Memoirs of the Mundane - Midnight Masoleum
09/13/2024
It has indeed been too long. And I shall have to play catch-up with some of the more noteworthy adventures.
The Macabre is never mundane.
I rolled up to the old Rivoli theater—was it open? The walkway was vacant, the faded eggshell-white facade chipping daintily in the new autumn breeze. That old coat shivered in the whispering wind, crying out in gratitude at the reprieve of the baking summer suns that had crispened it for decades. I turned my ear in and listened carefully—a faint chatter of patrons past, queuing up along the block, eager to catch the newest motion picture, oozed from the creaky orifices of the old building. The old theater—once the talk of the town—hunkered there, fading into obscurity. I checked over my shoulder, then glanced back down the walk towards the theater, as I approached. Still empty. I checked my watch. Date is right, time is right. Some folks rounded the corner, giving me a false sense of affirmation, until the strolled right by the old ticket window, and marched on down the walk, not even turning to acknowledge the theater’s presence. It was as if the building were invisible to them. I paused again to check my watch solar powered, and radio controlled—there’s no way it could be wrong. I gazed up at the rusted old marquee, the date read:
Friday, Sept 13th
Charade
Hepburn & Grant
Hepburn & Grant? What kind of Charade is this anyhow? Maybe, possibly, likely, they forgot to change the Marquee from a prior week, or you know, half-century?
My ponderings were cut short as I heard footsteps approaching. Familiar faces! Stating our salutations, we proceeded to the antiquated door, grasping the old brass handles that countless others had before; adding our own DNA to their patina. The theater was ever more distressed inside. I took my bearings, but made them quick, so as to avoid a prolonged anxiety about the possibility of the building’s collapse. A few other old souls dithered about—setting our minds at ease about trespassing charges. We turned to the side, and spied the concessions counter, now glum and mostly deserted, when it once would have been fully desserted (see what I did there?).
An awkward young man with a burgeoning afro gave us a toothy grin from behind the counter “want to buy a slice of pizza?” he stammered, motioning to an old greasy box beside him. I didn’t catch the establishment’s name, but the sparse print and overzealous ligatures gave the box the appearance of being not too many years younger than the theater we now stood inside. In turn, we all made a hard, but polite pass. The man motioned to his left, “well, if you get the hankering for a mid-show snack, be sure to come and get a slice. You can get your tickets over there.” We turned next to see a woman, possibly his wife, standing behind the counter. Two small children cowered next to her, the youngest with their pants around their ankles, diaper on full display. I felt the sudden instinct to run. What sort of meth lab operation had we stumbled in to? But, having been recently diagnosed asthmatic (curse you Long-Covid!) I knew the 200 meter dash to my car might play out just as poorly as whatever health concerns we were in for. “Buy the ticket, take the ride,” as the Patron Saint Gonzo once said.
We hobbled into the theater, and got our bearings. High vaulted ceiling, ancient wooden theater chairs, red velvet curtains lining the walls, and a steeply raked stage. How anyone could perform on that stage without getting seasick, or simply sliding all the way onto the crowd, I’ll never know. The only semblance of modernity, grounding us to the 21st century, was a set of speakers, and the projected computer desktop showing the words “Charade 10GB 1963 Internet Archive” on the video player’s bar. “Well, looks like we’re not seeing Wolfman after all,” Suz quipped. “Hmmm, that’s weird. Oh well, I guess.” I responded. “They didn’t say anything about that online,” she added. The theater was surprisingly inhabited by a good number of patrons who had also been swindled out of their four dollars with the promise of seeing The Wolfman. None seemed too distraught, perhaps they had gotten the memo?
We stumbled our way down the sloping wooden floor, and plopped ourselves down in the antiquated chairs. Fortunately, the lights were dimmed just to the point that we could not make out the dust clouds that invariably arose from this action. Brian made comment on the asbestos caked ceiling, crumbled away at parts to reveal its powdery makeup. The scent of the theater—antiquated wood, mixed with moth-ridden fabric, tinged with a hint of mold, finely aged by dust—not unlike the old familiar smell of your grandfather’s 1950’s oldsmobile’s leather seats, or your grandmother’s chest of drawers hidden away in the attic since her wedding day—enveloped our bodies. The odor of time so pungent one could stick out their tongue and taste its hefty fog. With much wriggling, we positioned ourselves on our creaking seats to avoid the inevitable soreness, as best we could.
