Mr. Doppler continued, pretending to have difficulty in reading the number.

"D...Seven...Oh...let's see. This is D-Seven-Oh-Three...."

On a rising inflection, the audience now in a state of frenzy, scattered wails of lament and thuds of bodies falling amid popcorn cartons as Doppler closed with a smashing finish, his voice rising to a crescendo.

"D-Seven-Oh-Three-EIGHT!"

I sank back into my seat as a high thin squeak came from somewhere near the EXIT EXIT sign to the left of the popcorn stand. A great roar arose among the defeated as a tiny, limp figure, carried down the aisle by jubilant companions, rushed toward the stage, yipping as they came. My G.o.d! It was a girl! sign to the left of the popcorn stand. A great roar arose among the defeated as a tiny, limp figure, carried down the aisle by jubilant companions, rushed toward the stage, yipping as they came. My G.o.d! It was a girl!

Muttered obscenities in the darkness. The mob was now in an angry mood at this unexpected turn of events. A girl! Flick, next to me, half-rose in his c.o.c.kpit, his meat hook poised to hurl the remains of a taffy apple onstage as a statement of defiance. The sharp bark of an usher in the aisle catching him in midair: "Siddown!"

The flashlight beam caught him, taffy apple c.o.c.ked, jaw set He sat, sheepishly.

Onstage it was all anti-climax, and Mr. Doppler knew it. Quickly wrapping up the scene, he hurried the bicycle, kids, and ushers offstage and darkness fell. As we prepared for the first volley of the fourth feature of the afternoon. It was again the beating surf of crackling paper wrappings, the steady crunch crunch crunch of mastication picked up in tempo and blended into the fanfare of bugles superimposed on the opening credits and the great cla.s.sic line: REPUBLIC PICTURES PRESENTS.

As the Longest Day wore on, time completely obliterated, the Outside World non-existent, no day, no night, just the thunder of the Pursued and the Pursuers and the crunch of fist meeting jaw and the crash of bottle hurled through barroom mirror roared ever onward. Life was complete. Occasionally a menacing form roamed up and down the aisles, searching for a huddled fugitive from supper. A sharp outcry in the darkness and a kid would be dragged, kicking and screaming, protestingly toward the EXIT EXIT sign and back into life. sign and back into life.

Then, finally, three quick Mighty Mouse cartoons in succession as a capper for the road, and it was all over for another week. Back out in the real world at last splinter bands of bloated, sticky, Tootsie Roll-filled kids drifted homeward, recounting in absolute detail every labyrinthine twist and turn of each feature, reliving each fistfight and walkdown, each ambush and thunderous escape in the embattled stagecoach as the ideological arguments began. The Ken Maynard faction snorting derisively at the lesser Bob Steele contingent. An occasional Roy Rogers nut would sing nostalgically, nasally, "On The Streets Of Laredo." A few holdouts for Tim Holt, outnumbered but game, all united finally in UNIVERSAL UNIVERSAL distain for the effete d.i.c.k Foran and Gene Autry. distain for the effete d.i.c.k Foran and Gene Autry.

The great day was almost over. We all had to face the ordeal of trying to stuff down baked beans and spare ribs at supper, which was not easy on top of four Milky Ways and a rich compost heap of other a.s.sorted indigestibles drifting like some great glacier down through our digestive systems.

The uproar on Sat.u.r.day afternoons at the Orpheum was as nothing compared to the constant hoopla and razzmatazz of the rest of the week, when Mr. Doppler's Orpheum would rise to a fever pitch of excitement. Very little of it had anything to do with actual movies, although the Orpheum pretended that it was in the Film business and so did the customers.

