Everybody's a dreamer and everybody's a star,
And everybody's in movies, it doesn't matter who you are.
There are stars in every city,
In every house and on every street,
And if you walk down Hollywood Boulevard
Their names are written in concrete!
Harley, Movies & Sharp-Tongue Midgets
"Come on, man. Say it," Harley demanded.
"What?" I asked, knowing exactly what he wanted.
Harley and I were on our way to seeing the latest film with Clint Eastwood, The Outlaw Josie Wales. Harley had a passion for movies like no other. He would often memorize lines from movies and then he would have me prompt him with a line from the film.
"Go ahead, say it," he continued. "Like this . . . God, you're square."
Harley cued me again to hit the higher pitch and imitate Iris the 12-year-old prostitute played by Jodie Foster in the film Taxi Driver.
"God you're square," I said.
"Noooo!" Harley shot. "Like Iris, goddammit!"
I raised the pitch in my voice and added a little New York accent. "God, you're square."
Harley reacted to the accent with pleasure, his chin lowered and he's head began to bob. I started to laugh as he was turning into De Niro before my eyes. He gave me a look as if to say, so you think I'm funny. He stopped bobbing, tilting his head toward me, his eyebrows lifted. He was De Niro and I could tell he wanted me to say it . . . Now!
"God you're square," I said, hitting the right pitch.
"Hey, I'm not square, you're the one that's square. You're full of shit, man. What are you talking about? You walk out with those fuckin' creeps and low-lifes and degenerates out on the streets and you sell your little pussy for peanuts?"
I started to laugh. Harley continued, never coming out of character.
"For some low-life pimp who stands in the hall? And I'm square? You're the one that's square, man. I don't go screwing fuck with a bunch of killers and junkies like you do. You call that bein' hip? What world are you from?" Harley gave me a sarcastic Di Nero smirk.
I looked at him laughing. "You talking to me," I murmured in feeble attempt to capture Di Nero's persona.
"Wow, you need some work," Harley groaned.
We were now standing in front of the theater looking up to the marquee lights surrounding the film's title and Clint Eastwood's name. In my best Dirty Harry impersonation I said, "Go ahead punk, make my day."
Harley turned to me as if to lecture me on the fine art of Clint personification and says, "What I think you're trying to say is: Do you feel lucky? Well, do you punk? But that was pretty good." Harley acknowledged.
Harley didn't do well in school, quite often D's and F's, but he could quote from films verbatim. At the time, I didn’t realize this big kid at fourteen and half years old was a mentor, and the films we watched were our school of life.
The marquee lights cast a warm glow over Harley and me as we stood there for a moment, perhaps both thinking of another catchphrase from one of Clint's or Di Nero's films.
Harley pulled from his pocket a pack of cigarettes, removed one and then lit it. He held the box out to me and handed me his Zippo lighter. I couldn't resist. It was Harley. I took one and lit it.
"After we get out of school, I say we head west and become movie stars." Harley smiled looking up at the sign.
"Cool" is all I could muster up as I coughed exhaling some smoke.
"We'll both be up there someday in a movie starring: Harley Peters, and Harry Lory." Harley stopped for a moment and took a drag. "Lory is kind of fag. You're going to have to get a better name... How 'bout Bickle... Harry Bickle?"
"Are you serious? It rhymes with pickle." I objected.
"It worked for Travis and De Niro," he said.
"Harry Bickle, huh." I'll think about it," and I did.
Near us was the ticket booth. In it sat an elderly woman cashier taking money from a couple at the head of a long line of enthusiastic moviegoers. It looked to be a good showing. Inside the glass front doors of the theater, an usher stood taking tickets. It was the night-manager. His name was Mr. Adolphson and he didn't like kids. I never saw him smile or say hello to anyone. His job as far as I could tell was to take tickets, pour huge bags of popcorn into the popcorn machines, and keep all the non-paying riffraff, like myself, out. As much as Harley and I disliked Mr. Adolphson we were envious of his job—at least the watching movies for free part of it.
Whereas the ticket price for a movie was relatively cheap—$2.50 here at the Cinema 70—Harley and I had no intention of paying. In fact, the majority of the films we viewed that summer was through the covert and illegal art of sneaking into a movie.
