his daddy and the sharecroppers got more’n they can handle this year. Anyhow, the picture show’s gonna start in a minute or two, now git goin’.”
The three of us turned and bolted to the ticket window. Cousin Trek shouted a final instruction. “I’ll be back by nine-thirty. Don’t wander away from the square—y’all hear—I don’t wanna have to look around for y’all!”
There were few things in my life as exciting as a Friday night picture show. The marquee put the titles up in big block letters so they almost shouted. Every picture show, I thought of in these gigantic titles: ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET THE INVISIBLE MAN. On top of that they were showing a serial, RADAR MEN FROM THE MOON, starring Commando Cody. He had this great rocket suit and could fly all over the Earth just by turning on his power and jumping in the air, and flipping the up and down buttons.
Tonight they had a Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam cartoon. You got all this with popcorn, and you could yell and holler as much as you wanted since no grownups were in the way. It was hard for me to believe Farley was no longer interested in watching Commando Cody falling from the sky, unable to get his up-down buttons fixed. Now all he cared about was watching girls and their progression. I guessed that when you got older, life had less meaning for you—although you did get a driver’s license.
The show ran a second time starting at nine-fifteen. And though we wanted to watch it again—Farley and I had watched Red River five times one weekend a couple of years ago—we had to get outside to meet Cousin Trek at the park.
We raced across the street right in front of Mr. Siler, the slowest driver in the entire State of Mississippi. I don’t think he could hurt you, even if he hit you. He never drove more than two miles an hour probably, but if you ran across the street before he passed you, he would honk and yell, “You boys are gonna get killed!” Then he always turned to look at you, nearly running up on the sidewalk in the process.
About twenty other kids had gotten out of the picture show and there was already a roughhouse football game going on in the square. Nobody had brought any kind of a ball to the show, but a bunch of wadded up popcorn boxes were shaped into something you could throw. It worked fine. Most of the kids were in their good clothes, and probably had been told to not get their clothes dirty. If they had, they were just hoping they didn’t fall down and leave evidence of grass stains or ripped knees.
“There’s Mr. Hightower.” Casey pointed.
“Don’t point, Casey,” Taylor told him.
“Cousin Trek and Cousin Carol don’t go for that pointin’ stuff neither, huh?” I asked, knowing the answer. It was funny the way every set of grownups had the same bunch of rules.
“Oh yeah. Pointin’ at people or scratchin’ your behind in public is a major crime,” Taylor said. Casey started scratching his behind like he had lice. We both laughed at him.
“Okay, somebody’s gonna tell on you and you’ll get a switchin’. Wait and see,” Taylor said.
“What’s a’ matter, Casey? Got ants in ya pants?” Earl Hightower, a man who rented from Cousin Trek had been watching from across the street, and walked over.
Renters were men who rented certain pieces of land from farmers, planted their own seed, then kept the difference between what they owed in rent and what the cotton brought at the gin. Mr. Hightower was one of these. He also worked for some of the farmers by the hour or by the pound during picking season. I always heard Cousin Trek say Earl was a hard working fellow. Calling a man hard working was a compliment.
Mr. Hightower didn’t look much older than Farley, but I had been told he was at Guadalcanal in the War, so he had to be a lot older than he looked. In any event we didn’t call him Earl. He was Mister Hightower to us.
“Hope they ain’t them fire ants. You’ll really be in trouble then.” He
The three of us turned and bolted to the ticket window. Cousin Trek shouted a final instruction. “I’ll be back by nine-thirty. Don’t wander away from the square—y’all hear—I don’t wanna have to look around for y’all!”
There were few things in my life as exciting as a Friday night picture show. The marquee put the titles up in big block letters so they almost shouted. Every picture show, I thought of in these gigantic titles: ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET THE INVISIBLE MAN. On top of that they were showing a serial, RADAR MEN FROM THE MOON, starring Commando Cody. He had this great rocket suit and could fly all over the Earth just by turning on his power and jumping in the air, and flipping the up and down buttons.
Tonight they had a Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam cartoon. You got all this with popcorn, and you could yell and holler as much as you wanted since no grownups were in the way. It was hard for me to believe Farley was no longer interested in watching Commando Cody falling from the sky, unable to get his up-down buttons fixed. Now all he cared about was watching girls and their progression. I guessed that when you got older, life had less meaning for you—although you did get a driver’s license.
The show ran a second time starting at nine-fifteen. And though we wanted to watch it again—Farley and I had watched Red River five times one weekend a couple of years ago—we had to get outside to meet Cousin Trek at the park.
We raced across the street right in front of Mr. Siler, the slowest driver in the entire State of Mississippi. I don’t think he could hurt you, even if he hit you. He never drove more than two miles an hour probably, but if you ran across the street before he passed you, he would honk and yell, “You boys are gonna get killed!” Then he always turned to look at you, nearly running up on the sidewalk in the process.
About twenty other kids had gotten out of the picture show and there was already a roughhouse football game going on in the square. Nobody had brought any kind of a ball to the show, but a bunch of wadded up popcorn boxes were shaped into something you could throw. It worked fine. Most of the kids were in their good clothes, and probably had been told to not get their clothes dirty. If they had, they were just hoping they didn’t fall down and leave evidence of grass stains or ripped knees.
“There’s Mr. Hightower.” Casey pointed.
“Don’t point, Casey,” Taylor told him.
“Cousin Trek and Cousin Carol don’t go for that pointin’ stuff neither, huh?” I asked, knowing the answer. It was funny the way every set of grownups had the same bunch of rules.
“Oh yeah. Pointin’ at people or scratchin’ your behind in public is a major crime,” Taylor said. Casey started scratching his behind like he had lice. We both laughed at him.
“Okay, somebody’s gonna tell on you and you’ll get a switchin’. Wait and see,” Taylor said.
“What’s a’ matter, Casey? Got ants in ya pants?” Earl Hightower, a man who rented from Cousin Trek had been watching from across the street, and walked over.
Renters were men who rented certain pieces of land from farmers, planted their own seed, then kept the difference between what they owed in rent and what the cotton brought at the gin. Mr. Hightower was one of these. He also worked for some of the farmers by the hour or by the pound during picking season. I always heard Cousin Trek say Earl was a hard working fellow. Calling a man hard working was a compliment.
Mr. Hightower didn’t look much older than Farley, but I had been told he was at Guadalcanal in the War, so he had to be a lot older than he looked. In any event we didn’t call him Earl. He was Mister Hightower to us.
“Hope they ain’t them fire ants. You’ll really be in trouble then.” He
Similar Books
