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When the chill of winter descended on Caldwell TX, owner Mr. Mattson, would close the Drive-In and its marquee simply read, WE MOVED DOWN TOWN. Everyone in the small town knew from then on until Spring, films would be run in the old single screen Mattsonian Theatre the middle of town. It was known to the locals as the Ratsonian because of, well, you guessed it, it's interior rat population. Walking across the planks in the hang ceiling to get to the projection booth, you could feel your feet crushing pigeon and rat caucasus; a real delight. The Mattsonian Theatre had a standard 4 line marquee that extended over the sidewalk on either side, nothing on the front but the theatre name. As the Mattsonian's only teen projectionist, I had the honor of both running the show and changing the marquee. Old Mr. Mattson was still quite spry for a 90yr old, but a bit of a serious eccentric -- and that's putting it kindly. Really he was quite crazy. For example, at the Drive-in, he would come into the projection booth and while the movie was in progress, would grab the microphone that had a push button on the side that would mute the film soundtrack, and without batting an eyelash, in his wheezy, halting old voice, he would begin to hawk his concession food, which was a spiel that could go on haltingly for as long as 5 minutes, as the film was running!! all the while a cacophony was going on in the field -- headlights flashing, horns honking, and me terrified at the pandamonium. This happened EVERY NIGHT. No matter how much I gently tried to convince him to do it BEFORE the film or during the credits, he wouldn't hear of it, insisting he had to do it DURING the film so it would "catch their attention better," as he put it.
When we moved downtown to the hardtop, in that booth, there was an RCA 45rpm record player. It had a single 45 on it -- "The Yellow Rose of Texas," and it was played so much that the groves were worn so badly they looked white and it would barely track, the needle as worn as the record, skipping multiple times throughout the 3 minute play. When I told Mr. Mattson, that it sounded horrific with scratches louder than the music and could I please play something else or at least just let me turn it over and play the other side (there were no other records in the booth), he just wheezed, "Nope; they only want to hear The Yellow Rose of Texas, in my theatre." And the autoreplay just replayed it over and over, at least 5 or 6 times before the show hit the screen. But I digress...
...back to the marquee and skinny me up on a 12 ft ladder with the old man down below giving instructions as to the placing and spacing of the metal letters on each line. Now these were not the nice plastic Wagner letter that you could slide back and forth across the rods easily; no, there were black, heavy metal letters, the kind that hooked onto the runners. Half of the ones in the big wooden box wouldn't hook on to the wires correctly and you had to try to force them in place. The real kicker was that as I finished each line, the old man would look up and think and think, as if he were solving some unfathomable mystery of the universe, trying to determine how good or bad it look, I was up there shivered in the 40 degree winter wind. Then he'd say, "Nope, you didn't center it -- move the whole thing to the Right. Then down to the next line and same thing -- "Now you made it lopsided again...move the top line back to the Left. Yankee-boy (his nickname for me); can't you see they are not centered?" Of COURSE I couldn't see if they were centered or not, my face is practically plastered against the marquee. He'd make me move all the letters in one line and then decide it didn't look right and he's make me move it BACK AGAIN! That would go on sometimes for at an hour, and finally when he was satisfied, it was move the ladder to do the other side.
The most dreaded admonition was, "Damn, that whole thing looks all wrong; we have to do a reset." Unfortunately this was not a union house and I was not a union projectionist, and I knew it would be a waste of time to quote union rules at him, like the one about that they can't make a projectionist carry film cans and the certainly the one says a projectionist can't change the marquee letters up on a freakin ladder! So one night in the middle of February (I think) when I was again up on that rickety wooden ladder changing those hated metal letters while the joints of my fingers slowly froze solid, old Mr. Mattson yelled up to me, "We gotta reset again, boy." I looked at him below for a few seconds and the decision was instantly made. As I started down that damn ladder, I said in my Brooklyn accent "That aint gonna happen, old man; I'm a projectionist; I quit. " As I walked to my pickup, I looked back up at the marquee; I swear, each line was PERFECTLY centered, proof of my original statement, that he was one crazy old man. And that was the last time I ever had to shift entire lines of marquee letters of any kind.
When we moved downtown to the hardtop, in that booth, there was an RCA 45rpm record player. It had a single 45 on it -- "The Yellow Rose of Texas," and it was played so much that the groves were worn so badly they looked white and it would barely track, the needle as worn as the record, skipping multiple times throughout the 3 minute play. When I told Mr. Mattson, that it sounded horrific with scratches louder than the music and could I please play something else or at least just let me turn it over and play the other side (there were no other records in the booth), he just wheezed, "Nope; they only want to hear The Yellow Rose of Texas, in my theatre." And the autoreplay just replayed it over and over, at least 5 or 6 times before the show hit the screen. But I digress...
...back to the marquee and skinny me up on a 12 ft ladder with the old man down below giving instructions as to the placing and spacing of the metal letters on each line. Now these were not the nice plastic Wagner letter that you could slide back and forth across the rods easily; no, there were black, heavy metal letters, the kind that hooked onto the runners. Half of the ones in the big wooden box wouldn't hook on to the wires correctly and you had to try to force them in place. The real kicker was that as I finished each line, the old man would look up and think and think, as if he were solving some unfathomable mystery of the universe, trying to determine how good or bad it look, I was up there shivered in the 40 degree winter wind. Then he'd say, "Nope, you didn't center it -- move the whole thing to the Right. Then down to the next line and same thing -- "Now you made it lopsided again...move the top line back to the Left. Yankee-boy (his nickname for me); can't you see they are not centered?" Of COURSE I couldn't see if they were centered or not, my face is practically plastered against the marquee. He'd make me move all the letters in one line and then decide it didn't look right and he's make me move it BACK AGAIN! That would go on sometimes for at an hour, and finally when he was satisfied, it was move the ladder to do the other side.
The most dreaded admonition was, "Damn, that whole thing looks all wrong; we have to do a reset." Unfortunately this was not a union house and I was not a union projectionist, and I knew it would be a waste of time to quote union rules at him, like the one about that they can't make a projectionist carry film cans and the certainly the one says a projectionist can't change the marquee letters up on a freakin ladder! So one night in the middle of February (I think) when I was again up on that rickety wooden ladder changing those hated metal letters while the joints of my fingers slowly froze solid, old Mr. Mattson yelled up to me, "We gotta reset again, boy." I looked at him below for a few seconds and the decision was instantly made. As I started down that damn ladder, I said in my Brooklyn accent "That aint gonna happen, old man; I'm a projectionist; I quit. " As I walked to my pickup, I looked back up at the marquee; I swear, each line was PERFECTLY centered, proof of my original statement, that he was one crazy old man. And that was the last time I ever had to shift entire lines of marquee letters of any kind.
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