Not that my experience in private industry was much better. After starting my career with Motorola just as it was beginning a major contraction at the dawn of the broadband internet age, I went to another telecommunications company that struggled to survive in an increasingly competitive technology environment. It was all good experience, but when it ended, most of my technical engineering skills went with it. Now I live in the world of concept and requirements development.
Nearly 17 years into my professional career, I still think that the best job I ever had was working at a rundown movie theater in Prattville, Alabama. From 1987 to 1989, I had the pleasure of working for Carmike Theaters. With my driver's license came the need for cash, and cash was to be had (in small quantities) by getting a job. During the 80's in Alabama, certain industries were exempt from the minimum wage law, meaning that instead of making $3.35 an hour, I only made $2.85 an hour. Working on average 18-22 hours a week, that of course doesn't amount to much. On the other hand, I was paying less than $1 a gallon for a tank of leaded gasoline for my 1971, 8-cylindar, 400cc Chevy Impala with the green interior (did 0 to 60 mph in about a quarter of a tank). Yes, I digress (but I do miss that car).
Working in that movie theater was almost perfect for a high school student. In a small town twin, we would usually get second run movies (movies that had been out for weeks in the premier theaters, which moved to lower tier theaters about 3-4 weeks after first release). I was the projectionist, but also ran concessions and the ticket window as needed. On any given night, we usually only had two employees on hand, besides the manager. Now that I think about it, if memory serves, I was the only male employee for most of my tenure there. The only title I coveted I never received (that of assistant manager), but one of my best friends in high school eventually did not long after I left the summer before college. Memories: fighting with the popcorn machine and the butter oil (trust me, movie theater butter is anything but butter), working behind a counter without a cash register (just a drawer and calculator), navigating close quarters while trying to get fountain drinks with people standing in line waiting for service, not to mention running upstairs to fix films that had a terrible habit of breaking in the middle of the movie. It is amazing now that so many theaters are using digital technology, you hardly ever have a movie break down. But back then, running worn down and brittle film through those old Simplex machines required almost constant vigilance (and more than a few refunds).
The booth was a wonderfully cozy little cave that was simply heaven to me. Staying late on Thursday nights waiting for the final showing to complete so that we could break down departing movies and assemble Friday night's new offerings, I was happy. I don't know how it is now, but back then, films arrived in two canisters, 3 reels each. Most movies would total 5 or 6 reels, depending on the runtime. Splicing the reels together all depended on how well the previous projectionist had packed it. And the splicer, of course, was so often dulled that it became an art form to get a clean cut after aligning the frames. To this day, over 20 years since I last threaded a movie through the projector, I am absolutely convinced that I could properly thread the film through the Simplex, with every loop and sprocket clear as day in my mind's eye. Cleaning the panels, keeping the bulbs spotless and the lens fingerprint free, I remember it all. One of the perks, of course, was the need to preview each movie to ensure that everything was ready to go. I can't tell you how many times I grabbed some popcorn and watched movies from the booth. Somewhere, I have a number of old movie posters from some of the features that passed through.
Once the movies were started, and the concessions trickled down, we had time to squeeze in a little homework, do some inventory, and the sometimes adventurous hourly bathroom check. We also had to police the theaters, knocking people's feet off seats, checking the emergency exits, and largely making sure that mischief was kept at a minimum. Oh, and then there was the weekly sign change. We had these huge clear plastic letter boards that went up on the lighted sign on the theater façade that had to be changed every time we got a new movie or changed our prices. Changing the letters involved a long telescopic pole, with a suction cup on the end. With a gentle slap, you brought the cup down on the letter, picked it up carefully, and inserted the letter into the slotted rows on the sign. One letter at a time, battling the wind, you placed the letters desperately hoping it wouldn't fall to the ground - because it was going to shatter if it did. To release the suction, you pulled on a slender rope cord attached to the cup, which would break the seal. And of course, with kids and teenagers loitering about, you almost always had an audience to watch your every move.
As much as I loved that job, I think what made it so special to me was my manager, Mrs. Peden. Mrs. Peden was a grandmotherly figure, always kind but stern when she had to be. It was a wonderful feeling to know that you had her trust. Our relationship to her was remarkable in many ways, a handful of teenagers talking about life with someone who, although somewhat older than our parents, seemed to enjoy our company. About once or twice a week, she would have one of us run across the street to the TCBY, in a bartered exchange of freshly popped popcorn for frozen yogurt. At Christmas, she always brought in a tree and decorations, and we exchanged gifts. I still have a couple of the gifts she gave me. After I left for college, I didn't have the opportunity to come around too much, but when I did come to town, I would always try to stop by and visit her. I even was able to introduce her to my fiancée (now my wife of almost 16+ years). Mrs. Peden passed away a number of years ago, a thought that still makes me sad. I loved that lady.
Now that I've opened the floodgates of memories, I am stunned by just how much I remember. So many details, down to the tickets, the candy case, the upstairs office, and the video games - I can see it all. You think this post is long now - trust me, I could go on and on. And it seems that memories will be all that remain; if Google's street view is correct, the building that housed the theater is no longer there. I wasn't expecting that, although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But it is depressing. It would be fair to say that a good part of my high school identity was wrapped up in that place - I can hardly think of those days without thinking about the theater. Whatever angst I may have had during those years, that old theater was a refuge. And to this day, if only by the measure of joy, it remains the best job I've ever had.