"Perfect timing," Harley smiled, as we moved quickly passed the line of patrons that stretched to the corner of the building. We stood there a moment, as if waiting for someone, but we were actually watching the exit doors of the theater.
A man and a woman came out. We swiftly moved towards the doors dropping our cigarettes as we went. More people exitedt, most were laughing and appeared to have enjoyed the film, some even saying; “Let's see it again.”
Harley and I nonchalantly worked our way through the exit doors into a small room packed with people still leaving. Just beyond this room and the next door sat the theater, where we could see the house lights were still up. Patrons continued passing us, and at the other end of the theater, up by the exit doors—below the projectionist booth—people were still continuing to leave.
The Cinema 70 was state of the art: rocking back chairs, three columns across, housing 600 chairs with a section of 200 seats having ashtrays attached to their backs. We were close to the bottom right of the screen and each time someone exited we could see the seats getting more empty. The timing had to be right. If we entered too soon while the lights were up, the projectionist, while changing reels, might get a glimpse of us entering from the rear exit door. If we came in too late, there might be some people up towards the front that would report us to Mr. Adolphson. We stood patiently in the small room. We could see a few people entering the theater from the front entrance. The last of the exiting patrons passed us and the lights went off.
We quickly crouched down to our knees and moved swiftly to the far walls. The seats would block anyone from seeing us from above. Harley moved to the three rows from the front and about six seats from the sidewall where he went into a chair, hidden from anyone from above. I moved to the fourth row back and just one seat from the aisle that separated the screen-left-rows of seats from the center seats. As I heard more people entering, I began to sit up. Harley's plan was "if you get caught just book like hell out the exit.” My plan was always slightly different. If Mr. Adolphson were to make it to me and ask for a ticket, I'd point to the seat next to me and say, my friend has the tickets, he's getting some popcorn. Buying time to make a decision to exit or hide in some other seat. I would eventually have to use the routine only once that summer through all the times we had sneaked in. It worked by the way.
Clint was at his best and this had to be one of his finest westerns I had ever seen. So good, Harley and I decided to stay for a second showing. Our concerns for getting tossed out were highly diminished by the fact that we had just seen the film; so we confidently got up from our seats, went up to the concession stand in the full light of the theater's lobby and purchased some popcorn. We also assumed Mr. Adolphson would think we were paying customers having seen us just exit the theater with all the other paying customers. It became rather routine with us and it worked with most of the theaters that summer.
As we exited the theater—the second time—Harley stopped before heading to a bathroom. He had a straw in his mouth and in his best Eastwood he spit on the ground and said, "Dyin' ain't much of a livin', boy." I laughed.
"You see they're letting Indians have leads and Lone Watie had some of the best lines. You see how easy it'll be for us when we go to Hollywood. We can start as extras. You ever ride a horse?" Harley asked.
"Yes," I said, neglecting to tell Harley it had only been a Shetland Pony at some small carnival when I was three. The only way I remembered the experience was through a photograph my mother had taken and displayed in every house we lived in.
"I could ride a horse," Harley said, "I'll see you outside." He exited towards the bathroom.
As I stood outside, my thoughts revisited the movie. I pictured Clint in all his coolness mowing down men with his expert marksmanship. I had a straw in my mouth and I chewed it like a small cigar. I worked some saliva and then spit it out the side of my mouth, part of it made it to my shirt, but the majority hit my target a weathered magazine lying at my feet. And then as I stood and waited underneath the lights of the marquis of the Cinema 70 considering the idea of being in the movies and hanging out with Harley, and Clint, and Di Nero . . . Someone punched me in the back.
I turned around quickly to find Edwin Richards, the smallest wise ass that ever walked the planet.
"What are you doin', spaz?" he said sarcastically.
Edwin was the youngest of four brothers; all of which loved to fight and start trouble. Not only was Edwin the smallest . . . He was also the most evil. He was two years older than me while the top of his head only reached my chest. His shortness was probably the reason he was such a pain in the ass. I wanted to kick his ass every time I saw his face because ever time I saw his face he would start some shit.
"Give me your money," he demanded.
He wasn't with anyone, at the moment, but I was sure one or two of his bigger friends or brothers were nearby. Besides the fact that I never fancied myself as a fighter, if I were to get into a fight with this sharp-tongued midget, I would, one: look like a bully because of the size difference, two: might not win and look like a pansy, and three: get my ass beat every day by his brothers for the rest of my life. It was a no win situation.