Monday night, immediately after supper, the Faithful-or at least one contingent of them-would scurry through the darkening streets toward the sacred temple to play Screeno. I have heard that in other movie houses this was called Keeno, but Mr. Doppler was a Fundamentalist. As the Judy Canova fans pushed through the turnstiles, they would be handed a crude sheet of cardboard ruled off in squares, with the great black letters: SCREENO! EVERYBODY HAS A A CHANCE TO WIN! WATCH YOUR NUMBERS CHANCE TO WIN! WATCH YOUR NUMBERS!.

Next to the door was a wastebasket filled with corn kernels. Each lover of the Cinematic Art would grab a handful on his way in to the humid arena of the Fun Palace, slide down in his seat, and wait for the action.

About 7 P.M P.M. on would come the Movietone News, with the bathing beauties and the horse races, funny goose-stepping comic soldiers wearing scuttle helmets marching in phalanxes to the sound of "Deutschland uber Alles," "Deutschland uber Alles," Westbrook Van Vorhees and the Voice of Doom. Ten minutes of previews of coming attractions, featuring music by the Coming Attractions Band, and the first feature would begin, with Ben Blue chasing Judy Canova around a haystack as the mob rustled their cards and crunched on corn kernels in keen antic.i.p.ation of the delights that were to follow. Westbrook Van Vorhees and the Voice of Doom. Ten minutes of previews of coming attractions, featuring music by the Coming Attractions Band, and the first feature would begin, with Ben Blue chasing Judy Canova around a haystack as the mob rustled their cards and crunched on corn kernels in keen antic.i.p.ation of the delights that were to follow.

By the time Judy had deafened the mult.i.tude and the eighth reel spun out, the moment of exultation arrived. The house lights would go on; the popcorn bags stashed, and there would be a moment of suspended animation while the real reason all were there was getting under way. On stage the great white screen stood empty. Mr. Doppler could be heard-himself!-testing the PA system, his rich, dynamic voice: "h.e.l.lo, test. h.e.l.lo, test. One-Two-Three-Four. Can you hear me up in the booth, Fred?"

And then, silence. Next on screen a great blue and red numbered wheel appeared, with an enormous yellow pointer, and Mr. Doppler would get right down to business.

"All right, folks, it's time once again to play the Fun game, Screeno. Anyone filling out a diagonal or horizontal line with corn kernels wins a magnificent grocery prize. Yell out 'Screeno.' Be sure to check your numbers. And now, here we go!"

A spectacular fanfare would wow into the sound system, since Doppler really believed in Production all the way, and the evening would start. On the screen the pointer, a yellow blur, spun as band music played softly behind. Everyone leaned forward in their seats, their cards held at ready as they waited for the call of Fate and Riches to lay its golden breath on their fevered, movie-loving brows. The pointer slowed, and stopped, and Doppler's voice intoned: "The first number is B Twelve."

Rustlings, creaking of seats, muttering. Some steel-mill wit up in the gloom hollers: "Screeno!"

The crowd t.i.tters and the pointer spins again. A constant obbligato of dropping, rolling, and scrunching corn kernels and excited mumblings played like a soft flame under the great pot of edible gold that all pursued. Finally someone inevitably shouted: "SCREENO!"

And the first prize of the evening was snagged. Doppler, his voice trembling with emotion: "And now the first Screeno gift of the evening, a five-dollar bag of groceries from the Piggely-Wiggely store on Calumet Avenue, Credit Extended, Superb Meats and Groceries; We Cash Checks. This five-dollar bag of superb vittles goes to...."

The usher would hurry down the aisle with the winner's Screeno card and his name, the audience shifting restlessly, distractedly waiting for the next game to begin, and somewhere off in the middle distance the sound of celebration as the winning party, already tasting the Piggely-Wiggely bacon, celebrated the great coup.

The pointer whirled; the action roared on. The kids, not eligible to partic.i.p.ate under the strict International rules of Cla.s.sical Screeno, spent most of the time throwing corn kernels at the balcony and the silver screen.

