by
Margaret Liddell
In 1954, if you’re under 12 years old, one dime will get you a ticket to the movies in Chillicothe, Ohio. At the Royal Theater, the left side is reserved for Negroes and at the Majestic we have to sit in the balcony.
Whenever I go to the show on Saturdays, I always see Billy Hammond there. He really loves movies about World War II and cowboys and Indians in the Wild West. He and his family live in the house on the corner across the street from us. Billy is a little bit bowlegged, and he walks like a cowboy who strides through the middle of town with his hand on his gun, eager to shoot first. Sometimes, from my front porch, I see Billy running to jump sideways on his bike, pretending it’s a horse and he’s a cowboy. He’s really good at it, never misses his seat.
While I’m sweeping the porch and the brick sidewalk, Billy happens to ride by on his black Schwinn bike. When he sees me, he stops.
"Margaret Ann, you going to the show this afternoon?" he asks as he sits on his bike, swiveling the handlebars from side to side. “That creature movie is on.”
“Uh, I don’t know. I have to see if I can get some money from Mom. You going?”
He rides across the street on his horse that’s a bicycle and as he puts down his kickstand, he yells back, “Yeah I’m going.”
I bang the screen door behind me, put the broom in the kitchen, and plop down on the couch in the front room. Mom is standing at the ironing board, drinking a bottle of Schlitz, the beer that made Milwaukee famous. I wish I could take the Schlitz and throw it out the door or run in the kitchen and pour it down the drain. She can never take just one bottle of beer or shot of whiskey. Her brain craves more.
Mom takes a swig of beer, places the bottle on the windowsill and resumes ironing. She reaches into a large, round galvanized tub and takes out a dampened rolled up piece of cloth. During the week, she cleans houses and, on Saturdays she washes, starches and irons white shirts for white men.
"Mom, can I have money to go to the picture show?"
"Here," she fumbles in her apron pocket and hands me a quarter. “Take Ralph with you.”
Mom always wears an apron. Mom has several of them and they all have different designs, tie in the back, and each has a pocket. She buys the kind that has a bib that slips over her head. She doesn’t have fancy aprons like the ones in magazine advertisements that show elegant, white women wearing a pearl necklace, pearl earrings, and stylish black pumps. Mom’s aprons don’t even match her clothes. The one she’s wearing today has a dark brown border with little brown and green circles all over. She wears her aprons to keep her clothes from getting dirty and messy.
The Royal sits on the corner of Fourth and Paint Streets and it's only about three blocks from our house. The horror movie, The Creature from The Black Lagoon, is playing and the theater is packed. White kids can sit anywhere they want, but I never see them on the side where we sit.
Just as the lights dim, before the movie starts, the boys on the left start throwing popcorn at the kids in the middle and before you know it a popcorn war erupts.
“Ralph,” I jab him with my elbow. I know without even looking at him that he’s ready to join in the excitement of the popcorn thunderstorm.
“Whatcha you doing that for?” He jerks around and faces me.
“You know Mom will get mad if she thinks we’re wasting money.”
Before Ralph gets to toss his handful of popcorn, a lanky, teenage usher with hair the color of silky tassel on an ear of corn rushes down the aisle, shining his flashlight in mischievous eyes.
“Hey, get that light outta here,” an anonymous voice yells.
“You guys stop throwing popcorn or I’ll throw you out!” he hollers back.
After all that buttery popcorn flies back and forth, the floor becomes a sticky mess. Finally, the theater quiets, the director’s name flashes on the screen and we wait in anticipation to experience terror.
The creature is a man-like monster with gills, scales and fins, and he lives in the rainforest of the Amazon. While traveling through the hot, steamy jungle, a scientist and his team discover a web-footed humanoid that lurks under the black murky water of a lagoon. When the creature comes to kidnap the woman he loves, I shield my eyes with my hands and slide down in the red velvet-covered seat. It takes courage for me to barely open one eye and peek out between fingers.
No one stands in the Gill man's way. All the kids love the Black Lagoon movie because it's creepy and scary and suspenseful. The aquatic monster frightens black kids on the left and white kids who fill up the right and middle. When Julie Adams goes swimming and doesn’t realize that the fish-man is in the water with her, choruses of young voices scream in unison.