Suz made her dash to the bathroom, and returned to inform us she had overheard the couple at concessions mentioning to another patron that they were unable to secure the rights to show The Wolfman, and thus we found ourselves at this Charade charade.
A young woman took the stage, and peering from behind her phone, anxiously stumbled through her notes, introducing us to the film. With that, the afro pizza man turned off the lights individually, and rushed toward the stage to press the button. Just to add a cherry on top, so to speak, a large dead pixel in the projector blared an ominous red box at us throughout the film.
I’ll spare you the details of the film, and save you four dollars. It is in the public domain, and if you’ve never heard of Internet Archive before, look it up and thank me later! (I’ll even save you the searching: Charade 1963 - Internet Archive). The movie was full of clever twists and turns, topped with zany antics from the bygone Hollywood era—I can’t wait to introduce it to other friends.
We laughed, we cringed, we joked around, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
After the movie I returned to my car and headed for home. But the adventure doesn’t end there….
I don’t know if by providence or hijinks, the wrought-iron gates stood wide open. Their eerie gaping mouth, misted in shadow, beckoned my name.
I pulled hard left, swinging around to park parallel to the curb. Hmmm, that’s strange, very strange, I thought. But curiosity kills the cat (or at least immigrants in Springfield do… allegedly). Peering around, I cautiously opened my door and got out of my car. The open gates beckoned even harder, begging, with a sincerity that was almost audible.
Now, before I go too far, I don’t usually do this sort of thing… usually. Disclaimer out of the way, I crept the short distance along the tall iron fence, and paused in the road leading through the gates. I checked my surroundings once more—all was still. And so, I found myself sucked straight into the graveyard. My feet carried me quickly and quietly across the grounds, meandering amongst the tombstones. The humidity, wind speed, barometric pressure, and adiabatic cooling, were precisely perfect for a stroll such as this. Cool, crisp, refreshing—invigorating after the cave-like aura of the Rivoli theater.
As I rambled, I fought to suppress the picture-perfect memories from movies and books that involve creepy cemeteries, the kind of memories that spook you into running away (remember, Covid, asthma). Pet Sematary, nope, nope, don’t think about it. Night of the Living Dead, stop it! The glick boy cemetery passage in Salem’s Lot—oh hell no! I thought as I began to jog passed some headstones back towards my car. Lungs slowed me down to a walk, and I focused on clearing my mind. It was quite peaceful there. Eerily dark once you strayed far enough away from the street lights, but peaceful. I pondered on the meaning of the gates being open. Don’t they always lock them at night? Seems like they do, just in case, you know, keep these monsters in should re-animation occur. Must be some sort of Friday the 13th miracle—no doubt part of the driving force that persuaded me to this place.
I heard a noise and turned to see a car gliding its way across the marble-speckled field. Its headlights glared at me. I couldn’t outrun it, and I had entered the humble section of the cemetery, so there were no garish mausoleums to duck behind (not that there are really any in the Provo Cemetery anyway, sadly), only headstones placed flat in the ground. Imbibed on the elixir of Friday the 13th magic, I suddenly had the inspiration to snatch a nearby bouquet of flowers (sorry Delores!)—fresh enough to pass. The occupant of the car had clearly seen me by this time, as the car departed from the main path and squirreled around a lesser road in my direction. I walked calmly towards the open gates, but they were still a long ways off when the vehicle overtook me. “Hey kid, what are you doing here?” the elderly mustached man barked from his car window. “You shouldn’t be here, the cemetery is closed.”
“Oh,” I responded “but the gates were wide open.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be here.” He paused, stopping the car to get out.
I could see that he had some sort of official looking uniform on, that of a security guard.
“What are you doing here at a time like this anyhow?” he quizzed.
I angled the bouquet in his direction to indicate that I was not there for any grave robbing or T.S.O.L. Code Blue action.
“I’m looking for a grave.”
“Oh yeah, whose grave?” he spat out suspiciously.
Pausing a second to think my way out of this mess, a name jumped to mind
“Philo Farnsworth”, I stammered.
“Who’s that, your uncle or somethin’?”
“Uh no sir, not exactly, but he is a big hero of mine.”
The cemetery guard gave me a strange look, staring me down with his beady eyes.”
“He basically helped invent the tv,” I added to reduce some suspicion.
“Annnd you felt the urge to visit him late at night when the cemetery is closed?” He said, scrutinizingly.