To the right of the stage glowed a magnificent smoked ham and all the other grocery gifts for the Screeno crowd. During the Depression a seven-pound ham was good for at least four months in the average family, not including 800 gallons of rich, vibrant pea soup, so Screeno was a very serious game. Rising above the usual Orpheum aroma, a rich mixture of calcified gum, Popcorn, hot leatherette seats, steamy socks, and Woolworth Radio Girl perfume and hair oil, was the maddening scent of smoked bacon, fresh pickles, and crushed corn kernels.

Screeno was played for at least forty-five minutes, until the last can of Van Camp's Pork & Beans had been won. The excitement rising upward until the final great moment, the Grand Award-a year's supply of Silvercup Bread, provided by the local A & P store. Bread truly was the staff of life to a dedicated Screeno addict. A year's supply of bread! The very bread that the Lone Ranger lived on and that Tonto used to make the French toast and to sop up the gravy of the Lone Ranger's solitary chuck wagon beans.

Immediately after the Grand Award, which of course Doppler masterfully squeezed for every last drop of dramatic tension, the lights would go out and on would come somebody with a rich Bavarian accent saying: "Munngeys iss der cwaziest peebles."

And once again Culture marched on into the next feature. There was never a recorded instance of a Single Feature playing the Orpheum.

And so went Monday. Tuesday was known as Bank Night. Bank Night was for the really Big Time movie fans, and that crowd usually avoided Screeno like the plague. Every week the Bank Night jackpot rose by hundred-dollar jumps, and every week Tuesday night at Zero Hour, amid a deep hush, the spotlight on stage, the sinister cage containing the Bank Night registration slips was spun as the world perceptibly slowed in its...o...b..tal flight around the sun. Mr. Doppler, standing solemn and straight-no razzle-dazzle on Bank Night-waited beside his silver microphone as a shimmering white card was drawn by one of the audience. A moment of agonizing hesitation and in a quiet voice Mr. Doppler would say: "Tonight's Bank Night registration drawing for seventeen hundred seventeen hundred dollars...." dollars...."

A pregnant pause at this point to let the 1700 bucks sink even deeper into the souls of the harpooned congregation, most of whom hadn't seen a whole ten-dollar bill for five years running.

Seventeen hundred hundred dollars! Everyone in the house had followed the progression of Bank Night from the first 100 dollars to its present astronomical height, and each week Mr. Doppler would change the great red figures on the marquee, and all week-seven long days-the feverish Bank Night dreamers pa.s.sing back and forth on their aimless errands were constantly reminded. Seventeen hundred dollars! And next week-eighteen hundred dollars! dollars! Everyone in the house had followed the progression of Bank Night from the first 100 dollars to its present astronomical height, and each week Mr. Doppler would change the great red figures on the marquee, and all week-seven long days-the feverish Bank Night dreamers pa.s.sing back and forth on their aimless errands were constantly reminded. Seventeen hundred dollars! And next week-eighteen hundred dollars!

As each week rolled into history, the sweat, the nervousness, the fear that someone else would strike it big grabbed at the very vitals of each registrant. He scrabbled and sc.r.a.ped week after week to scratch up the price of a ticket, until finally, at the 1700 mark, it had become almost a compulsive nightmare.

The movies shown on Bank Night unreeled before uncomprehending, glazed eyes, their pupils contracted to pinpoints glowing in the darkness, their breath coming in the telltale short pants of the near-hysteric. Seventeen hundred dollars meant the difference between actual Life and gnawing, grubbing, penny-scrabbling, bare Existence. On Bank Night there were no no friends, only solitary sparks of human protoplasm-alone-plotting, scheming, hoping against hope that no one else would win. friends, only solitary sparks of human protoplasm-alone-plotting, scheming, hoping against hope that no one else would win.

"...is Number Two-Two-Nine-Five!"

