The Summer I Worked at the Drive-In

At nineteen, I spent a summer working the concession stand at the last drive-in movie theater in our county. It's still the best job I've ever had.

The drive-in opened at dusk. Families pulled in early with lawn chairs and blankets, setting up in the backs of pickup trucks. Kids in pajamas threw frisbees in front of the screen until the sky got dark enough. Teenagers on first dates parked in the back row and pretended to watch the movie.

I made popcorn in a machine from 1958 that had to be kicked twice to start. The owner, a big kind man named Herb, had run the place for forty years and knew every regular by their car. "That's the Hendersons' station wagon," he'd say. "Large popcorn, extra butter, two root beers." He was never wrong.

At intermission, the old cartoon of dancing hot dogs played on the screen, and the line at my window stretched across the gravel. I learned to make change fast, to smile when the butter machine exploded on me, and to save the burnt popcorn for the owner's dog, Rufus, who sat by the door all night hoping.

After the last show, around one in the morning, Herb and I would sit on the roof of the concession stand, eating leftover candy and watching the stars over the empty lot. He told me stories about the drive-in in the sixties, when there were eight hundred cars on a Saturday. He told me to always do a job like people are counting on you, because they are.

The drive-in is still open. Herb's grandson runs it now. I took my own kids there this summer. Rufus's great-grand-puppy sat by the door.