“Well, sir, I didn’t know the cemetery was closed, as it wasn’t closed, that’s how I was able to get in,” I said, rustling the bouquet a little to draw merit to my tale. I fought back the urge to ask him what he was doing in the cemetery at night when it should have been closed, but knew the ice I was on was already thin enough.
“So, you came down here to visit the grave of some guy who invented television at this time of night?” He said, unbelievingly.
I raised the pitch of my voice and tried to channel my best k-pop fan-girl energy
“Well, sir, I just really really love tv,” I squealed. “It’s like the greatest invention ever!
Friends, oh oh, and Seinfeld, and the Office, the British version though, not the dumbed down version with Steve Carrell. And have you ever seen Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles?,” I asked, trying to throw him for a loop and make him think I’m a harmless fanatic who is maybe a little further along the autism spectrum than I really am (but only a little further).
“Well, kid, you should probably go home,” he said, easing up a little after taking my bait.
“You can visit Phil tomorrow when the cemetery is actually open.”
“Philo,” I said, correcting him to stay in character “you should visit his grave too, isn’t it so cool that he is buried right here in Provo?!”
“Uhh yeah, sure, kid. Now move along, I need to lock these gates up before anyone else stumbles in here.”
“Okay, yes sir officer,” I saluted, to finish the sale of my overeager fandom persona.
He returned to his car, and drove to the entrance, and began the process of closing up the creaky old gates. I sighed relief, and started to follow, but stopped dead in my tracks. I walked a few feet backwards, and set the bouquet carefully back by the tombstone I think I had borrowed from (I’ve had enough supernatural run-ins in my life I didn’t feel like risking another). Then I set a speedy pace along the roadway to the gate.
“See you tomorrow Mr Officer Sir,” I cheerily waved as I exited the gates. He turned from his fussing with the lock, scoffed, and waved adieu.
Boy that was a close one, I said aloud once in my car. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, and turned the key. “This is the strangest life I’ve ever known” Jim Morrison’s vocals belted from my stereo as if on perfect queue. “Boy, you can say that again Jimbo” I said to myself as I marveled at the peculiarity of the timing, and night’s experiences.
Sidenote: you never know when graveyard history facts will save your bacon!
I think I owe Philo T. Farnsworth some flowers.
It has indeed been too long. And I shall have to play catch-up with some of the more noteworthy adventures.
The Macabre is never mundane.
I rolled up to the old Rivoli theater—was it open? The walkway was vacant, the faded eggshell-white facade chipping daintily in the new autumn breeze. That old coat shivered in the whispering wind, crying out in gratitude at the reprieve of the baking summer suns that had crispened it for decades. I turned my ear in and listened carefully—a faint chatter of patrons past, queuing up along the block, eager to catch the newest motion picture, oozed from the creaky orifices of the old building. The old theater—once the talk of the town—hunkered there, fading into obscurity. I checked over my shoulder, then glanced back down the walk towards the theater, as I approached. Still empty. I checked my watch. Date is right, time is right. Some folks rounded the corner, giving me a false sense of affirmation, until the strolled right by the old ticket window, and marched on down the walk, not even turning to acknowledge the theater’s presence. It was as if the building were invisible to them. I paused again to check my watch solar powered, and radio controlled—there’s no way it could be wrong. I gazed up at the rusted old marquee, the date read:
Friday, Sept 13th
Charade
Hepburn & Grant
Hepburn & Grant? What kind of Charade is this anyhow? Maybe, possibly, likely, they forgot to change the Marquee from a prior week, or you know, half-century?
My ponderings were cut short as I heard footsteps approaching. Familiar faces! Stating our salutations, we proceeded to the antiquated door, grasping the old brass handles that countless others had before; adding our own DNA to their patina. The theater was ever more distressed inside. I took my bearings, but made them quick, so as to avoid a prolonged anxiety about the possibility of the building’s collapse. A few other old souls dithered about—setting our minds at ease about trespassing charges. We turned to the side, and spied the concessions counter, now glum and mostly deserted, when it once would have been fully desserted (see what I did there?).