Silence. A stunned, watchful, waiting, fearful fearful silence. Will the $1700 be claimed? Is Two-Two-Nine-Five here? A single thought in each Depression-ridden mind. Judy Canova, Jack Oakie, and even Clark Gable drowned in a dark, swirling sea of anxiety. silence. Will the $1700 be claimed? Is Two-Two-Nine-Five here? A single thought in each Depression-ridden mind. Judy Canova, Jack Oakie, and even Clark Gable drowned in a dark, swirling sea of anxiety.

"Is the holder of that card in the house?"

Silence.

"I repeat, Number Two-Two-Nine-Five. Is the holder of that card in the house? Once."

An usher on the right of the stage, in a blue spotlight, raised a padded mallet and struck a gong.

BOOOONNGGG.

The clangorous boom rolled out over the mult.i.tude like some cataclysmic death knell, echoing and re-echoing from c.o.ke machine to gilded cherubim, high above the arched stage and down into the depths of the hearer's subconscious, a sound that must be something like the one that will be heard on Judgment Day before the great trumpets blow and Gabriel rises to summon the Faithful from their graves.

"Once."

A dramatic pause.

"Twice."

BOING!.

Another dramatic pause.

"TWO-TWO-NINE-FIVE. Three times and out."

BOING!.

A deep collective sigh of relief, blessed, numbed, tremulous relief rose from the darkness. The audience settled back into their seats. Already plans were under way in fevered minds on how to grub together next Tuesday's admission.

Somewhere, someplace, in some dark mortgaged hut, Number Two-Two-Nine-Five, who had decided to stay home this one night in order to save the forty cents' price, tossed uneasily in his sleep, unknowing, as the great ship of Fortune sailed by him, unseen, unheard, into the darkness forever. The bedsprings creaked as he shifted in his sleep. He slept on.

Mr. Doppler played on the vast organ of human emotions like a master musician, twittering on the Acquisitiveness stop as one possessed of an evil genius.

Wednesday night was Amateur Night. Between features a long file of banjo players, mouth-organ virtuosi, clog dancers, Bing Crosby imitators, and other Talented out-of-work steelworkers would engage in mortal artistic combat for another list of Grand Awards, including a free, all-expenses paid two-day trip to Chicago, a full thirty miles away, ten vocal lessons at the Bluebird Music School-Accordion Our Specialty-and fifty dollars top prize, as determined by the applause of the audience. At least that's what the poster in the lobby called it-applause. Applause is not exactly the word that described the pandemonium, acrimony, catcalls, distain, obscene noises of enormous variety and general commotion that accompanied each act as claque battled claque. It set the earth to jiggling so that the vibrations alone could be felt over a radius of thirty miles.

The Orpheum on Amateur Night gave many of us who were fortunate enough to be in attendance at these cabalistic rituals a glimpse of Life that left us with a vague understanding of that thing, that stuff of which riots and great historical movements are made.

One night stands out in particular. A bulky bricklayer clumped onstage. In the pit the piano player began a flower intro to "Neapolitan Nights." The bricklayer pursed his lips wetly and began to whistle in a high, thin, bird-like trill, his hairy chest perspiring, cheeks popping, eyes bulging. An instant wave of pseudo-feminine whoops rolled out from the audience and crashed like a riptide of derision around the Hod Carrier. He stopped in mid-trill.

"Awright, ya b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Who's the smart a.s.s?"

His fists were like two giant clubs at his side. Another great roar, more of a snort actually, from the audience en ma.s.se. The sweat gleamed on his forehead as he dredged his visceral depths with a quivering, snorting hawk, and the offended artist let fly a large silver oyster into the void. To a man, cut to the quick, the outraged critics arose and rushed over, under, around, and beside the seats, thousands of kids cheering and bird-whistling, goading the battlers on. It was the first time that Mr. Doppler called the police in order to get the second feature under way. It was not to be the last.

