 When
I was five years old I had yet to see my first motion picture. I
had no idea they even existed. By 1952 our family had yet to buy
a television, that would come later, in 1953, during the coronation
of England’s Queen Elizabeth.
I was being raised by my aunt and grandmother in a brick row home
inside a deteriorating North Philadelphia neighborhood. By then
the neighborhood was beyond checkered with just three-white families
remaining on the 2300 block of North Gratz.
One Saturday morning there was a sudden knock on the front door.
We had few visitors. Grandmother tossed the dishrag into the sink
answering with me hanging onto her apron strings.
A serious-looking black girl, tall and lean stood on the marble
stoop. There was no smile. This was no girl-scout run.
She began, “I’ze takin' the kids to the movies. My momma
sez I should invite your youngin’.”
She spoke in an almost-defiant manner as if she didn’t want
to be there in the first place. “He wanna go? You don’t
hafta worry about nothin'.”
Some older girls and other tykes meandered by the curbside. The
girl glanced back as if she had been challenged to knock on the
white folks’ door.
Grandmom’s Irish, pale-blue eyes fixed on the girl. Grandmom
wanted to hear more. Grandmom asked questions like what was playing.
I paid little mind.
The black girl continued, “It twenty-five-cent for the matinee,
ten cent for goodies, and ten cent for me. . . I'ze make sure I'ze
take decent care of him.”
Grandmom's poker face gave away nothing. Her exchange with the girl
offered no clues, but grandmom’s forehead wasn’t wrinkled,
a clear sign of her not being perplexed . . . evidently the black
girl and grandmom had established some bond despite the girl sounding
terse.
Grandmom Mickles was renowned for possessing communication skills.
As the neighborhood changed, from working-class white to working-class
black, rather shunning than newcomers, she sparked numerous conversations
when she was out front Ajaxing the marble stoop.
She turned and asked a wide-eyed me, “You wanna go to the
movies with these kids?”
Shoots, for the sense of adventure, I would have run off with Charles
Manson, if he would have been around. I eagerly nodded my head up
and down.
My aunt and grandmom had been very protective. I rarely stepped
out the front door especially since the area changed. There was
good reason. There had been a shoot-out at some dope-selling joint
on the corner. A deranged neighbor went berserk; chopped his wife
into bits with a hatchet down in the cellar’s coal bin. He
deposited body parts down sewers on both ends of the block. My uncle’s
shook their heads at what the neighborhood had become, calling it
a jungle, begging grandmom to move, referring to its newer residents
as jungle bunnies.
I wondered about this place called the movies and why grandmom was
going to permit me to go. Maybe grandmom desired some private time
or thought that I should be in store for my first adventure with
other kids. She roughed up my face with a damp, stale-smelling washrag.
I always hated that part. Then she let two quarters escape from
her purse handing them and me over to the girl.
 As
if captured and cuffed, the girl latched onto my hand. In safari
fashion our troupe headed down the block.
The sky was sunny. Gratz Street's residents were out and about.
Fast moving black men soaped up cars. There was that distinct sound
of tin buckets grinding and scraping the cement sidewalk. Honky-tonk
music blared from an open window. A mean-sounding dog threw itself
up against a screen door. The curious checked us out.
There seemed to be a sense of pride imbuing from the girl. As if
she had been the chosen one, entrusted with that rarely seen, little
white jewel who lived at 2356 in the middle of the block. I remained
silent and obedient as did the other boys and girls. We sensed no
real tenderness figuring the big girl was in it, strictly for the
dime.
It would be the first time I’d be seeing just what was around
that particular corner. You see, Gratz Street was a one-way. We
were going against the grain. Beforehand I had traveled off the
block only inside machines, that’s grandmom called them, and
they always headed off in the opposite direction.
The older girls ordered that we stay close as we turned the corner.
I waded into the unknown. Now we were on an avenue much wider. There
were tarp-covered stands. The avenue was active. My little boy's
nose inhaled unusual aromas. A big man, in a bloodstained apron,
scared the Dickens out of me—don’t forget I still had
lingering visions of the chopped-up woman down the block. It just
wasn’t just his grisly appearance; he startled me when he
came to life with a booming voice, “Hogmogs!.. Chitlins! Hogmogs!...