An awkward young man with a burgeoning afro gave us a toothy grin from behind the counter “want to buy a slice of pizza?” he stammered, motioning to an old greasy box beside him. I didn’t catch the establishment’s name, but the sparse print and overzealous ligatures gave the box the appearance of being not too many years younger than the theater we now stood inside. In turn, we all made a hard, but polite pass. The man motioned to his left, “well, if you get the hankering for a mid-show snack, be sure to come and get a slice. You can get your tickets over there.” We turned next to see a woman, possibly his wife, standing behind the counter. Two small children cowered next to her, the youngest with their pants around their ankles, diaper on full display. I felt the sudden instinct to run. What sort of meth lab operation had we stumbled in to? But, having been recently diagnosed asthmatic (curse you Long-Covid!) I knew the 200 meter dash to my car might play out just as poorly as whatever health concerns we were in for. “Buy the ticket, take the ride,” as the Patron Saint Gonzo once said.
We hobbled into the theater, and got our bearings. High vaulted ceiling, ancient wooden theater chairs, red velvet curtains lining the walls, and a steeply raked stage. How anyone could perform on that stage without getting seasick, or simply sliding all the way onto the crowd, I’ll never know. The only semblance of modernity, grounding us to the 21st century, was a set of speakers, and the projected computer desktop showing the words “Charade 10GB 1963 Internet Archive” on the video player’s bar. “Well, looks like we’re not seeing Wolfman after all,” Suz quipped. “Hmmm, that’s weird. Oh well, I guess.” I responded. “They didn’t say anything about that online,” she added. The theater was surprisingly inhabited by a good number of patrons who had also been swindled out of their four dollars with the promise of seeing The Wolfman. None seemed too distraught, perhaps they had gotten the memo?
We stumbled our way down the sloping wooden floor, and plopped ourselves down in the antiquated chairs. Fortunately, the lights were dimmed just to the point that we could not make out the dust clouds that invariably arose from this action. Brian made comment on the asbestos caked ceiling, crumbled away at parts to reveal its powdery makeup. The scent of the theater—antiquated wood, mixed with moth-ridden fabric, tinged with a hint of mold, finely aged by dust—not unlike the old familiar smell of your grandfather’s 1950’s oldsmobile’s leather seats, or your grandmother’s chest of drawers hidden away in the attic since her wedding day—enveloped our bodies. The odor of time so pungent one could stick out their tongue and taste its hefty fog. With much wriggling, we positioned ourselves on our creaking seats to avoid the inevitable soreness, as best we could.
Suz made her dash to the bathroom, and returned to inform us she had overheard the couple at concessions mentioning to another patron that they were unable to secure the rights to show The Wolfman, and thus we found ourselves at this Charade charade.
A young woman took the stage, and peering from behind her phone, anxiously stumbled through her notes, introducing us to the film. With that, the afro pizza man turned off the lights individually, and rushed toward the stage to press the button. Just to add a cherry on top, so to speak, a large dead pixel in the projector blared an ominous red box at us throughout the film.
I’ll spare you the details of the film, and save you four dollars. It is in the public domain, and if you’ve never heard of Internet Archive before, look it up and thank me later! (I’ll even save you the searching: Charade 1963 - Internet Archive). The movie was full of clever twists and turns, topped with zany antics from the bygone Hollywood era—I can’t wait to introduce it to other friends.
We laughed, we cringed, we joked around, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
After the movie I returned to my car and headed for home. But the adventure doesn’t end there….
I don’t know if by providence or hijinks, the wrought-iron gates stood wide open. Their eerie gaping mouth, misted in shadow, beckoned my name.
I pulled hard left, swinging around to park parallel to the curb. Hmmm, that’s strange, very strange, I thought. But curiosity kills the cat (or at least immigrants in Springfield do… allegedly). Peering around, I cautiously opened my door and got out of my car. The open gates beckoned even harder, begging, with a sincerity that was almost audible.
Now, before I go too far, I don’t usually do this sort of thing… usually. Disclaimer out of the way, I crept the short distance along the tall iron fence, and paused in the road leading through the gates. I checked my surroundings once more—all was still. And so, I found myself sucked straight into the graveyard. My feet carried me quickly and quietly across the grounds, meandering amongst the tombstones. The humidity, wind speed, barometric pressure, and adiabatic cooling, were precisely perfect for a stroll such as this. Cool, crisp, refreshing—invigorating after the cave-like aura of the Rivoli theater.
