The 64

I taught American History for seven years. I made the base of my instruction from the “famous Man” theory---the leaders, good and bad, shaped history. But I had fallen under the spell of Howard Zinn early on and I built around the timeline of the Famous the “Zinn view” that it was the sweat and blood, the strife and the triumphs of the common man that built this nation.

Well….we’ve lost something. The common man doesn’t count anymore. He simply feeds the Machine with his tax dollars and those inside the “Beltway” blithely play their games, each victory and triumph for their side but not…no, never…for the benefit of the common man. And it’s partially our fault; we, as the common men, have lost our voice, our will to rise up and challenge the nonchalant powerbrokers.

The absorbing selfishness of the iPhone has destroyed the community of the partyline. The DJ on the local radio all request show has vanished replaced with the programed banality of corporate radio. The fear of “strangers” has shut us behind our doors and the community of Fourth of July on the Square has died. The streaming movies to our cloistered dens have killed the drive-in.

Subtlety is not one of my strong points: COMMUNITY IS GONE.

So, while I still have my mind, I want to capture the last days of the community. Admittedly, these memories are mine and are colored accordingly…hopefully not with whitewash but the soft watercolors of fondly remembered times. A few with the harshness of black and white photographs. Pictures of my hometown, Fayetteville, Tennessee, found on the `net flash me back; iPod playlists carefully researched and titled “WEKR”, “WAAY”, and “WLS” awaken memories I had long ago relegated to being “grown-up.”

My memories of times (I have to admit) long past; but I hope you’ll bear with me, gentle reader. And if any of this stirs you, share yours and travel back down the roads of yesterday. I would like this to be a living document and, barring any wanton use of electromagnetic pulse, one that will last.
Let’s start with the basics. Each has its own special place in my growing older….I can’t say that I’ve grown up. Each one are building blocks for who I am at this moment.

The Highway 64 Drive-In

I don’t know the basics-when it opened who owned it-but I remember my history of the place. My first memory is going to see “Dr. No” and from then on, my father was hooked and we saw every James Bond movie at the 64 until we went to the “walk-in” to see Roger Moore’s foppish Bond replace Sean Connery’s hard edged agent (Yes, I know Lazenby was in there too but even at that early age I only had eyes for Diana Rigg in “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”). Now, my mother, god bless her, she had to see every Elvis extravaganza and with every new one, I developed a crush on Presley’s co-star…each lasting only as long as the next Elvis flick. That explains a lot about me: my movie role models were Bond and Elvis. Later on, my father tossed in a spicy dash of Sergio Leone’s Eastwood spaghetti westerns. It’s a wonder I ever developed any appreciation of the reality of male-female relationships.

I remember going on Saturday nights. Dressed in my pajamas and carrying in a giant 24 ounce glass bottle Pepsi and our own skillet-popped popcorn, we were treated to a double feature. During intermission , everyone got to play bingo. I never won but I always got to honk the horn when the voice from the window speaker box asked “Did everybody like that first movie?” Bingo over, the second feature started and I was asleep before the title credits ended.

You could always tell when there was a “good `un” playing at the 64. Cars would stretch from the ticket booth back west over the Norris Creek, past the Hyde-Out. Going east, they lined up past the Co-Op. People took alternating turns into the creek gravel road that led into the drive-in. “Road rage” had not been born yet. The lines were always there for a Bond or Elvis picture; but we never had to wait on the shoulder of 64 because, for those movies, we were always first in line.

The projectionist’s name was Herman, a distant cousin of my paternal grandmother. He would stroll out to our car and talk about the movie. One memorable night, “In Cold Blood” was playing and he informed us that “those guys” in the movie had passed though Tennessee after their bloody night in Kansas. I made damn sure both back doors on our sedan were locked.

We never went to the concession stand unless we ran out of coke. The few times I went, I was fascinated by the comingled smells of popcorn and hot dogs. I loved the posters for future features (an art form in itself) and those same posters were copied on the coming attractions handbill that was given out at the beginning of each month. I’d beg my father to make plans to see any Jerry Lewis picture but to no avail. “Jerry Lewis is nothing without Dean Martin” (he made a point to see all the Dean Martin westerns and the Matt Helm movies). He also had a particular aversion to Phyllis Diller…so we missed a couple of Bob Hope pictures.
There were some swings and a slide for kids right down under the screen. There were coated in so many layers of enamel that they HAD to be safe; the thick coats felt like rubber. Same goes for the metal lawn chairs that lined the front of the concession stand for those customers that just didn’t want to watch the movie in their car and have a little gossip time too. The old speaker boxes, two per pole, were clunky and tinny sounding, and it was a common occurrence for viewers to drive off forgetting they were still tethered to the pole.

Part of the 64 that never changed was the mosquitos. A small creek off to the right provided fertile breeding ground for them. No matter how hot it was in the summer, windows would stay shut tight during the height of their season. During the winter months when the 64 ran on a weekends only schedule, windows stayed up and heaters ran…..some cars ran their defrosters but for an entirely other reason. Yep, those cars tended to sit on the back row. As a kid, I always wondered why anyone would want to park way back there. Even angled up toward the screen by the parking humps, the screen was no bigger than a TV screen from back there.

By 1974, I was still going to the 64 but I was in my own car with my girlfriend. I finally discovered the secret of the “back row” parkers. The movies were still great but I must confess that the plotlines are mixed up with the memories of passion that passed for love in the front seat of a `72 Vega. Time was taking its toll on the 64 and the beginning of the end was the completion of the Thorton Taylor By-pass. The four lane provided a convenient loop around Fayetteville but the road brought with it a fully illuminated intersection parallel to the screen and the Little League fields across Highway 64. Both brought the dread “Glare”—the monster that the 64 couldn’t fight. The 64 put up a valiant fight choosing to run the feature twice. The lights tended not to be doused til nine o’clock ruining the film’s first half; the owner generously rolled the movie again so the audience could see the missing hour.

One hot August night in 1975, I went to the 64. A few cars were scattered through the parking lot; my girlfriend and I pawed over each other as “Get the Fox”(?) a sleazy “erotic” spy thriller unspooled on the screen. The next morning, the Fayetteville Central football team packed up two yellow busses and drove off for training camp. Head manager, I got to ride in Coach Evans van. Passing the 64 on the way out of town, I smiled at the memory of the night before. Little did I know…
Coming back the same way five days later, we rolled past the 64’s sign and just like that, a part of my growing up was gone. End of August, the 64’s marquee read “Closed for Business”. Not closed for the winter; closed for good. Nothing could have prepared me for that. My first bitter taste of growing older.

A domino down….and many more to follow.