Thursday was Sing Along Night, and it was the one night of the week that Mr. Doppler was forced to book a real movie. It was on Thursdays that Bob Hope and Bing Crosby traveled their eternal Road, panting and leering after Dorothy Lamour. It was on Thursday that Gary Cooper sat tall in his dusty, worn saddle. It was on Thursday that Andy Hardy, better known as Mickey Rooney, and Judy Garland decided to put on a show to buy the serum for the Widow's boy, dying of a strange, unnamed Hollywood disease while Donald O'Connor, the wise-guy freshman, made pa.s.ses at Andy's girl in the gym between tap dances. Thursday was Serious Picture Night, and in keeping with the solemn occasion Mr. Doppler also presented the Orpheum Sing Along.

As Bob and Bing rode their camel off into the sunset and the Paramount mountain shimmered hotly on the beaded screen, rising from the cavernous darkness of the pit, electric motors humming, the mighty Orpheum Wurlitzer rose, sparkling and glowing, sequins shimmering and catching the light. A ma.s.sive, brilliant white, multi-tiered instrument, it rose like some specter, and seated before the impressive, arching keyboard, golden, wavy hair shimmering, white tuxedo coat spotless, sat the famous Orpheum organist, booming out "Chiribiribim" as on screen a slide appeared with a scene of gypsies caught in mid-fandango, tambourines raised, eyes flashing hotly, in eye-searing Technicolor. The organist spun on his twirling seat, unveiling a grinning set of dentures that made anything that Liberace was to do later along the same lines pale to insignificance. The slide changed: "Follow the bouncing ball and sing along with the world-famous Orpheum Wurlitzer."

A beautiful moonlit scene appeared, sailboat in the middle foreground, two silhouetted couples mooning against the sky, and above.

"Red Sails in the Sunset...."

The white ball bounced from word to word as the audience, conditioned by countless hours of Kate Smith, Harry Horlich and the A & P Gypsies, Jessica Dragonette and the Silver Masked Tenor, belted it out. A Depression audience did not mess around. When that bouncing ball bounced, they belted!

Beside me in the darkness my mother giggled self-consciously but sang on, curlers rattling, eyes shining as the mighty Orpheum organ bellowed. The empty coal bin and next month's rent forgotten as slide after slide marched across Mr. Doppler's Sing-Along screen. The only time I ever heard my Old Man sing was when the mighty Wurlitzer, like some demonic pipe of Pan, drove him on.

"Betty Coed has lips of red for Harvard, "Betty Coed has eyes of Yale's deep blue, "Betty Coed...."*

And on screen a cheerleader in white sweater and white ice-cream pants, with big block Y, held his megaphone high as a golden-haired coed, Betty herself, tilted her perky profile toward an orange sky, as the ball bounced.

So went Thursday. And after Thursday, inevitably, Friday, and it was Friday that finally proved to be Mr. Doppler's Armageddon.

For years theater owners everywhere had struggled bravely to keep the seats filled. Not that people didn't want to go to the movies. They did, even more maniacally than now. But cold cash was hard to come by, especially cash to be used for Fred MacMurray Viewing and Mickey Mouse Ogling. A moviegoer had to have a real excuse for buying a ticket; an investment in Reality, a utilitarian expense. And one historic night Mr. Doppler came up with his master stroke.

A spectacular display in a gleaming gla.s.s case appeared without warning in the Neo-Mosque lobby of the beloved Orpheum. For extra dramatic effect the lobby had been especially darkened, with strategically placed baby pink, blue, and amber spots focused on the cause of the eventual downfall of Mr. Doppler and the Orpheum, too. Above the case in fuchsia-tinseled letters the simple, stark, meaningful word blazed forth: FREE!!.

The motley throng who gathered in stunned silence on that fateful night stood slack-jawed and bedazzled by the incredible riches displayed before them, and it was all to be theirs, free, just for coming to the movies!

