In the Kitchen Sink

      I stand before my best friend’s sink. We’re 12 and mischievous. She clutches her mother’s pink lighter in one hand; an old grocery list in the other. Her finger flicks down the thumb-wheel sending sparks of blue shooting from inside the windscreen where the wick resides.

     The second roll casts a small glowing flame toward the paper in her hand.  The flames flicker. Anxious- as if they know they’re about to consume something, like eager children awaiting candy on Halloween. The meeting of the two is intense. Hot. Ripples of flames stretch upward toward her fingers clutching the paper. The heat becomes too much and it falls from her grasp into the sink below.

     Flames scream as they meet the water droplets dripping from the faucet into the drain. Plink. Horrific, silent pleas. Plink. Grasping for more. Plink. Sparks spewing, clutching at nothing. The last breath is gone-nothing but black soot remains entangled with the pungent smell of scorched paper. If only I had my camera then. “Let’s do it again,” she smiles.

     We find old coupons scattered on the kitchen table, cut them up and watch the shredded sheets of savings shrivel into black ash. Her mother enters the kitchen in search of her lighter and we freeze. We’re caught: ash stuffed beneath our nails, our skin colored gray and the scent of smoky remains swiveling in the kitchen.

Control

Consider control: the power to enhance or destroy. Control was a group of twigs, organized in a small pile inside a pit, which formed a blanket for the shredded newspapers, old class papers and sheets of graded assignments tucked beneath them. Teddy reached into the pit, rubbed two sticks together and tried to create friction. When that failed, he grabbed a lighter and ignited a piece of newspaper; smoke began to slowly stream skyward.

     A small red ember emerged from the pile and flickers of flames came to life. They flourished, ignited smiles around the circle. Eager anticipation burned in us as we scrambled for the package of marshmallows and chocolates. The flames traveled down the papers, shriveled them until they reached the twigs. I watched as an “A” paper withered into ashes, felt unaffected. Soon, the twigs were engulfed in flames; sent warmth to the shivering bodies around the pit. I stared into the flames, placed my feet against the edge of the pit and was enraptured by the tiny pricks as my feet became warm.

     Conversation was murmured and I lost myself in the breaths of the flames against the twigs; the flames took a breath and retreated beneath the twig, exhaled and engulfed the twig again. Crackled and popped; screamed, begged for more sustenance. The fire continued to dance and I was entranced. I lifted my camera to my eye, adjusted the focus and click. This fleeting fire was captured, all I have left after it finally extinguished.

                                                       ***

     I lifted the camera to my eye again, felt the warmth from the flames slowly fade as I blocked its view. Click. I glanced at the image captured. I stood before a white house, burned black and gray; a strange family huddled together alongside their truck with tear stained faces; men fought the last of the flames that devoured their home.  I watched the flames trail up the sides of the house toward the roof; gaping holes resided where the windows once were that poured oxygen into the charred room.

     Lack of control: a fickle flame flourished into the fire that thrived and pulsed with life; it grew and devoured everything in sight like a hungry teenager home on summer vacation. I watched the mesmerizing feat, clutched my camera and click. Guilt gushed into my veins like a snake’s venom, poisoned as it slithered through my body. It seeped into my mind, left goosebumps across my skin. The hairs on my arm rose like flowers in the early morning searching for the sun. I turned away from the house in search of the tiny cries behind me.

     I hated the flames I enjoyed a week ago when my eyes locked with the youngest child. She was wrapped around the legs of an older sibling, her face contorted in what some could easily mistake as laughing if it wasn’t for the stream of tears lead down her cheeks. When the firefighters brought the flames under control, the ashes settled; the smoke cleared.

Show starts at Dusk

        A hot dog performed flips on a pedestal for a hot dog bun and cars full of adults, teenagers and children; two cups of soda danced with straw canes brandishing the “visit our refreshment stand” label along the bottom of the screen. The ticking of the film echoed in the lot but was soon lost in a sea of white noise along with the casual cricket and airplane looming above as the film finally began.    

        The cars that chose the best speakers were able to remain in their cars. A breeze drifted in from the window with the film’s audio and lingered leaving a slight chill raising the need for a throw blanket. Mosquitos buzzed in on the warmer evenings and children swatted them back out the window.  Other families were huddled around the lesser functioning speakers armed with bug repellent while reclining in lawn chairs. The children’s bodies were often lost in blankets with only their eyes peeking through. Coolers became their seats and were used as foot rests for the parent’s feet.

            Shadows danced across the screen as unruly teens jumped to stick fingers and hands in front of the projection booth window where they were soon shooed away by the concession stand staff while the screen would scoff and roll its eyes. It flourished in the attention but only so long as it was positive attention. Trees surrounded the 20-acre drive in theater creating an atmosphere of being the only ones around for miles despite being nestled in the intersection of State Road 3 and State Road 28 in Muncie, Indiana.

