that still acts like it’s part of the Gold Rush, canceled a screening of Matt Walsh’s latest disasterpiece, Am I Racist. The title alone feels like a joke, but it’s Walsh, so no one’s laughing. They dropped the film after backlash. Something about the film’s content being divisive. Some are calling it censorship; others are saying it’s common sense.
Elon Musk, always trolling for relevance, jumps in with a tweet. Calls it a blow against free speech. You can picture him at his desk, or on a private jet, firing off these takes like bullets into the void, watching as people like Steinberg rally to his cause. Musk probably doesn’t care if the Del Oro shows Walsh’s film or not. He’s moved on. As I’m writing this, Musk is already tweeting about something else, something even more detached from reality—probably building a hyperloop to Mars or some fantasy like that.
Steinberg, though, clings to the moment. He’s taking to Facebook now, posting about his boycott, sending messages to friends who, if they’re being honest, probably muted him years ago. “Elon is a visionary,” he tells me. “If he sees a problem, then so do I. It’s about principles. Today it’s Del Oro; tomorrow, it could be our local cinema.”
I wonder what Steinberg’s local cinema is like. If he even goes.
In Grass Valley, most people don’t seem to care about the controversy. They’ve moved on too, like everyone else. “Wait, where’s Iowa again?” asks a woman I talk to downtown. “Is that the place with all the corn?” I don’t answer. I’m wondering what Steinberg’s doing right now, what he’s scrolling through.
Some locals, like this guy Tom Schmidt, think the boycott could be a good thing. “Maybe this will start a trend,” Schmidt says, smirking. “If enough people who’ve never heard of us decide to boycott, maybe we’ll finally get famous.”
But for Steinberg, it’s more than that. Or at least he wants it to be. He’s still on his crusade, though it’s unclear who’s paying attention. He tells me he’s got friends all over the country who feel the same way. They’re going to make sure Del Oro pays for what they’ve done. He’s convinced of it. His voice gets intense as he talks like this really means something. But when I look at him, I see a man alone, scrolling through a screen that’s feeding him the illusion of connection.
And at the end of the day, that’s all this is. Elon Musk moves on, Walsh gets his outrage clicks, and Steinberg, like so many others, is left clutching his phone, waiting for the next thing to get angry about. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll find something else, another fight to join from his couch, another cause to champion for a week before it fades into digital dust.
Back at the Del Oro, things continue as usual. Classic films, indie flicks, the occasional blockbuster. They even offer to let Steinberg come see a show if he’s ever in town. “Maybe he can boycott us in person,” Müller says with a laugh. But Steinberg’s not coming. He’s in Des Moines, still waiting for the next tweet to guide him.