Artistic sights are rare in hamlets of the Midwest, slumbering quietly in the shade of the steel mills, caught in the tangled spider web of endless railroad tracks and groaning under the weight of vast acres of junkyards, but when they do appear the natives respond with voracity. Starving travelers in a wasteland of an artistic desert, they devour each sc.r.a.p of beauty with a relish that warms the c.o.c.kles. Tonight was no exception. The Three Stooges forgotten, they stood clogging up the lobby in dark silent clumps of humanity, eyes shining, unbelieving.

Row on row of radiant, magnificent works of pure beauty lay displayed before them, cushioned on dark, blood-red velvet and setting each observer's soul on fire with instant desire. They stood, silent, almost afraid to believe the evidence before their very eyes. A simple, tasteful placard spelled it out unmistakably so that even the dimmest wit could comprehend: FREE! FREE!.

Beginning next Friday, one piece of this magnificent set of Artistic DeLuxe Pearleen Tableware, the Dinner Service of the Stars, will be presented of the Stars, will be presented FREE FREE to each adult woman in attendance. The moviegoer will be able to complete this one hundred and twelve piece set of magnificent dinnerware and enjoy at the same time the finest of movie entertainment to each adult woman in attendance. The moviegoer will be able to complete this one hundred and twelve piece set of magnificent dinnerware and enjoy at the same time the finest of movie entertainment.Signed by the Management: Mr. Leopold Doppler The amber spot played sinuously and enticingly over cascading ledge upon ledge of pearlescent, sparkling, grape and floral encrusted tureens and platters, saucers and gravy boats, celery holders and soup bowls. It was a display potent enough to bring moisture to the eye of a Middle Eastern caliph.

It would probably have been difficult to knock together a complete set of any any kind of dinnerware from among the entire audience of that night. My mother stood gazing at the artistic opulence, her breath coming in short pants, her eyes glowing like coals. Our cupboards were filled with a collection of jelly jars, peanut b.u.t.ter containers, plastic cottage cheese cups, and the a.s.sorted eating effluvia of the period. Her prized possession, which she brought out only for State occasions, was a matched Shirley Temple sugar and creamer of dark blue gla.s.s. Our silverware consisted of Tom Mix spoons, Clara Bow pickle forks, and a Betty Crocker bread knife with rubber handle and cardboard blade. kind of dinnerware from among the entire audience of that night. My mother stood gazing at the artistic opulence, her breath coming in short pants, her eyes glowing like coals. Our cupboards were filled with a collection of jelly jars, peanut b.u.t.ter containers, plastic cottage cheese cups, and the a.s.sorted eating effluvia of the period. Her prized possession, which she brought out only for State occasions, was a matched Shirley Temple sugar and creamer of dark blue gla.s.s. Our silverware consisted of Tom Mix spoons, Clara Bow pickle forks, and a Betty Crocker bread knife with rubber handle and cardboard blade.

Dish Borrowing and Dish Bringing were major social customs in the neighborhood. It was well known that my Aunt Clara had a set of six matched Mexican-motif coffee cups which she carried with her for any full-scale family ceremonial dinner. My mother, on the other hand, was the owner of a magnificent white meat platter with tiny violets spilling over the edges that had provided the underpinning for every turkey dinner in the family for years.

The effect of the Orpheum's incredible offer, hence, was galvanic. The word spread like the bubonic plague, and by the end of the week of waiting the air had become tense and fretful. It was as though the whole town was waiting for Christmas morning, which, like all great days, approached slowly and creakily.

It was announced in the local paper that, along with the first Free Dish offering, Tarzan and the Pygmies Tarzan and the Pygmies would be shown, along with Selected Short Subjects. Doppler was going all out! would be shown, along with Selected Short Subjects. Doppler was going all out!

