Kids' Movie

by LORNA SLOCOMBE

WHEN I told Miss Lizzie Wheelwright that I’d help her out with the kids’ movie at the YMCA, I simply didn’t know what I was in for. I’d taken a niece to a puppet show once. The children sat in enchanted rows, their faces shining. But this was a community recreation project, put on Saturday morning in the poorest part of the city. The kids paid twelve cents to get in.

There was a terrific mob outside, the building waiting for the doors to open. The kids spotted Miss Wheelwright at once and surged around her.

“Miss, how many funnies?”

“Hey, Miss, how many more minutes?”

Miss Wheelwright didn’t stop to answer, but plowed on through, with me in her wake trying to smile graciously al the children. We went into the large, shabby building and she closed the door (quickly behind us. There was a small lobby with a drinking fountain and a ticket booth. Beyond was the auditorium. I peered in — it was dim and peaceful. Old green window shades kept out the daylight except for a few spectacular cracks.

“Ought to be a sellout today,” Miss Wheelwright said with relish. “They worship Roy Rogers. Now, your job is to take tickets at the door of the auditorium. Everybody wants to sit in the balcony, so that fills up first. See that they don’t bring slingshots or guns. Lollipops and cones are all right. And no lead pipe, of course.”

“No lead pipe,” I repeated automatically.

“They spit from the balcony,” she said, “but there’s nothing you can do about that. Now, one final thing. There’s an emergency bell that rings for the janitor. It’s behind the radiator over there. We’ve never had to use it, and I pride myself we never will. We can manage ‘em.”

“What kind of emergency—” I began, but Miss Wheelwright had bustled off, the green leather on her hat bobbing, to let in the kids. She unbolted the door and jumped for the ticket booth.

The kids rolled in in a great wave. The sharp smell of them filled the building. They converged on the ticket booth in a mob, all ages and sizes, big ones with littler ones attached, girls lugging babies. I heard one small boy yell to a smaller, “Put yer hand in my back pocket and hang on!”

They were all in a terrific hurry to establish themselves in the balcony. They surged up the stairs so fast that the smallest ones being yanked by the hand dangled their feet in mid-air.

With a start I realized a girl was shouting at me. “Miss, gimme a ticket back, I wanna go out for some candy.”

“Can they go out again?” I asked Miss Wheelwright desperately.

“Why, certainly,” she said, “Give her a ticket.”

Soon there was a steady stream of children going both ways, tickets flying in and out of grimy hands.

Suddenly Miss Wheelwright lunged past me in a sort of flying tackle and nabbed a small boy. “Hey, whoa!” she shouted. “What have you got there?”

He shyly got out three eggs.

“Are they rotten?”

“Yes,” he said proudly.

Miss Wheelwright handed them over to me. “All that sort of stuff goes in the office.”

“All that, sort of stuff,” I found myself babbling vaguely.

As Miss Wheelwright walked off, her steps made a strange crunching sound. I beheld a carpet of popcorn, everywhere. The smell of it mingled with the corduroy and the sneakers and the children.

Suddenly I was horrified to see a screaming, struggling mob in one corner of the lobby. Children were diving in and being forcibly catapulted out. A dark, sinister stream trickled from the crowd along the floor. Then I remembered with relief that this was the location of the drinking fountain. The children put their hands in it, they spit gum and cough drops into it, they pushed their friends’ faces in it, they even got their feet in it. It was never turned off for a second.

The line of ticket holders now seemed to be mostly ingoing, and I realized thankfully it was almost time for the picture begin.

One lone little boy was rushing out. “Miss, will you fix my belt?” As he held up two pieces, his pants fell to the floor. He had no underwear.

“It’s my father’s,” he said anxiously. “Can you fix it?”

“If I had a safety pin —”

The screaming in the auditorium suddenly became a roar. I looked around nervously, but it was just the lights beginning to dim.

“Never mind, Miss,” the little boy said, and scrambled away, holding up his pants.

