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Remember
horror films made back in the dark ages, films such as “Frankenstein”, “The Mummy”,
“Dracula”, and 'The Invisible Man”? I didn't like watching them growing up and
still don't care for the genre in the least. My older brother, on the other hand,
was a big fan as well as an early television addict. There were a couple of weekly
shows in the late 1950's that featured creepy, scary films, mostly made in the
mid 1930's to early 1950's, which he absolutely loved. One was Shock Theater and
the other was Theater Fear. One, or maybe both, weekly shows featured people dressed
up as monsters, ghouls, zombies, mummies, even witches, who introduced the different
stages of the production and who added extra drama and pumped up the fear factor
in viewers by playing eerie music and making spooky sounds.
Now, although
Butch loved these movies, he would absolutely not stay up and watch them alone
after everyone else had gone to bed at a so-called reasonable hour. The shows
must have aired during the weekend because when school was in session we had to
be in bed by 9 o'clock. He spent a lot of time wheedling, cajoling, begging, even
resorting to bribery, though this last is such an ugly term, to get me to stay
up with him. I had absolutely no interest in watching the movies, as I have said,
nor did I like the idea of being up in the wee hours when the grownups were down
for the count. That factor scared me as much as the monsters and ghouls, quite
frankly. The one thing that I was most likely to respond to was the promise of
some sort of payment, larcenous little beast that I was. Over time I acquired
every pocketknife that Butch ever owned, a large part of his marble collection,
some of his most desirable baseball cards, use of his pitcher's glove for specific
time periods, even the use of his beloved Army canteen, that is, until he put
orange juice in it for a whole hot day spent outside playing. Thereafter, water
in the bottle tasted nasty and metallic. The best payment from my viewpoint, though,
was in the form of his leftover candy.
Butch was fond of both red hots
and candy corn. Anytime he was able to scrape together some change, he usually
bribed me to walk three blocks over to the Stadium Shopping Center to the Morgan
& Lindsey's dime store and buy his pick of the day. The store had one of those
candy counters with four sides, located close to the front part of the store,
with the cases being made of heavy tempered slanted glass fronts, glass dividers
separating the different candies. I can't recall how much the red hots cost, but
the candy corn sold for 29 cents a pound for what seemed like forever. Back then
sales tax was only 2 cents on the dollar. For 30 cents Butch could have enough
candy to make himself royally sick with lots left over. Even a half pound was
guaranteed to be more than enough to turn him green around the gills so that he
pushed the leftovers toward me, his face pasty and clammy, headache moving in
for the kill. I banked on this happening every time so that not only was I given
my bribe, a pocketknife, a pen, marbles, whatever the price happened to be, but
I also got all of his leftover candy. Three ounces in one sitting was usually
about his limit, maybe four a couple of times, until nausea eventually blindsided
him.
When it came to staying up with him so that he could watch his hair
raising, terrifying movies, I generally always capitulated if candy corn was involved.
I loved that stuff, sickeningly sweet though it was. Red hots were okay, but I
didn't always accept that currency. Negotiations took place on a plane equal to
diplomatic exchanges between countries of the world. The deal we struck was this:
I had to sit up on the couch while Butch sat on the floor in front of me, coffee
table in front of him, his pillow clutched to his chest in a death grip. My bare
feet had to maintain occasional contact with his upper back or shoulders so that
he knew I was still in the room. He always wanted the living room totally dark
except for the TV flickering its blue light, but I always insisted on one lamp
being kept on. I was just as scared as he was, but the lure of candy coinage was
more than I could usually resist. In order to ignore the movie I always read a
book, so I needed a light source. Periodically Butch would say “Are you awake?”
If I dozed, he had the right to dissolve our agreement. I wasn't allowed to go
to the bathroom, either. This was the ultimate kiss of death to the arrangement.
Mellowcreme was the standard on which our economy was based, corn of the realm,
if you will, and I was something of a wheeler dealer when it came to making contracts.
Occasionally I took pity on him and allowed him to keep a few ounces of candy
for later, though not often. When the show ended we both raced to our rooms in
a dead heat, hearts pounding, mine was, at least, as we dived under the covers
and sought refuge from terror in sleep.
© Frances
Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
December 19, 2012 Column
Related Topics: Beaumont
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