My folks squandered a lot of loot sending me to college. Studying was the last thing on my mind; first on it was fun.
Weekends provided a target-rich environment for us ruckus-raising fun hunters, but on weeknights the only excuse not to study was provided by the town’s two picture shows.
They had uppity names like Ritz and Bijou, but nobody called them that. We called them One-Stick and Two-Stick … the latter because patrons were obliged to bring two sticks, one to hold up their seat and the other to fight off the rats; the former, a more fashionable establishment, required only one stick … for the rats.
There was another difference. At the Two-Stick, the projectionist swapped reels halfway through the show, requiring the audience to sit in the dark for ten minutes. That, plus the greater abundance of rats, was reason enough to patronize the One-Stick.
Occasionally, however, the Two-Stick offered better entertainment, which happened when it featured Marlon Brando in “One-Eyed Jack,” a movie everyone was dying to see.
Opening night was packed. Even Cecil, our star football player, attended. Cloaked in a pelt of red hair, his 350-pound frame towered six and half feet above size 15-EEE feet. His vocabulary consisted of two words — “eat” and “football.”
Stepping around anyone was not in his genetic makeup. Crouch, slaughter the guy opposite you, return to the huddle, was all he understood, and even that tested his comprehension’s limits.
With countless hot dogs, candy bars, popcorn and gallons of soda, Cecil hunkered down beneath the balcony.
The movie got underway, and we settled into rapt attention. About the time Brando uttered that famous line — “Fella, you really kilt him!” — the first reel ran out, leaving us in the dark.
Since the projector was clamped to the balcony, the projectionist lay the empty tin container, as big as a trashcan lid, on the balcony rim while swapping half one for half two.
On that night, as he reached for the container, he bumped it in the dark, and set in motion one of the most calamitous events of our young lives.
First, we heard an echoing noise like a mighty blow on a Chinese gong — buh-waw-waw-waw-waw-oing — followed by the deep-chested roar of what sounded like a mortally wounded mastodon. The empty container landed squarely on Cecil’s head!
Suddenly, in the Stygian darkness we could barely make out the amorphous silhouette of a lurching, King-Kong troglodyte above a sea of terrified eyes.
Panic-stricken, Cecil was trampling on heads and shoulders as he reacted the only way he knew how: C-H-A-A-R-G-E!
His panic generated widespread pandemonium, and the place became a madhouse melee of collective shrieks and moans, as a maelstrom of horrified humanity clawed its way toward the exits.
Eventually, the One-Stick ran “One-Eyed Jack” and we were able to se the rest of the movie, but for the remainder of our college years, none of us ever forget what we came to refer to as “that Two-Stick Night.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