The picture began. Miss Wheelwright came over and hissed, “ Keep an eye on ‘em every minute. One time one of ‘em took all the bolts out of a row of seats. Whole thing collapsed.”

I strained my eyes through the darkness and the racket.

I was worried because I hadn’t found anything to take away from anybody.

Violent screams arose suddenly from one corner of the auditorium. I looked wildly around for Miss Wheelwright, but she wasn’t anywhere. I thought of ringing the emergency bell. Then I decided to find out first what the yelling was about.

“Stay in your seats, children!” I shouted. But then I realized that none of them were leaving their seats anyway. As I edged down a row toward the din a boy said hoarsely, “Hey, Miss, hurry up, I can’t see the pitcha.”

In the corner of the screams I found a struggling little mob. In the center of it was a little girl’s foot caught in the crack of the seat in front. I said to the trapped child, “You’ll have to turn your foot sideways,” but she couldn’t hear because all the kids around were shouting, “Pull it! Pull it!” “Hey, Miss,” said one boy, “any more funnies?” Finally I seized the fat little foot and turned it forcibly sidewards. It disappeared with a pop.

As I went back to my station, a little girl leaned forward to ask, “Say, Miss, are those the bad guys or the good guys?”

I turned to look at the screen, and was trying to figure out who was shooting at whom and why, when another disturbance arose in the balcony. Not screams this time, but a deeper and more ominous shouting, cursing, and the sound of people beginning to run. I started toward the stairs.

But Miss Wheelwright had already been up there, and came down vigorously yanking and shoving a big redheaded boy, about fourteen. “Out you go,” she said firmly. “And stay out.” She shoved him through the outside door and banged it behind him. “Fighting,” she said. “And drinking, I’m afraid.”

Such a violent racket arose outside that we opened the door a crack and peered through. The redhead was now in the center of a crowd of bigger boys, and a lively fist fight was in progress.

Miss Wheelwright calmly shut the door.

“But shouldn’t we—” I glanced toward the emergency bell.

“No,” said Miss Wheelwright.

Just then the outside door burst open, and before Miss Wheelwright could make a move to stop him. the redheaded boy had run past her. He headed for the balcony, yelling, “They’re after me! They’re going to kill me!”

I was rooted with horror. Four or five big boys came rushing in the door. They seemed to be brandishing weapons. Miss Wheelwright planted herself firmly in the way, holding both arms out to stop them, but the boys ran right past her.

Miss Wheelwright held up a hand, dripping with blood, and signaled wildly. “Get the money in the ticket booth,” she yelled. “Here they come again!”

Down the stairs they came — the redhead and the crowd of boys after him. I saw that the weapons were belts wrapped around fists, buckle side out. With knees shaking, I stumbled to the radiator and put my finger on the emergency bell. I gave it a good long ring.

In two minutes peace reigned. The entire balcony had emptied, and the kids from the floor, as many as could, had rushed up to sit in the balcony. It was absolutely quiet except for the Sons of the Pioneers singing, on the screen, “Whaddo you know, it’s morning already.”

Miss Wheelwright, with a handkerchief wrapped around her hand, panted up and said, “Did you get the money?”

“No, I didn’t. I rang the emergency bell.”

“Good heavens!” shouted Miss Wheelwright. “Whatever for?”

The door to the other part of the building opened and a little old man came galloping in. “Was you ladies ringing?” he wheezed. “Never heard that bell before. Thought it was something in the gym. Had to run up four flights of stairs.” He put his hand to his chest and gasped. Please, God, I thought, don’t let him have a heart attack. Not here. Not now.

Suddenly I was aware of a familiar small boy leaping up and down at my knee. “Miss!” he was screaming. “Miss! The pitcha’s over. Can I have my eggs back now?”

I looked helplessly at Miss Wheelwright.

“Well,”she said peevishly, “give him his eggs.”

As I went off to get the eggs, I heard her apologizing to the janitor. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

“This lady’s new here. She made a mistake. Everything’s been perfectly quiet.”