As
a new Star Wars movie opens this week, and the sign for the now-closed Cinema Center in Omaha has reportedly come down for good, I’m reminded of one of the oddest
experiences of my childhood growing up in Omaha, Nebraska: the afternoon I spent
with two jailbirds waiting in line to see Star
Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.
It
was May 21, 1980, and I was a junior at Omaha Central High School, and the
much-anticipated sequel to Star Wars was debuting at the Cinema Center.
At
that point in U.S. history, we as a society were not yet camping out days ahead
of time to be first in line for a big movie. But that day would be a small step
in that direction.
My
plan was relatively simple. I would write a forged note from my Mom excusing
myself from classes after lunch for an orthodontics appointment and then take a
series of city buses to the multiplex and get in line as soon as I could. I
reckoned that I would be close to the first in line if I arrived there by 1
p.m.
I
did confess to my Honors English teacher Mrs. Bernstein that I planned on
carrying out this caper. Not only didn’t she mind, or rat me out, she asked if
I could hold a spot for her and her college-aged daughter.
It
all went as planned, although I was not the first in line. About eight or nine
fellow nerds who liked to call themselves the Red Squadron beat me there. They
were dressed as X-wing fighter pilots, Princess Leia, and so on. This movie
really was a harbinger of things to come.
Content
to be about number nine in line, I began my long wait for the 4:30 matinee screening with nothing but a paperback book to keep me occupied.
I
was returning to where I saw the first Star
Wars as an eighth grader in 1977. Like most kids, I had no inkling that the
phenomenon was coming. I had seen the move poster, but no trailers, and I
hadn’t given the movie much thought. But a kid in my shop class at Lewis and
Clark Junior High had seen the movie on its opening night and was gushing. “You
gotta see this movie,” he kept saying over and over. A fan of science fiction
and comic books at the time, I didn’t take much convincing.
So
a buddy of mine went that weekend. I remember an usher coming up to us to hand
out blue “May The Force Be With You Buttons,” which proves that even the studio
didn’t know what it had on its hands. It felt the need to hand out free
promotional items to get folks to show up to the movie. (I still have that
button.)
I
don’t think I will ever forget the feeling of exhilaration hearing the first
notes of the John Williams-penned theme song, the opening crawl setting up the
story, then the battlecruiser emerging and rolling across the screen in the
opening scene. It was the most memorable moment of my movie-going life. My
friends and I had a competition that summer for bragging rights on how many
times we could see it. I watched it 10 times, at least once on the Indian Hills
Theater Cinerama screen.
I’m
not sure why I couldn’t convince any of my friends to join me on my escapade
three summers later, but there I was alone when a sedan pulled up in the
parking spot next to where I was standing. Out popped two white dudes, probably
in their late 20s, or early 30s, who were much better prepared for the long
wait.
They
had folding lawn chairs and a cooler full of Miller High Lifes in the trunk.
It
didn’t take them long to get set up, placing their folding chairs behind me in
line and in front of their trunk. They filled their plastic cups full of beer
and started to drink.
They
were quite friendly and introduced themselves. I have long since forgotten
their names — let’s call them Joe and Don. Joe was the taller, beefier one with
curly blond hair and matching mustache. Don was about a head shorter with back
hair.
They
offered me a beer. I declined, being a teetotaler, and even if I wasn’t, I’m
not sure I would have drank in broad daylight in a movie theater parking lot at
age 16.
It
wasn’t long after getting set up when Joe said: “This is perfect timing. I saw
the first one right before I went into the joint. And now the second one is out
the day after I get out.”
What?
For
those who didn’t grow up with a steady diet of 1970s police shows, “the joint”
was slang for prison. I was impressed with myself for knowing this “hip” slang,
having watched a lot of Baretta
growing up.
As
the conversation proceeded, I gathered that Don had met Joe in prison.
They
were actually gregarious and otherwise normal appearing guys. I never felt
scared even as they became drunker as the afternoon wore on. Joe was the leader
of the two and the most outgoing. Don was a little quieter.
I
spent the next couple of hours talking with the pair, about what, I don’t
remember very well. But I do recall being very interested in why they went to
prison. I listened carefully to what they said for clues, but I didn’t get any.
At one point when he mentioned jail in passing, I blurted out “What were you in
for?”
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| Photo courtesy of Charles Martens and the Forgotten Omaha Facebook page |
He
completely ignored the question, pretending as if he hadn’t heard it. At that
point, I knew it was a question neither of the pair was ever going to answer. I
never had the impression that they were violent. Since they were in for about
three years, I was guessing theft or robbery. But that was just a theory.
As
they day wore on, they knocked back more and more Millers. The line behind us
also grew longer. And in front as well. The Red Squadron let some of their pals
cut in line, and there was now more than 25 moviegoers in front of me, not the
original eight. This was decades before you could buy a ticket in advance. I
was assured of getting in, but now I wanted a good seat.
My
two new buddies had been talking like we were all going to be sitting together,
but with Mrs. Bernstein and her daughter coming, I was already plotting how to
give these guys the slip.
Suddenly,
there was stirring beyond the plate glass window in the box office. The Red
Squadron went on high alert. By this time Joe and Don were completely
stumbling, slurring and sloppy drunk.
The
line behind us by this time—comprising mostly Dads and their kids—stretched all
the way down the parking lot, then hooked west behind the building. There had
to be more than 200 hundred people that I could see.
Joe
and Don realized that they had to decamp. After putting their folding chairs
away, they both unzipped their flies, pulled out their private parts and began
pissing on the bumper of their own car without making even the slightest effort
to shield themselves from the hundred plus people in line.
Good
God, I thought. Looking away. I was glad Mrs. Bernstein hadn’t shown up yet to
witness that. (I’m not sure how many noticed it, but exposing yourself to a
hundred kids nowadays would certainly get them three years in the “joint.”)
Don,
realizing that he had an unopened bottle of Miller to deal with, lifted the
trunk back up and began repeatedly shoving the bottle into the ice.
The
glass broke, resulting in a long gash on the outside of his hand.
At
that point, I judiciously let the pair go ahead of me in line. A red rivulet of
blood dripped off of Don’s hand. He had no means to staunch the flow, but he
was so inebriated he didn’t seem to care.
Mrs.
Bernstein and her daughter showed up at the nick of time, only a minute before the
door flung open. Everyone began to surge toward the doors. I pretended not to know Joe and Don, who were angling for a
good position to squeeze in the door.
I
suppose it is necessary to mention at this point that Joe was wearing a white
T-shirt. My last image of the two jailbirds is Don repeatedly wiping his bloody
hand on the back on Joe’s white shirt. It was a horror show.
Mrs.
Bernstein, her daughter and I snagged pretty good seats, front and center about
four rows back. I kept slouching hoping my two buddies wouldn’t spot me.
I
never saw them again—fortunately.
Stew Magnuson is the author of three editions of The Last American Highway: A Journey Through Time Down U.S. Route 83. His book The Death of Raymond Yellow Thunder, winner of the 2009 Nebraska nonfiction book of the year award, was
recently named one of the state's 150 most important literary works.
Contact him at stewmag (a) yahoo.com
