DAVID SILVA
"Six children and two adults."
The woman in the ticket booth looked past my parents at my
brothers and sisters and me. Linda and Diana, the second and third
oldest of the kids, were taller than my mom. The oldest, Yvonne, was
smoking.
"You're telling me these girls are under 12?" the woman asked, her
half-lidded expression signaling her incredulity.
My mother nodded in grave earnest.
"Um, do you mind if I see their IDs?"
"Oh, they're much too young to have IDs," Mom replied.
"Uh huh."
My siblings and I held our breaths. If it came down that the girls
had to buy adult tickets, it would mean at least four of us were out
of luck and would be sent home. Finally, the ticket clerk sighed.
"Whatever," she said. "Nineteen dollars, please."
Yvonne stubbed out her cigarette, and we all walked in.
At least one Friday every month when I was little, Mom and Dad
would herd the kids up the four blocks from our home to the
California Theater to catch whatever was showing. It was a big deal
for everyone. Next to picnics in the park or a day at the beach,
movies were the only family entertainment outside the home we could
afford. But as the years passed and movie night grew potentially less
and less affordable, the ticket booth became a kind of fountain of
youth for my mother's children. We would step up to it, and years
would wash away like magic.
By the time my sisters were in high school, our motion picture
entertainment was almost entirely dependent on the kindness,
ambivalence or nearsightedness of the ticket clerk. It was an
embarrassing spectacle, watching Mom song-and-dance our way into the
theater every month. But it certainly wasn't the most embarrassing
aspect of movie night.
Once through the doors, my brother Michael and I made a beeline
for the concession stand.
"Popcorn!" Michael would shout brightly. "Popcorn! Junior Mints!
Coke!"
"Nah! Raisinettes!" I'd shout. "Milk Duds! And Coke!"
It was another example of the eternal optimism of youth. The
moment our mother entered, she yelled at us to quit dreaming and fall
back in line. No way was Mom going to pay three times the retail
price of anything. Instead, she always sneaked a large bag of Brach's
candy into the theater, and in the lobby doled out handfuls to us
that we were expected to munch on throughout the show.
This was the most embarrassing aspect of movie night.
Since the California Theater was one of only two movie houses in
town that showed English-language or non-porn films, it was always
