The Ol' Vacaville Theatre
The closure of Theatre DeVille (again) has me waxing nostalgic about its earlier life years ago as Vacaville Theatre -- for years the only game in town if you wanted to go see a movie. Of course this was long before Netflix, Amazon Prime, or even things like THX sound. Those were happy times as kids piled into the theatre to watch Saturday afternoon double features, bought more candy, soda and popcorn than any sane person should consume and tried hard to behave themselves among their friends as the manager walked up and down the aisles. Mr. Crosby was his name. I don't believe he had a first name -- at least we youngsters didn't think so. Old man Crosby's approaching presence was always betrayed by the red burning ember and stench of his lit cigar, which never left his lips. He patrolled the place like a guard at state prison, convinced we were up to no good. He was often right.
Saturdays at Vacaville Theatre were for kids -- adults were well-advised to stay away unless they didn't mind being accidentally pelted with Jujubees thrown by rambunctious 10-year-olds at their friends across the aisle. When the movie (which was often incidental to our fun) was over, we would race our sugar-fueled selves to the single pay phone on the wall in the lobby. Most of us used a trick to get our dime back by dialing home, letting it ring once and hanging up. This signaled mom and dad that we were ready to be picked up.
My most memorable time at Vacaville Theatre was in 1973. The Exorcist was showing and I asked my older sister Connie to take me because it was rated R and I just knew Mr. Crosby wouldn't let me in by myself. Connie had just turned 18 and was quite the horror movie fan, so I had no trouble convincing her -- as long as we kept it quiet from mom and dad. When we got to the box office, Old man Crosby eyed us suspiciously. "This is rated R," he spit at us without bothering to take the cigar out of his mouth. A child must be accompanied by a parent or guardian!" Connie cleared her throat. "I am his guardian," she squeaked, all the while twirling her long hair between her thumb and forefinger -- a sure sign of a whopping lie in our family. (Fortunately Mr. Crosby wasn't in our family.) He nodded and waved us in with a grunt after snatching the money from Connie's hand.
The movie was, as you remember, terrifying. While most of the scenes in the little girl's bedroom may seem tame by today's standards -- even trite -- it scared the bejeezus out of us, and neither of us got a decent night's sleep for a month. Served us right for pulling a fast one on the old man.