Chitlins! . . .Three for 50 cent! Three for 50 cent!” There
were no other white people on the avenue.
We passed stripped-down cars charred after put to the torch. There
was strewn trash and broken glass. A disturbed, swaying wino blocked
the middle of an intersection. He shouted out curses to no one in
particular. A label-less bottle, half filled, with a pink fluid,
swung from his arm. He took dramatic swigs. Motorists shouted, “Get
out the way, fool!” A red police car pulled up and screeched
its brakes. Two overweight-white cops confronted the drunk.
“Pay no attention to them,” warned the girl, “The
poh-leece is dangerous. Just keep moving.”
Our small group moved mostly unnoticed up Susquehanna Avenue. Each
vignette unfolded new slices of inner-city life. It was all far
out, like that alien bar in the Star Wars saga, but right then I
was years away from knowing about Star Wars.
We came to a larger boulevard called Broad Street. I knew it was
Broad Street because I recognized the steeple atop of Our Lady of
Mercy.
Black teenagers, in crisp-white tee-shirts leaned up against what
were once stately, three-storied, brown stones. The teenagers clowned
with tooth picks protruding off their full liver-colored lips. The
waistlines of their trousers were pulled up, exaggerated in height,
almost chest high, tugged way higher than grandmom ever fitted mine.
Felt fedoras capped them off, each angled on kinky haired heads,
plopped a certain way depending on the wearer’s fashion statement.
They were jiving, acting like Cock Robins, waving just-lit cigarettes,
focusing unsolicited attention upon themselves. Choosing marks,
the boys sprung from house fronts with palms extended, aggressively
engaging potential targets; which was a never-ceasing parade made
up of bent over old ladies to those in suite and tie.
“Loan me dime, motherfucker! Loan me dime!”
The thugs’ shake down had a blatant hiss; the punks being
hip to their power, a devious power to strike fear.
They continued to motherfuck “this,” and motherfuck
“that,” during the continuous quest for ten cents. We
sheepishly passed, either immune from the shake down or skipped
over for fatter targets. While moving on, my eyes stayed with them
as long as they could. Seemed all their mean-sounding sentences
began and ended with that combination of bad words . . .
Whispering into my ear, after sensing how they commanded my attention,
my chaperon cautioned, “You pay no attention to them either,
ya hear. They’re bad and stupid.”
Our group merged with a larger movie-going hoard, made up mostly
of teenage girls and drag-along kids. I had yet to see a white face
other than the two pissed-off cops. Boys, 10, 11 and 12, making
nuisances of themselves, played grab ass and sprinted in kinetic
fashion while zig zagging through the crowd.
Now I remind you, despite the fact I was going to the movies . .
. no one had yet to fill me in on precisely what a “movie"
was . . . I got somewhat of a clue when what I saw the gigantic
card-board, cut-out perched on theater’s marquee . . . The
word, “Kong,” had been mentioned along the way, but
I paid no mind. Heck, I was checking out the world. But right then
I couldn’t keep my eyes off that colossal cut out. My little
boy’s neck craned and stretched as far as it could until we
were well-under the marquee of the theater.
The girl sliced a convincing path through a sea of unruly kids.
We were delivered in front of the ticket booth. Only then, did she
release my hand, after ordering me to hold onto her white-cotton
skirt.
She counted heads. Like a bank teller she tallied the change. Even
after adding the coins, for what had to be the third time, I could
sense her mind was still tallying. The pile of change stayed put,
as did the fat lady in the ticket booth, until the girl signaled
it was OK.
We made a pit stop at the candy counter. There was pushing. I continued
to hold tight to the skirt. Penny-pinching skills had the black
girl scoring the most-est for the least-est. Nobody had a choice.
Not-so-tenderly she slammed a box of gum drops into my hands.
We entered a carpeted tunnel of darkness. I was frightened. The
big girl rushed us down the aisle. Ushers, merely older kids, in
over-sized marooned-colored tunics, with gold trimmed lapels, brandished
flashlights threatening kids to cool it or they’d be thrown
out. The only seats available for our gang were in the front row.
