Showdown at the Horror Spectacular

At last, Saturday afternoon arrives. The line of teen-agers and wannabe teens on the sidewalk stretches all the way from the box office window to the end of the block. And kids are still coming.

Fortunately, I am third in line for the Atlas Theatre’s Horror Movie Spectacular. That is enough to irk the kids directly behind me. And they go ballistic when I give cuts to my two younger brothers, Larry and Arty. A freckle-faced boy shoves me. His friend yells, “Back of the line, dudes.” But armed with a growth spurt and the heady pride of a fourteen-year-old, I stare down the shorter whiners. There is no need to say anything, but Larry feels compelled to explain to the kids that we had been taking turns in line since this morning.

It is one-thirty p.m. and the line begins to move. Brimming with excitement, my brothers and I pay for our tickets, skip the concessions, and run into the dimly lit theater. The only two kids in this giant place are in the front row; it’s like we have the Atlas to ourselves. But more kids pour in, so we three grab primo seats: in a row that is a third of the way back, and on the aisle. We have a great view of the screen and the ability to make an easy exit to get candy or take a leak.

Empty seats are all around when a shadowy figure stops in the aisle and glares at us.

“Don’t look at him,” I whisper to my brothers sitting on my right and left.

I see out of the corner of my eye that the figure is that bully at the end of our street. Everybody calls him “Big Bill.” The tough guy is wearing his high school letter jacket. He recently made Arty pay to cross his sidewalk, and threatened to make me suffer the same fate as Tommy Blair. Tommy and his family used to live on our street until they mysteriously disappeared.

“Ahem.”

The figure clears his throat, but we do not look up.

Another voice approaches. “What’s the holdup, Big Bill?”

Bill loudly tells his toady, “Some punks are in our seats.”

Bill reaches into the aisle seat, grabs Larry by the shirt collar, and growls, “I’m gonna count. When I hit three, you three kids better be gone—or else. … One, two…”

“We are not moving!” I hear myself utter as I look straight ahead.

Big Bell comes into our row and sits on my lap. He says, “Did you say something?”

Now I am looking into the back of Big Bill’s neck. But I say loudly, “We are not moving, are we Larry and Arty. … Larry? … Arty?”

Big Bill stands up to let me leave.

I slowly walk back up the aisle to search for Larry and Arty. And hope that I have another growth spurt.