Fox Theater

Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko

Saturday matinees at the Fox Theater were better than Rollerama on a hot summer afternoon. 

Brother and I had already seen The Love Bug, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Rascal, and Blackbeard's Ghost. I couldn't wait to see another matinee, even if Brother picked it out. 

Before a matinee, Mom drove us to Shep's Liquor Store on North Chester Avenue in Oildale. She gave us a dollar bill and said to go inside and buy ourselves some movie candy.

Mr. Shep laughed at my ginormous pile. Sweet Tarts, bubble gum, jawbreakers, red licorice, and Jolly Ranches filled my brown paper sack. Brother, hypnotized by naked lady magazines, never made it to the candy row. He just stood there gawking.

"Aren't you getting anything?” I asked. I could see Mom through the liquor store window, waiting in our VW Bug. It was a hundred and five degrees out there. "You better hurry up. Mom's been waiting an awfully long time. She's going to get mad.”

“Whatever,” he replied.

Brother grabbed a hunk of beef jerky from a jar, a box of Lemon Heads, and cinnamon flavored toothpicks. 

It wasn't my fault we took so long picking our candy.

Parked in front of the Fox Theatre was the Buckmobile. Everyone knew the fancy car belonged to Buck Owens, the famous country-western singer. Buck had a weekly television show called "Hee Haw" on Sunday evenings and lived in huge house on Panorama Drive overlooking the oil fields.

The Buckmobile was a long, white Pontiac convertible with Texas Longhorns on the front like a southern gentleman's mustache. Inside the seats were soft Palomino, decorated with Indian chiefs, covered wagons, bucking broncos, and cactus. One of the seats was a leather saddle with silver dollars all over it. I always wondered what Buck Owens was doing at a kiddie matinee. I never saw him, only his car.

Brother and I sat on red velvet seats in the middle of the theater. I took off my flip-flops and put my dirty feet and stubbed toe up on the seat in front of me until a man with a flashlight told me not to. When he left, I put them back and scooted down low. The man was trying his best to keep feral kids from running all over the theater. They were yelling and squealing, chasing each other up and down the isles and in between rows. He never caught the ones hiding behind the big curtains. That man had a thankless job and I felt sorry for him, but I kept my feet up.

As the lights dimmed and the ceiling transformed into a summer night sky of twinkly stars, kids returned to their seats.

A Saturday matinee began with cartoons. Kids laughed so loud when Tom chased Jerry with a giant hammer or Yosemite Sam shot at Bugs Bunny with an elephant gun. Not me. I never thought much about cartoons. Funny papers weren't that funny to me, either. Sunday mornings, when Brother and Dad read the San Francisco Chronicle funny papers, they belly laughed over the ridiculous antics of Beetle Bailey and Li'l Abner. I just wanted them to hurry up so I could have the coloring page.

Our matinee was a science fiction movie called The Lost Continent. I should have known it was a scary movie when I saw that giant octopus on the movie poster outside the theater. But Brother wanted to see it. He said he was too old for kid movies. Mom didn’t care what the movie was. She just liked dropping us off and having time to herself. Did I want to see the movie? It didn't matter much to me. Besides, sitting a dark theater on a scorching summer afternoon was a lot nicer place to be than stuck a single-wide trailer under a swamp cooler vent.

The movie began with thick ocean fog and a sea captain saying funeral words over a spooky coffin. When he finished, someone shoved the coffin overboard, and it splashed into the sea. My heart tumbled inside in chest and my lunch inched up my throat. I'd never seen anything so frightening in my life. As the coffin bobbed off into the fog, all I could think about was the poor dead person lying inside. What if he wasn’t really dead, but only sleeping?

It was an horrifying movie. Carnivorous seaweed, a gigantic man-eating octopus, and a toothy sea monster gave me goosebumps on my goosebumps. I couldn't watch when the captain fed a screaming passenger to the sea monster. I quickly left the theater with my mind freshly loaded with nightmares. 

After splashing water on my face in an empty bathroom, I went downstairs and sat on a lobby bench with my bag of candy on my lap.

I ate candy and watched kids go in and out of the theater. Some ran up the staircase to the bathroom. Others stood in line at the refreshment stand, waiting for hot buttered popcorn and a soda pop. 

A toe-head blonde boy dressed in cut-offs and a baby-blue t-shirt came out of the theater door. He looked right at me and smiled, then stood in line for refreshments. I didn't know what to think about his smile. He was older like Brother and had freckles all over his nose and cheeks like me. 

Grandma said my freckles were angel kisses.

It's not easy unwrapping a Jolly Rancher with sticky fingers, but I stuffed it in my mouth with the others. And there I was, a cat-eyed chipmunk with her cheeks stuffed full with fruity candies and watermelon spit.

The boy bought a green foil tube of Flicks chocolate drops. AI aways wanted to get Flicks at the movie theater, but Mom said theater candy was too expensive. That's why we went to Shep’s instead. "We're not doing anything wrong by bringing your own candy as long as you don’t flaunt it," she'd say.

"Are you okay?" the boy asked. He had the bluest eyes. "Don't worry, it's almost over." 

"Are you okay?" the boy asked. 

I'd never seen blue eyes like his before or felt my tummy flutter like it did.

"Don't worry," he said. "The movie is almost over." 

I'd generated so much spit that I was afraid if I spoke, I'd drool down my shirt. The boy smiled again and went back inside the theater. I couldn't help but wonder why he smiled at me or why I cared.

I started gnawing on a whip of red licorice when the theatre door suddenly flew open.

"What in the heck are you doing out here?" Brother said. He only had one volume and that was loud.

"Just sitting here,” I said.

“You’re scared of the movie, aren’t you?" he laughed. "You're such a baby." 

"I'm not a baby,” I protested. “I just had to go to the bathroom, that's all." There was no way Brother could make me go back into that theater to finish watching such a scary movie. I told him I’d go back inside in just a minute, but never did.

Mom picked us up at four o'clock in front of the Fox Theater. The Buckmobile was long gone. 

On the drive home, Brother wouldn't stop babbling about the movie and how exciting he thought it was. He said he couldn't wait to see another science fiction movie because he was too old for Disney. I didn't want to hear another detailed description about floating coffins and sea monsters. Instead, I stuck my head up to the car window to let the wind cool my sweaty face. The only thing I wanted to think about blue eyes and if I'd ever see him again.