Friday morning dawned crisp and clear. By 7 P.M P.M. a nervous serpentine line wound its way halfway around the block, past the poolroom, the Bluebird Tavern, Nick's Hardware Store, and almost to the w.i.l.l.ys-Overland showroom, a full football field length away from the Orpheum. Our family, about halfway back in the mob which had begun to gather early in the afternoon, was surrounded by a great waiting ma.s.s of suspicious skeptics. It was hard to believe that it would really happen, that a real dish dish would be given out free just to watch Tarzan and Lady Jane swing from the vines, and another paralyzing fear gripped the waiters-would the dishes run out before we got inside?! would be given out free just to watch Tarzan and Lady Jane swing from the vines, and another paralyzing fear gripped the waiters-would the dishes run out before we got inside?!

Rumors spread. The Pearleen DeLuxe display was a phony, just a come-on, and the dishes we'd get would be cheap, hollow reproductions of the truly beautiful original.

Finally the doors opened and the mob surged forward. The Box Office roared with activity as we pushed and stumbled toward the marquee. Just inside the door Mr. Doppler and two ushers stood, packing cases stacked behind them, handing out to each lady a beautiful, gleaming b.u.t.ter dish.

What a start! Doppler, the master showman, realized that a smash opening was imperative for the success of any Big Time act. He could have opened with a prosaic cup or saucer, but his selection of a b.u.t.ter dish as an opener was little short of total inspiration. Handing a b.u.t.ter dish to housewives who came, almost to a woman, from Oleomargarine families was masterful. In fact, few people in the crowd had ever even seen seen a b.u.t.ter dish before and some had to be told how to use it. My mother, a reader of a b.u.t.ter dish before and some had to be told how to use it. My mother, a reader of Good Housekeeping Good Housekeeping, recognized the rare object for what it was, a symbol of Gentility, Good Taste, and the Expansive Life. She was delighted. And my kid brother had to be forcibly restrained in his desire to look at it and feel it.

We were Oleo people, and my mother would mix the white, lard-like b.u.t.ter subst.i.tute in a gla.s.s mixing bowl, adding coloring from the gelatin capsules which accompanied the package. We always referred to this as "b.u.t.ter," and it was invariably served on a cracked white saucer used only for that purpose. Our new b.u.t.ter dish was a step into the affluent world of the twentieth century.

Mr. Doppler beamed, his black suit crinkling as he clanked out b.u.t.ter dish after b.u.t.ter dish, distributing largess to the mult.i.tude.

"Next week there'll be a different piece, lady," he said over and over.

"Maybe a bun warmer, who knows?"

Thus he insidiously planted the seed in the mind of each b.u.t.ter-dish clutcher that next week could be even more Exotic. The hackles of desire rose even higher as they filed into the darkened auditorium.

"What is a bun warmer?"

"You warm buns in it, you idiot!"

s.n.a.t.c.hes of complex Table Etiquette debates drifted back and forth as the mob went up the aisle, b.u.t.ter dishes clanking.

The Tarzan movie began. The popcorn bags ripped open, and the evening was complete.

As soon as the kitchen light went on, even before my mother had taken off her coat after the movie, she feverishly slammed open the refrigerator door and the b.u.t.ter dish was put into action. Loaded with Oleo, its Pearleen finish lighting up the linoleum for yards around, it rested in the center of the white enamel kitchen table. Dish Night had come to Hohman, Indiana.

The incredible news of Mr. Doppler's largess spread through the neighborhood almost instantly. Over back fences, through tangled jungles of clotheslines, up alleys, into bas.e.m.e.nts, up front porches, into candy stores and meat markets, the winged word spread. Red, chapped, water-wrinkled hands paused on clothes wringers and washboards; bathrobe-clad figures hunched over sinks nodded in amazement. Neighbors trooped into kitchens all over town to observe firsthand the beautiful works of art that somehow had come into our lives.