Once seated, with a blank screen, the action was behind me. The
movie house was gigantic, maybe bigger than Our Lady of Mercy. The
Uptown was built during the golden age of film featuring an old-fashioned
opulence with a balcony.
Behind me, I could only make out moving popcorn boxes dancing in
front of where little kids heads should have been. They appeared
as luminous block-heads. Rat like, the kids ferreted into popcorn
boxes, straws slurped, and candy wrappers were torn apart. The chewing
and slurping sounds became a rhapsody in nosh.
A huge curtain was drawn back and loud music began. The screen lit
up and the movie began. At first it was boring, idle talk by adults.
Most of the kids hardly paid attention. The action was in the seats.
Events became interesting when the film’s players entered
deepest, darkest Africa. The movie’s eerie score indicated
something dramatic was about to take place. The peanut gallery piped
down. I slowly plopped gum drops into my mouth.
A blonde, the film’s female lead, with milky-white skin, had
been kidnapped from the white-men’s camp by scary-looking
natives. I began to have a queasy feeling.
In the film, a huge-wooden wall loomed over a native village with
doors just as foreboding, reinforced with heavy chains, like those
used to hoist anchors on ocean liners. The tribesmen forced the
girl behind the doors into the scariest part of the jungle. Then
they strung her up by the wrists to some pole atop a giant rock.
A large brass cymbal swung from ropes. A native with a big hammer
pounded out a series of ominous bongs. The woman, frantic, shrieked
an ear-shattering, never-ending chorus of hopeless screams.
Then, there was a thunderous shaking. A drooling ookie-looking dinosaur
came monstering in. Kids screamed and jumped out of their seats.
Others hid their eyes.
Then came a thumping, deafening and a roar, larger then life, with,
"IT," about to enter main stage... as the film’s
headliner suddenly Kong fronted the silver screen in dramatic fashion.
 King
Kong was absolutely magnificent. He thumped his chest and roared
to the heavens, a roar so ferocious; it sounded way worse than Mrs.
Keanen’s next door, when she hollered at Mr. Keanen for coming
home drunk. That commotion set off another round of kiddy screams.
Kong’s gargantuan presence seeped into every corner of the
screen.
Little doubt in a little kid’s mind made sense that Kong and
the creepy dinosaur were sworn enemies. The script called for them
to settle with one another before dealing with the girl. Kong punctuated
events when he separated the jaws that belonged to that scary lizard,
enforcing his reputation as the undisputed "king of beasts."
Kong flaunted, pounded his chest, and roared reminding all of the
law of that jungle about who was the boss. The theater vibrated.
White men attempted to rescue the girl. Kong wouldn’t have
it. He made quick work of them. After killing many he focused on
his prize. The big ape appeared gah-gah, batty-eyed, and absolutely
fascinated perhaps at his first glace of a dainty, porcelain-skinned
beauty. He removed her restraints and perhaps surprisingly, gently
placed her in his huge-gorilla’s hand. The loud piercing shrieks
of the kids equaled those of the actress. The surviving men stood
helpless as Kong carried the girl away.
Then Kong, while carrying the girl, attacked those huge wooden doors,
that once held him at bay. His gorilla fury turned them into toothpicks,
like the ones planted in the mouths of the wise guys outside on
the corner. There seemed to be a price to pay. Revenge for years
of captivity was in the air. Those who hemmed him would be dealt
with. He crushed straw huts with foot and fist. Native women, with
eyes bugging out, ran for their lives, after they swooped up errant
children.
In my seat I was becoming disoriented. My little mind started to
figure, that maybe, well maybe, when I entered the carpeted tunnel
of the movie house, I could have actually entered deepest-darkest
Africa! Well that’s what five-year-old little Louie began
to assume.
As if adults outside may have asked for directions of the butcher
who sold the hogmogs: “Africa? Yeah, why it’s right
off Broad Street, right through the Uptown’s lobby’s
door; just take that dark tunnel and keep going?"
I became swept away in the not-so real. The main characters were
the only other white people in the entire scenario, besides me.
I could no longer differentiate what was flashing on the screen
and what was going on around me.
By then the action on the screen reflected a kiddie audience in
absolute chaos. From my viewpoint, the village natives and those
hysterically jumping up and down in their seats, merged into one
hybrid of humanity, consisting of both petrified natives and traumatized
movie goers.