            The Ski-Hi drive-in opened in 1952.  It showcased films from Dr. Bloods Coffin and Murders in the Rue Morgue during its five feature SPOOK-A-THONs to Grease to Twister to the final film The Lion King in 2005.  Halloween was always Ski-Hi’s favorite time of the year because various movie guests would often appear for moviegoer’s enjoyment. Sammy Terry, an acclaimed ghoulish television host who has sent chills down the spines of countless children with only his laugh, made his appearance at Ski-Hi one evening in the early 1990s. This was a momentous occasion for Muncie as Terry was the host of Indianapolis’s WTTV’s Friday night monster movies for several decades. In other words, Sammy Terry (a pun on cemetery) became a celebrity to Muncie and the surrounding area. Ski-Hi cherished the moments when people would flock to its lot in excitement.

            Anne Bales, 8 at the time, made her way into the concession stand along with hundreds of other anxious children to feast their eyes upon Mr. Terry. Conversations buzzed in the seemingly compact space as children one-by-one filed up to the front of the line. His well-known laugh cackled above the crowd and sent a shudder down the wooden planks keeping the concession stand afoot; the ceiling groaned against the weakening of its wooden legs. Anticipation rose in Anne as she finally met him. She left that evening with a photo of herself with Sammy Terry and the “bejesus” scared out of her.  When Terry left the drive in, he quoted his host sign off, “many pleasant nightmares.”

            Ski-Hi didn’t only host special guests, however, the owners had placed playground equipment, specifically a giant swing set, near the large screen in an effort to keep children occupied until the films began. Many children would grow restless waiting for the sun to set; cries were often heard from other cars until the parents took the children to the playground. The screeching from the metal links of the swing reverberated in the drive in creating a feeling of uneasiness, which was only felt by the theater. The cries of the children soon turned to laughter and cries again when they were forced back to their seats when the film began. Relief blanketed Ski-Hi until the film began and an air of anticipation would seep in. Grease was a popular film for the drive in. Tabitha Fultz attended the showing, her first time watching it, with her aunt, uncle, and cousins. They spent much of their evening playing on the equipment and wearing themselves out. They would later return to her aunt and uncle and inevitably fall asleep before the last film.

            Many times the theater would host triple features and Dusk-to-Dawn evenings. It was one of the cheaper forms of entertainment for many decades with $5 per adult and $2 for children under 12. My parents would often tell my brother and me stories about how they didn’t get home until 2 a.m. The drive in was magnificent these evenings. There was a glow about it that resonated in the smiles of the viewers. I remember a night my family attended a triple feature. My dad parked the blazer to where my brother and I were facing the small screen from the back and my parents could watch the large screen from the driver and passenger seats. We would often layer two or three blankets in the back as seating because the trunk would become uncomfortable. We would huddle beneath another blanket, our heads resting on a pile of pillows we brought along with us with snacks surrounding our feet: popcorn, licorice, chips, sodas, and many, many different favorite candies the drive-in offered. It was our favorite entertainment spot.

            When the movies would finally begin, nothing could be heard besides the occasional rustling from the bags, crunching from the harder snacks, and the audio from both films. Our parents were lucky enough to be able to have the speakers, which were louder, and we were given a tiny walkie-talkie radio to tune in to our movie. We never cared though, neither did Ski-Hi, we were just glad to be there as it was satisfied with our being there.

            There were many evenings throughout our childhood we would attend Ski-Hi. A train could almost always be heard howling in the distance around the same time each evening we visited. My brother and I would do a countdown, starting from 10 to 1 and we would restart if the train didn’t sound when we reached 1. There were few times we only had to countdown once. Ski-Hi would always join us in our countdown only in an effort to ineffectively speed the train away. It always despised the tiny interruptions of its attractions.

          Today, the Ski-Hi lot is but a shell of its former self. Weeds have emerged covering the landscape that was once dotted with speaker poles. The large screen, concession stand and projection booth have been gutted of their pricier items like copper wiring. The smaller screen, along with the large screen, has slowly begun to peel away revealing it’s weathered, withered age. Ski-Hi remains on resilient but decrepit legs, as if begging for someone to ease the wounds left from the harsh damages of neglect. It replays the countless films from the beginning to its end for the billionth time as passersby ignore the cries pouring from the drive in. If you stand at the intersection of State Road 3 and State Road 28, you can hear the tiny pleas, sighs, and eventual loss of hope carried from the drive in’s vacant lot.

            There has been talk of renovating the drive in and bringing it back to life during the beginning of 2013. This sparked a string of hope in the drive in; however, the $300,000 project cannot be tackled alone by the current owner of the lot. Till then, the drive in will remain standing, a monument to part of Muncie’s history, allowing the ghosts and spirits of previous generations to return and relive their countless evenings spent at the drive in.