The front porch of my childhood home wasn’t a porch at all;
more like a stoop or just a step. Concrete, about eight inches high, it
separated the front yard from the front door. To everyone else it was just “the
front step,” to me it was much more. It was where I perched my bottom on the
cold concrete and waited. At first, I didn’t know what I was waiting for, only
that I didn’t have it.
I sat on the front stoop and watched cars drive by,
restricted from going any further away from the familiar confines of my home.
As I grew older, I sat and waited for friends to come over to play or for
parents to visit on “their day.” Hundreds and hundreds of days came and went,
with visits and later with disappointments when the clock ticked away the
minutes, then hours until I could no longer deny that no car would pull into
the driveway; no parent would swoop in and take me away. On that stoop I
dreamed and I waited. What was I waiting for? I waited for my chance to escape.
With an overwhelming sense of understanding, beyond my young
years, I knew I didn’t belong. I didn’t fit into the life I’d been born. I only existed; floating between the other
lives that continued on around me. Born to a mother who couldn’t love my father
she married another who gave me his name. Parents and stepparents drifted in
and out of my life; so much so that I lost track of their names and faces.
Nothing was real, only the cold realization growing inside of me of an unknown
desire to escape.
My pursuit for escape took a dramatic turn in the early
1970s. Escape encompassed my desire to disappear; disappear from my family, my
school, but most of all, from my life. Unsure of how to fulfill my desire, I
searched for a solution to what I envisioned as my problem.
It didn’t take too long to discover the key. It appeared,
almost as if by magic. Eager, excited,
and full of anticipation, I watched it take shape. For many months, from the
window of my school bus, I kept an eye on the builders as they moved concrete
blocks around and poured cement. First the foundation, then the walls, and
finally a roof appeared as if right before my eyes. Large glass doors and plate
glass windows gave the building a wide, gaping, friendly look that seem to say,
“come in, I’m here for you.”
The two small windows from which tickets were sold balanced
the smiling face. Unblinking, they beckoned to me, “come in, I’m here for
you.” I knew it was meant for me.
Opening day arrived. I paced, checking the time every few
minutes until I could find an excuse plausible enough to satisfy the adults in
my life. Rushing to the door, I reigned in my excitement, certain that if my
joy were detected, it would be taken away.
As casual as I could, I opened the front door, stepped onto
the front stoop, and closed the door behind me. Tense, my spine stretched
tight, waiting for any noise from inside to call me back. Nervous, I took the
first tentative step off the stoop, slowly at first then gaining in speed as I
covered more ground across the lawn. Out of the driveway and finally on the
road, I could start to relax. I was on my way.
I walked the two miles from the house with the front stoop
to the first walk-in movie theater in our town. The two miles seemed
insurmountable, although, with each step, I knew it brought me closer to my destination.
I kicked at gravel along the side of the road and swiped at waist-high weeds
along the ditch. With each kick I wished I were already standing in line for my
ticket. With each swipe I willed myself to already be sitting in my seat.
I spent most of my teenage summers huddled in a soft seat in
the darkened theater staring up at the wide screen. Nearly every weekend you
could find me in the cool, dark shadows, far away from the realities of
divorce, step parents, and becoming a teenager. In the theater I didn’t have to
think; only see.
I absorbed every horror film shown, devouring them over and
over again. I couldn’t get enough of the creepy, campy horror films of the
early 1970s. No matter that I had nightmares every night. I was addicted. They
were my anti-thesis. I endured life, knowing the dark theater with its visual
trips to far away places would comfort me in times of need.
The characters in the movies became an extension of my
identity. In observing their evil deeds I could manifest my inaction through
them. I watched a young boy train rats to attack people in Willard and
then watched Ben do the same. Not truly understanding the significance,
I pretended that those in my life who hurt me would end up in the same
predicament. They would pay for their misdeeds.
Trainable animals gave way to intelligent vehicles. My
appetite for horror was voracious. Just like the gasoline truck in Duel,
I plowed my way through more and more films.
It was when I first saw Carrie, that I understood my reasons for
watching these shocking shows. Here was someone that dispensed justice to those
who harmed her. I silently rooted for Carrie while those in the theater
around me were frightened.
My life took on a new twist – graduation. I found a new
escape from that small house with the small stoop - I lived.
The theater is still there although it no longer shows first
run films. Age has caught up with my once favorite refuge, just as it has
caught up with me. Wrinkles on my face and the gray in my hair mirror the cracks
in the building’s concrete surface as it shines dully in the sun showing pits
and broken cinder blocks.
It’s been a very long time since I sought to escape using
horror films or theaters. Today I write my dreams in journals. I no longer ache
to escape a dreary life, but to embrace its beauty. Every morning I thank God
for having one more day to live. Every evening I thank God for giving me that
day. Life has become valuable. And I am grateful to a small, hometown theater
for rescuing me before I ever got the opportunity to understand that life
truly is precious.