Fear of the creature doesn't discriminate.
Whenever I go to the show on Saturdays, I always see Billy Hammond there. He really loves movies about World War II and cowboys and Indians in the Wild West. He and his family live in the house on the corner across the street from us. Billy is a little bit bowlegged, and he walks like a cowboy who strides through the middle of town with his hand on his gun, eager to shoot first. Sometimes, from my front porch, I see Billy running to jump sideways on his bike, pretending it’s a horse and he’s a cowboy. He’s really good at it, never misses his seat.
While I’m sweeping the porch and the brick sidewalk, Billy happens to ride by on his black Schwinn bike. When he sees me, he stops.
"Margaret Ann, you going to the show this afternoon?" he asks as he sits on his bike, swiveling the handlebars from side to side. “That creature movie is on.”
“Uh, I don’t know. I have to see if I can get some money from Mom. You going?”
He rides across the street on his horse that’s a bicycle and as he puts down his kickstand, he yells back, “Yeah I’m going.”
I bang the screen door behind me, put the broom in the kitchen, and plop down on the couch in the front room. Mom is standing at the ironing board, drinking a bottle of Schlitz, the beer that made Milwaukee famous. I wish I could take the Schlitz and throw it out the door or run in the kitchen and pour it down the drain. She can never take just one bottle of beer or shot of whiskey. Her brain craves more.
Mom takes a swig of beer, places the bottle on the windowsill and resumes ironing. She reaches into a large, round galvanized tub and takes out a dampened rolled up piece of cloth. During the week, she cleans houses and, on Saturdays she washes, starches and irons white shirts for white men.
"Mom, can I have money to go to the picture show?"
"Here," she fumbles in her apron pocket and hands me a quarter. “Take Ralph with you.”
Mom always wears an apron. Mom has several of them and they all have different designs, tie in the back, and each has a pocket. She buys the kind that has a bib that slips over her head. She doesn’t have fancy aprons like the ones in magazine advertisements that show elegant, white women wearing a pearl necklace, pearl earrings, and stylish black pumps. Mom’s aprons don’t even match her clothes. The one she’s wearing today has a dark brown border with little brown and green circles all over. She wears her aprons to keep her clothes from getting dirty and messy.
The Royal sits on the corner of Fourth and Paint Streets and it's only about three blocks from our house. The horror movie, The Creature from The Black Lagoon, is playing and the theater is packed. White kids can sit anywhere they want, but I never see them on the side where we sit.
Just as the lights dim, before the movie starts, the boys on the left start throwing popcorn at the kids in the middle and before you know it a popcorn war erupts.
“Ralph,” I jab him with my elbow. I know without even looking at him that he’s ready to join in the excitement of the popcorn thunderstorm.
“Whatcha you doing that for?” He jerks around and faces me.
“You know Mom will get mad if she thinks we’re wasting money.”
Before Ralph gets to toss his handful of popcorn, a lanky, teenage usher with hair the color of silky tassel on an ear of corn rushes down the aisle, shining his flashlight in mischievous eyes.
“Hey, get that light outta here,” an anonymous voice yells.
“You guys stop throwing popcorn or I’ll throw you out!” he hollers back.
After all that buttery popcorn flies back and forth, the floor becomes a sticky mess. Finally, the theater quiets, the director’s name flashes on the screen and we wait in anticipation to experience terror.
The creature is a man-like monster with gills, scales and fins, and he lives in the rainforest of the Amazon. While traveling through the hot, steamy jungle, a scientist and his team discover a web-footed humanoid that lurks under the black murky water of a lagoon. When the creature comes to kidnap the woman he loves, I shield my eyes with my hands and slide down in the red velvet-covered seat. It takes courage for me to barely open one eye and peek out between fingers.
No one stands in the Gill man's way. All the kids love the Black Lagoon movie because it's creepy and scary and suspenseful. The aquatic monster frightens black kids on the left and white kids who fill up the right and middle. When Julie Adams goes swimming and doesn’t realize that the fish-man is in the water with her, choruses of young voices scream in unison.
Fear of the creature doesn't discriminate.
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