My friend Henry and I crouched in the back of my father’s station wagon. We were waiting for him to come out of Woodward’s and drive us to the Cascade theatre. All we could see from the back window was a row of cars in the Woodward’s parking lot, splattered with rain beneath a leaden sky.
My mother was out of town visiting Gramps, and Dad had promised to give Henry and me a ride to the weekend double bill, Village of the Giants and Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors. The problem was, the show began at seven o’clock, and even though Henry and I were ten years old and not adept at estimating time, we knew that Dad was taking way longer than he said he would.
Neither of us had a watch, so with some difficulty we rolled the creaky window down a crack and yelled, “Do you know what time it is?” to people passing by.
No one stopped to answer. Men in overcoats glanced at us with narrowed eyes, and women with umbrellas walked past without looking.
“No one answers because we’re kids,” Henry observed.
“Do you know what time it is?” I shouted to a man going by before he got out of earshot.
He stopped short and pressed his face against the car window. He had a tattoo on his splotchy red nose—a crisscross, in that navy blue colour one readily associates with tattoos.
He took half a step back from the window, looked at his watch and said, “It’s half past six.” Then he tipped his hat—he was wearing a Mac, the type of which I’d seen many times in British movies—and went off with a bounce in his step.
“That guy sure was nice,” said Henry. “He took the time to stop and look us right in the eye and tell us the time.”
Roundabout then the driver door opened and Dad wedged in behind the wheel carrying a bag of tools and whatnot.
“I guess you want to go to that darned show,” he said as he started the engine.
When he pulled up in front of the Cascade theatre, Dad hesitated a moment and then got out and put his bag of tools in the trunk. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
Dad hated horror films.
“Darned if I don’t miss your mother,” he added.
I sat between Dad and Henry in the theatre. About halfway through Village of the Giants, Henry and I heard snoring sounds.
“Do you know your dad’s asleep?” Henry whispered, somewhat fiercely.
Yeah, I knew.
Some kids around us snickered. I was getting fidgety and so was Henry. He whispered, “Let’s go to my place and play your Beatles records. I don’t feel so hot anyway.”
I tapped Dad’s shoulder. “Can you drive us to Henry’s? We want to leave.”
Dad got up slowly and we all filed out the exit. There was so much activity and noise in the Cascade on Saturday nights that no one paid attention if you left early.
When Dad pulled up in front of Henry’s place, Henry’s big sister Ivy was gazing out the picture window in their living room. The house was mostly dark inside.
“Ivy’s lovesick,” explained Henry. Then he mouthed the words, “Is your dad coming in here, too?”
“You be home in an hour,” said Dad as he drove off.
The first record Henry and I played was “I Call Your Name.” As it faded out, Ivy said, “Can you play that again? It reminds me of a boy at school called Chris.
“When I hear it,” she continued, “I think of Chris in his squall jacket with one foot on the stool in chemistry class, and the teacher saying, ‘Christopher, you put that foot down. Someone has to sit there,’ and Chris saying, ‘Rip off, Mr. Ross,’ although he kind of whispered it and I don’t think Mr. Ross heard.”
“You’re talking all through the song,” grumbled Henry.
“Well, the next song is your choice then,” Ivy said. “We’ll all take turns.”
Henry played “Misery,” and I was so anxious to play “You Can’t Do That” I thought I’d jump out of my skin. I didn’t yet know how quickly an hour goes by when togetherness and music are in the air.