As I rambled, I fought to suppress the picture-perfect memories from movies and books that involve creepy cemeteries, the kind of memories that spook you into running away (remember, Covid, asthma). Pet Sematary, nope, nope, don’t think about it. Night of the Living Dead, stop it! The glick boy cemetery passage in Salem’s Lot—oh hell no! I thought as I began to jog passed some headstones back towards my car. Lungs slowed me down to a walk, and I focused on clearing my mind. It was quite peaceful there. Eerily dark once you strayed far enough away from the street lights, but peaceful. I pondered on the meaning of the gates being open. Don’t they always lock them at night? Seems like they do, just in case, you know, keep these monsters in should re-animation occur. Must be some sort of Friday the 13th miracle—no doubt part of the driving force that persuaded me to this place.
I heard a noise and turned to see a car gliding its way across the marble-speckled field. Its headlights glared at me. I couldn’t outrun it, and I had entered the humble section of the cemetery, so there were no garish mausoleums to duck behind (not that there are really any in the Provo Cemetery anyway, sadly), only headstones placed flat in the ground. Imbibed on the elixir of Friday the 13th magic, I suddenly had the inspiration to snatch a nearby bouquet of flowers (sorry Delores!)—fresh enough to pass. The occupant of the car had clearly seen me by this time, as the car departed from the main path and squirreled around a lesser road in my direction. I walked calmly towards the open gates, but they were still a long ways off when the vehicle overtook me. “Hey kid, what are you doing here?” the elderly mustached man barked from his car window. “You shouldn’t be here, the cemetery is closed.”
“Oh,” I responded “but the gates were wide open.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be here.” He paused, stopping the car to get out.
I could see that he had some sort of official looking uniform on, that of a security guard.
“What are you doing here at a time like this anyhow?” he quizzed.
I angled the bouquet in his direction to indicate that I was not there for any grave robbing or T.S.O.L. Code Blue action.
“I’m looking for a grave.”
“Oh yeah, whose grave?” he spat out suspiciously.
Pausing a second to think my way out of this mess, a name jumped to mind
“Philo Farnsworth”, I stammered.
“Who’s that, your uncle or somethin’?”
“Uh no sir, not exactly, but he is a big hero of mine.”
The cemetery guard gave me a strange look, staring me down with his beady eyes.”
“He basically helped invent the tv,” I added to reduce some suspicion.
“Annnd you felt the urge to visit him late at night when the cemetery is closed?” He said, scrutinizingly.
“Well, sir, I didn’t know the cemetery was closed, as it wasn’t closed, that’s how I was able to get in,” I said, rustling the bouquet a little to draw merit to my tale. I fought back the urge to ask him what he was doing in the cemetery at night when it should have been closed, but knew the ice I was on was already thin enough.
“So, you came down here to visit the grave of some guy who invented television at this time of night?” He said, unbelievingly.
I raised the pitch of my voice and tried to channel my best k-pop fan-girl energy
“Well, sir, I just really really love tv,” I squealed. “It’s like the greatest invention ever!
Friends, oh oh, and Seinfeld, and the Office, the British version though, not the dumbed down version with Steve Carrell. And have you ever seen Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles?,” I asked, trying to throw him for a loop and make him think I’m a harmless fanatic who is maybe a little further along the autism spectrum than I really am (but only a little further).
“Well, kid, you should probably go home,” he said, easing up a little after taking my bait.
“You can visit Phil tomorrow when the cemetery is actually open.”
“Philo,” I said, correcting him to stay in character “you should visit his grave too, isn’t it so cool that he is buried right here in Provo?!”
“Uhh yeah, sure, kid. Now move along, I need to lock these gates up before anyone else stumbles in here.”
“Okay, yes sir officer,” I saluted, to finish the sale of my overeager fandom persona.
He returned to his car, and drove to the entrance, and began the process of closing up the creaky old gates. I sighed relief, and started to follow, but stopped dead in my tracks. I walked a few feet backwards, and set the bouquet carefully back by the tombstone I think I had borrowed from (I’ve had enough supernatural run-ins in my life I didn’t feel like risking another). Then I set a speedy pace along the roadway to the gate.
“See you tomorrow Mr Officer Sir,” I cheerily waved as I exited the gates. He turned from his fussing with the lock, scoffed, and waved adieu.
Boy that was a close one, I said aloud once in my car. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, and turned the key. “This is the strangest life I’ve ever known” Jim Morrison’s vocals belted from my stereo as if on perfect queue. “Boy, you can say that again Jimbo” I said to myself as I marveled at the peculiarity of the timing, and night’s experiences.
Sidenote: you never know when graveyard history facts will save your bacon!
I think I owe Philo T. Farnsworth some flowers.
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