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Summertime in the BelgradesContentsfor Printing
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The Rialto Theaterby Don Watson The last jagged edge of spring's cold knifes into our early summer reverie. Weather we might have welcomed in March seems blunt and cruel after prior days of warm afternoon sun. Cars were too hot to enter and The White Dog could not be left in the cab of the green Studebaker pickup when Albert Sproul and I would stop to visit. But now the cool is back and from a farm over the hill the smell of wood smoke drifts into the valley. Milo Brann, just back from Florida, stood tanned and shivering on the corner. "Maine's a good place to be FROM," Milo complained. "It's true," Albert said. "Good if you're traveling. People from away look at you kind of queer when you say you're from Maine. They figure, poor sorry son of a gun, we got to give him all the kindness we can." Although he had never been to Florida, Albert Sproul saw it as a place with tall buildings sinking into a spit of sand that hugged dangerously to sea level. He saw it as a place with big ugly lizards and bugs bigger than a cow's udder. He saw it as a place where people go to die. "Ain't even settled the war with the Seminoles," Albert muttered. We stood on that cold corner on a day in early June when the hopes of a warm yellow sun thumped in our hearts. The shivering Milo, Albert and I huddled in front of a homely yellow fake brick building that squatted sullenly just across the street from the library. "There it is," Albert yelped, waving at the building. "There what is?" "History, memories, girls in tight sweaters on a Saturday afternoon. Sweaty boys with pimples." Albert stretched his arms as if to embrace the tired building. "There she is. The RIALTO!" Albert said rye-al-toe in a long and reverent way that captured our attention. He danced a little jig and from his mouth above his buttoned down Dickie shirt we heard. What d'ya know Joe? And then we saw it as Albert saw it. It was lovely again that old theater like an aging lover in the dim light. The memories rushed back. Garish movie posters set in glass cases. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, the feature film, another film Wednesday, Thursday and Friday and then Saturday, Ah, that delicious day. That day of Abbot and Costello or the Bowery Boys coupled in a day long double feature with Hopalong Cassidy or the Durango kid. Days of serials and cartoons and prevues that lasted from ten in the morning long into the end of the day. Days of Milk Duds and Neccos. Days for a dime. It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Did you know where your children were? Damned right. They were all there. Donkey and Avis Mavis Davis snuggled in the back row. Bikes, old Elgins and Columbias, stacked against the building. Dogs waiting on the library lawn across the street. So, being from Maine's not so bad. It never snowed so hard that the Rialto couldn't open. We walked away the three of us, and over my shoulder I thought I could see the marquee lighted and singing. Children, dimes clutched in their hands, stood in a line that curled around the corner. And the lights shone...Rialto. As we moved away from the corner and into the shadows of Union Street Albert, Milo and I became as one, as we were once when times were more gentle. We sang. Happy trails to you . . . Don Watson, Hallowell resident and observer extraordinaire, is the author of A View from Powderhouse Hill, in which this short story appeared. All rights are reserved by the author. | ||