He hit my pockets checking for change. "What's that?" he asked after smacking the loose change in my pocket. If I had any paper bills, they would have been kept in my shoes just for these moments.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out about 45 cents. With my palm open I said, "I think I can help you out, Edwin. I've got some extra."
He snatched the change from my hand just as Harley was exiting the glass doors of the theater. Before Harley made it to me Edwin's backup, Lonnie Logan, a tall, lanky kid came walking up.
"You got any more?" Edwin popped the top pocket of my shirt. "What about in your shoes?" he said. Lonnie knew the routine and he now started to crowd me.
"Edwin, what's up?" Harley said as he walked up. "Harry, you know these guys?"
I felt slightly relieved knowing I had a back-up, especially Harley.
Edwin backed off. "Hey Harley, you know this guy?" He said. His tough guy demeanor diminished. Lonnie backed away.
Harley had a reputation as a bulldog of a fighter. He didn't care who he fought or when. He never considered losing to someone bigger or smaller than him. He just didn't care. He actually loved fighting. And he was a dirty fighter, none of that stand-up Marquess of Queensberry shit, it was biting, head-butts, punches to the groin, mad dog tactics with Harley. I'd seen him fight a guy, Danny Teeko, two years older than him and twenty pounds heavier. Danny seemed to get the best of Harley and the fight appeared to be over: Harley was underneath Danny and couldn't move. Harley says, "Uncle . . . I give up. You win." So Danny gets off Harley. While Harley is getting up from the ground, he reaches out to Danny to shake his hand, as if to say you're a better fighter than me. Then Harley pulls him down, slams a left hook into Danny's ear almost knocking him out cold and then Harley jumps on his chest and plows a barrage of lefts and rights into Danny's face. This particular fight indisputably verified Harley as one "bad ass crazy motherfucker".
"I was just talking to Edwin and Lonnie." I said confidently.
Harley walked to where Lonnie was standing and gave him a quick jab to the chest. Harley often greeted people this way. Lonnie nervously tried to laugh it off while backing away. It was obvious his fear of Harley.
"What you got there?" Harley said to Edwin pointing to the change he had just snatched out of my hand.
"Just some change," Edwin replied.
Harley just looked at him for a moment. Edwin looked back. There seemed to be an unwritten law between these young extortionists as if they knew demanding money from a fellow extortionist was inappropriate and showed a lack of respect. Edwin also knew Harley didn't care what people thought about him kicking Edwin's ass or scraping with Edwin's brothers.
To save face (as well as his ass) Edwin held the money out to Harley and said. "Here, why don't you buy yourself a coke? On me."
Harley took the money and for a moment I expected him to hand it to me, but then that would have been kind of pansy on his part as well as on my part by taking it. He didn't thank Edwin. And Edwin and Lonnie just kind of disappeared into another group of kids.
Harley pulled the straw he had been chewing earlier from his top pocket. He put it in his mouth and worked up a bit of saliva before spitting it out in the direction Edwin and Lonnie exited. He deepened his voice and again found Clint's persona.
"When I get to likin' someone, they ain't around long." He said.
I remembered Lone Watie's words I had heard earlier in the film as well as in all the trailers, and in my best noble aging red man impersonation, I said, "I notice when you get to Dislikin' someone they ain't around for long neither."
Harley laughed. "You ever shoot a gun?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You ever shoot a gun while riding a horse?"
"Not yet."
"Someday, we will," he smiled.
It felt good to know Harley was my friend. In fact, he was the closest friend I had ever had with all the moving around my parents had done. I even wished my dad was like Harley, strong and funny and could quote Eastwood or Di Nero, and in a kind of dorky way, a protector from all the dangers of being 13. It was also nice to know that my worth as a 13-year-old was elevated to the status of fear just by my association with Harley. I had always been an outsider: the new kid, the new student, the new boy, shy and timid and Harley made me feel like I was finally part of something. I wasn't exactly sure what that something was, but I knew it was different from the past that often seemed lonely. I also realized I couldn't tell him about Rita and that time at the pool, and that I had been talking on the phone every night with her since.
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