In this picture, I'm pretty much the age when a rather unique tradition began. It lasted for probably three or four years until my mother went back to work at night and entrusted all my free hours of youth to my grandmother's supervision. But the spectre of all those wonderful Friday afternoons during those years has stuck with me to this day.
In my hometown of Mount Vernon, New York, you easily and safely could walk anywhere. The downtown shopping district was about ten blocks away from our house. My elementary school was only five blocks away. And, unlike today in this little hamlet, you could walk around at night without being shot in a drug deal gone wrong.
A routine began that was rarely disrupted. The school dismissal bell rang at 3PM and we were paroled for another week. I'd scamper out to find my mother on the school stairs, usually yakking and smoking it up with one of the other "class mothers." We would quickly head down to Fourth Avenue for an early dinner at...
...the Beehive restaurant. I don't remember the hyphen as seen in the ad above. But I can tell you that it did feature my favorite meats and the vegetables were garden fresh. Hey, what am I saying? I'd have the same thing every single week.
Bacon, lettuce, and tomato on rye toast with mayo. To wash it down? A chocolate malted.
I can visualize to this day the inside of that restaurant. In reality, it was nothing more than a coffee shop with nicer furniture. We ate in a booth on the side near the back. Always. That never varied. Most of the time, we had the same waitress. She knew where we were headed afterward so we always pretty much finished our meal by about 430PM. It was that precise a Friday afternoon. After all, we were headed to...
If we were headed to a double feature with cinematic product from either Columbia, MGM, or Paramount, well, we had to hang a left at the corner and head over to...
Those were our weekly choices and either selection was grand. These were movie theaters to be embraced. Opulent palaces that were befitting the stars being illuminated on the big screen.
In those days, we would show up at the movie theater of the week at around 430PM, regardless of what time the picture started. You'd simply walk in. Sometimes, you'd come in and the one movie was just about to end. No big deal, apparently. You'd see the ending, watch the other feature, and then sit through the first movie up until to the point you entered the theater. And, then, Mom would utter...
"This is where we came in."
And we'd leave. Who could possibly fathom anybody doing that today? But, back then on Friday nights, Mom and I did.
In either RKO or Loews (inexplicably pronounced by virtually everybody as "Lowwees), you had three levels of seats available to you. Mom would opt for the loge or the second level, probably because you could smoke there. And, naturally, my mother would. As for me, I was enraptured by the action on the screen.
These were the days before the Motion Picture Rating System, so the only monitors I had were my parents. And they didn't see to care. Or maybe they trusted my sensibilities. One Friday, I can recall seeing some flick about women being beated by the Japanese in a WWII concentration camp. Another week, it was a Biblical epic (my mother's favorite film genre) and a little girl was beheaded. Yet another time, there was some mild but heated bedroom action. I turned to my mother.
"Where are their pajamas?"
The response back was quick and simple.
"When you're older."
Indeed.
At some point during a part of weekly double feature, I'd get fatally bored. And then I would go exploring. The cool thing about the RKO Proctors in Mount Vernon is that they had all these ramps that connected the three levels.
Eventually, there would be my weekly battle with the soda machine. Put in a dime, press your favorite beverage, and then cross your fingers. The cup would come down. No ice. Or maybe no liquid. Or maybe just seltzer. Or maybe just pure soda syrup which would be an open invitation to Cavity Incorporated. You never knew what you would get from that soda machine. But, after all, it was only ten cents.
I'd wander over to the candy counter for my dessert. A box of Bon Bons. Or, in those days, one of my favorite box candies, either Pom Poms or Milk Duds. This would keep me and my teeth busy for the whole second picture.
When I would get tired of searching out all the nooks and crannies of a neighborhood movie theater, I'd always wind up back with my mother who had lit up a second and third cigarette by now. And, with chocolate stuck in my teeth, I'd get mesmerized all over again by whatever was happening on that big screen. I remember very little of anything I saw in those days. But, this was the birth of a movie fan, nonetheless.
We'd hit the ubiquitous point of "where we came in" and off we would go. Sometimes, we'd walk home. If it was cold or wet, the box office would call a taxi at my mom's request. Usually, we were home by 9PM and I was hitting the pillow by 930PM.
But the memories of another special Friday would last a nighttime.
And, obviously, a lifetime.
Dinner last night: Homemade pizza at the home of good friends Larry and Felicia.
1 comment:
Interesting that you still eat a BLT, like you did so often with your mother, or sausage and peppers, which your father cooked.
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