The following Friday the Orpheum drew crowds from a three-county area, a jostling throng that stood in long expectant lines to see Blondie Takes a Trip Blondie Takes a Trip starring Penny Singleton and Arthur Lake and to receive as compensation for that trial by fire a Pearleen-finish Bun Warmer. Mr. Doppler did not fail his public. Bun Warmers flooded Lake County in a ma.s.sive deluxe Hollywood Finish tide. There were few buns to warm, but the Calumet region was ready. starring Penny Singleton and Arthur Lake and to receive as compensation for that trial by fire a Pearleen-finish Bun Warmer. Mr. Doppler did not fail his public. Bun Warmers flooded Lake County in a ma.s.sive deluxe Hollywood Finish tide. There were few buns to warm, but the Calumet region was ready.

The movies, and the Orpheum in particular, had never known such total and complete popularity. It was more than popularity; it was verging on True Love. The other movie in town, the Paramount, desperately tried to stem the rising tide of Mr. Doppler's popularity. A huge, glowing sign appeared on their marquee announcing that they were prepared to offer free a 187-piece set of Movieland Mexican Plasto-Ware, designed personally by Gilbert Roland and including his permanent, indelibly embossed, raised signature on each and every piece. It was too late. The incandescent Pearleen beauty of Mr. Doppler's dinnerware had a grip on the aesthetic fancy of the population that was unbreakable. A whole new dimension had been added to Art Appreciation in Northern Indiana, and even Gilbert Roland was swept under.

The first evening we actually used our bun warmer was a red-letter day in the family annals. Mr. Doppler was in the saddle and his power grew from week to week as each succeeding piece was added to the growing collection that began to gleam from practically every kitchen cupboard in town, crowding jelly gla.s.ses and peanut b.u.t.ter jars further and further and further to the rear.

The third week saw the first cup and saucer combination, a two-piece bonus. The fourth week a pet.i.te, delicately modeled egg cup, the first ever seen in the Midwestern states. Week by week the crowds grew larger. The tension mounted as piece after piece was added to family collections.

Speculation was rife as to what the next week would bring. Doppler usually just hinted as he and his aides pa.s.sed out celery dishes and consomme bowls.

"Maybe next week an Olive Urn, with pick."

He never exactly said it would would be an Olive Urn, with pick, just hinted. A sort of question. Well, the audience would squirm in their seats as the sound track engulfed them, speculating, already antic.i.p.ating next Friday. be an Olive Urn, with pick, just hinted. A sort of question. Well, the audience would squirm in their seats as the sound track engulfed them, speculating, already antic.i.p.ating next Friday.

The weeks flew by. The town was hooked. They had the Free Dinnerware monkey, a 112-piece specimen clamped on their backs and growing heavier every week. Ladies in the last stages of childbirth were wheeled into the Orpheum, gasping in pain, to keep the skein going. Creaking grandmothers, halt and blind, were led to the Box Office by grandchildren. Ladies who had not seen the light of day since the Crimean War were pressed into service. They sat numbly, deafly in the Orpheum seats, their watery eyes barely able to perceive the shifting, incomprehensible images on the screen, their gnarled talons clasping a sugar bowl for dear life.

I remember particularly the night we got The Big Platter, as it became known in our family over the years. The Big Platter-a proper name, like The House On The Hill, The Bas.e.m.e.nt, The Garage. The Big Platter was important. There was only one Big Platter in every complete set of dinnerware, the crowning jewel in Doppler's diadem. For weeks we had filed past the magnificent display in the lobby and there in the exact center, catching the amber spots, glowing like the sun, was The Big Platter. And tonight it was ours!

One of the saddest sounds I have ever heard was the crash in the darkness as some numb-fingered housewife, carried away by a brilliantly executed scene by Joe E. Brown loosened her grip in laughter. A sudden panic and her platter was no more, scattered in a million Pearlescent slivers among the peanut sh.e.l.ls and Tootsie Roll b.u.t.t ends that formed a thick compost heap underfoot. Recriminations, suppressed sobs, and the entire family rose and filed out, their only reason for being there gone in a single split second. My mother held ours with both hands clamped over her chest in a death grip.