To me it was as if King Kong was going to step from the village
and onto the next venue, and surer than shooting, he was going to
plant one of those big-hairy feet into the front row of that theater!
Petrified natives up on the screen were storming towards me. Soon
enough I’d be engulfed in a vortex of native destruction!
More than likely Kong would ransack the movie house, leaving a wake
of twisted bodies and discarded pop-corn boxes. Once out front he’d
create major havoc. He’d just go ahead and rip off the steeple
of Our Lady Of Mercy with one mighty swipe, giving Broad Street
the gorilla show of its life! Lets see if the thugs on the corner
would hit up Kong for a motherfucking dime? . . . He’d move
down the avenue, growling and pummeling. He’d swoop up the
big black man in the blood-stained apron and gobble him up along
with all of his chitlins! He’d be impervious to the bullets
shot off by the fat white cops . . . but for some reason he’d
probably let the wino slide. Soapy Buicks wouldn’t get hosed
down cause the hoser-downers would be running off like crazy!
I had had enough. I dropped my gum drops and bolted towards the
back of theater running as fast as my little legs could take me.
It wasn’t until I hit the lit lobby at a super sonic speed
when I felt a strong tug on the back of my striped-polo shirt. Oh
Lord, it had to be King Kong! . . .
“Whatchu doing,
silly? Where you running off to, you little, fool? It only a movie!”
After some tears ran down my baby face, my chaperon showed the first
hint of compassion. She promised to protect me, said I could sit
on her lap, “No giant gorilla goin’ to get, ya'll, if
I'ze got anything to do with it!”
I reasoned, other than from the screams coming from inside the theater,
all around the lobby was calm, and I figured further, if anybody,
she flashed the grit to stave off that Kong. I believed her with
a shaky confidence.
Despite being scared, I viewed the rest of the film, plopped in
the center of Selma’s safe lap, with a new box of gum drops.
I became engrossed as my little boy’s noggin’ rested
against Selma’s chest. I could smell the recently washed cotton
of her dress. The white men gassed Kong and captured him. I marveled
how the ape was brought to America, across the Atlantic, in inside
a big ship. For the first time I discovered unhatched kernels of
lust as I desired to touch the skin of the sultry actress named,
Faye Wray. And my little boy’s mind mustered a compassion
for the love-sick monkey. I applauded his escape after bad men provoked
him, and I became intrigued how he sought out the blonde girl. I
was mesmerized by the very first dose of special effects and taken
by the enormous contrast provided with a five-story high gorilla,
pitted against a fragile and unprotected cityscape. Kong tore up
Manhattan, derailed the elevated, and showed no quarter, the same
way I envisioned him ripping up Broad Street. He was with no doubt,
“The King of Beasts!”
“New York, New York,
it’s a wonderful town . . .,” but then, it was getting
busted up. Oh, how Kong shimmied up the Empire State Building, effortless
and undaunted, all the while holding on dearly to the absolute love
of his monkey life.
I measured the will of man. I could have predicted Kong would be
done-for, despite his strength, dexterity and what would become
an unquestionable chivalry, a chivalry that showed itself when Kong
placed the girl safely on the building’s ledge before going
to battle against menacing aircraft. A volley of bullets penetrated
his pelt and sent him toppling to his very end. The great one lay
in a heap, men standing over him like conquering heroes, with news
photographers flashing bulbs. All that remained to do was to back
up the truck and lug him off to a Konglike mortuary.
All occurred in a short span of time while providing me with my
very first role model.
As years have passed I’ve realized that Saturday afternoon
had a profound effect on me. Since then, I have been in awe with
the art of film making, but none so far have ever attained the notoriety
of Kong. I now realize Kong and his legacy will live way beyond
me. That’s OK, he deserves to, all greatness should be immortalized
I suppose.
Once back safe at home, there was a twinkle in grandmom’s
Irish eyes, perhaps her sense of humor had her silently chuckling
at the scenario, envisioning me in the midst of all those black
kids during the Kong movie. Perhaps she saw the outing as a time
to test my little boy’s mettle. . . “Whatchathink,”
she inquired?”
“Grandmom, I wanna go again with
Selma!” |
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