The White Man

I am old enough to remember my neighborhood theater, where twenty cents gained me entry. Hot dogs were always rolling on a machine designed to rotate them evenly as they cooked, and the popcorn machine always promised greasy, good, buttered heaven. Orange carbonated sugar water and watered down lemonade dribbled in large dispensers next to the Soda dispensers carrying the Pepsi and the Dr. Pepper. There were always Mike and Ikes, Red Twizzlers, Goobers, Milk Duds, and M&Ms stocked in the glass encasement, which met its customers as soon as the walked in.



There was a smell. Not of the flavors at the concessions counter, but of the strongest disinfectant and industrial air freshener that escaped the rest rooms and lingered on our clothes long after we left the theater. On Saturdays the Globe was always crowded beyond the number of available seats, so we sometimes sat two thick on either side of the two isles that spanned the entire length from the opening to the screen. Sometimes I was early enough to get a seat in front center, close to the screen.



Before each movie, which was always in black and white; after all, this was the late 50s and early 60s, we could always expect the newsreel before Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan or John Wayne, or Elvis. Today, these reels could easily be called American propaganda, but then, they were simply the news. And inevitably, there would be a story of something discovered, presented, conquered, or won by…