By Mike Cline
For the Salisbury Post
Jimmy Pickett and I were close childhood friends. We did a lot of stuff together.
In September 1955, he and I chased his dog into the woods, resulting in our getting lost, causing a red alert for West Statesville for an entire afternoon. I have written about this previously.
Being good friends for about 10 years, we actually did things in which neither of us got into any trouble at all. I shall not address those incidents today.
Instead, I’ll dwell on two afternoons that ended with at least one of us in the dog house. Bob Hope and Bing Crosby traveled the roads to Bali, Morocco and Zanzibar. Jimmy Pickett and I traveled the road to punishment.
It began one morning in 1959. Jimmy and I were goofing off at my house when I suggested we go to the movies that afternoon to see “The Alligator People” at the State Theatre (one of Statesville’s two uptown/ downtown theaters).
“Yeah, I’ve seen the commercials for it on TV,” Jimmy said. “Let’s go.” I told him that Lon Chaney Jr. played the scientist whose experiments went wrong, resulting in his turning into an ugly gator. It had to be good.
I cleared it with my mother, so we headed to the Pickett house to ask his mom. She said no.
“That kind of movie isn’t fitting for 9-year-old boys, “ she said. Instead, she checked the local newspaper and said that a movie better suited for us was playing at the Playhouse (Statesville’s other theater). Regretfully, I can’t remember what that movie was.
So at 12:30, Mrs. Pickett drove Jimmy and me to the Playhouse, and as we jumped out of the car, she said, “Call me when you’re ready to come home.” And off she went.
Being the two red-blooded American moppits we were, we waited until she was out of sight, then we ran the two blocks to the town square, made a left turn and proceeded two more blocks to the State and bought our 15-cent tickets to see “The Alligator People.”
As far as we were concerned, “The Alligator People” was the “Citizen Kane” of its day. As we walked out of the State, Jimmy used the lobby phone to call home. “Mom, we’re ready. You can pick us up now.”
So we made a mad dash the four blocks back to the Playhouse, arriving in plenty of time to catch our ride home. Mrs. Pickett asked us how we liked the movie. “It was great, Mrs. Pickett,” I said. “Thanks for driving us.” And we went home, without incident.
At least a month passed, and one afternoon I found myself at the Pickett house in Jimmy’s bedroom, which he shared with his brother Billy. Billy (two years our senior) came home in a bad mood and immediately started in on Jimmy for messing up his bed, or something equally serious. I was then witness to a shouting match between the two siblings. Times like this made me appreciate being an only child.
Ironically, Billy brought up the fact that Jimmy was a “little baby,” such a baby, in fact, that he was too young to see movies like “The Alligator People.” In a fit of rage and without thinking, Jimmy blurted out, “That’s what you think! I saw ‘The Alligator People.’”
“You did not, Momma wouldn’t let you!” screamed big Billy.
“I went any way. Mike went with me,” was the unwise retort.
Immediately, grown-up and mature Billy ran from the bedroom yelling, “Momma, Jimmy went to see ‘The Alligator People!’” A few seconds later, the feminine voice at the bottom of the stairs was calling, “Jimmy, you come down here right now!”
The two of us made the long walk down the stairs. I went with my friend even though I hadn’t been summoned. I would have wanted him to go with me if the shoe were on the other foot. Parents might not be as mad if a non-family member were present.
Wrong. As soon as we got downstairs, Mrs. Pickett told me I had to go home right away, which I quickly did. Jimmy later told me that he got “the strap.” Now keep in mind, I hadn’t deceived my mother because she had given her blessing for me to see the sci-fi masterpiece. Yet I sweated the rest of the day, praying the telephone wouldn’t ring, and that Mrs. Pickett wouldn’t call to tell the Cline household what Jimmy and I had done.
My prayers were answered, the call never came. I’m guessing God had bigger fish to fry that day and didn’t want to get involved.
Several years later, I’m watching an episode of “Leave It To Beaver.” Wally and the Beav want to go see “Voodoo Curse,” but mother June Cleaver says boys shouldn’t see movies like that, but they can go see “Pinocchio” at the Valenchia.
Well, raise my rent, if Wally and Beaver (along with Eddie Haskell) didn’t do exactly what Jimmy and I did and pulled the “switcheroo” and went to the forbidden movie. Unfortunately, Beaver dropped his baseball cap in the wrong theater, and they got caught.
Kids always get caught eventually. One would think we would learn. Nope.
Dateline: 1961. Time now found me in the sixth grade. One afternoon in October, Jimmy and I are talking at the N.B. Mills bicycle rack after school one Monday. A fifth-grade underclassman named Eric exits the building wearing a brand new hat. As Eric prepares to mount his bike to go home, Jimmy yanks the hat off Eric’s head, tosses it to me and yells, “Keep away.”
So before I realize what’s happening, I’m sucked into this madness. Jimmy and I are throwing the hat back and forth with poor Eric scrambling between us trying to retrieve his headgear. I quickly tired of this, wanting to go home. So I tossed the hat back to Jimmy and said my goodbyes and rode off on my Schwinn. That’s the last I saw of the hat.
A couple of hours later, my father, mother and I were just sitting down for supper. This time the Cline telephone did ring. My mom answered. “Mike, it’s for you. It’s a lady.” I took the receiver and for the next 30 or so seconds got an earful from Eric’s mother, ending with the question, “Where is Eric’s hat?”
I told her my honest account of what had happened. “Jimmy had it when I left. I have no idea what happened after that.” She then asked for my father. My dad took the call and listened intently, ending with something like, “We will take care of it.”
Even as a kid, I knew this was not the kind of call my father, recently elected to the Statesville City Council, needed to receive. I could visualize the local headlines the next day — COUNCILMAN’S KID HAT THIEF.
Sadly, the entire supper conversation was the incident of Eric’s new hat, with the climax being that the Pickett and the Cline families would be splitting the cost of replacing the lost or destroyed head covering. Expecting corporal punishment after supper, I was surprised and temporarily delighted that I was to be grounded for the entire upcoming weekend. Couldn’t leave the house. Couldn’t even go outside into my own yard.
It’s only fitting that both of these incidents (as much of my life) are associated with the movies. First, “The Alligator People.” And now…
I’m in my room after supper doing homework when it dawned on me that the upcoming Saturday afternoon (while I’m confined) the Playhouse is having a double feature of “King Solomon’s Mines” and “Tarzan the Magnificent.” My plans had already been made. Seems as if every kid at school was going to attend. It was the talk of the school after we had all seen the previews the previous Saturday. I had to talk with my father and make other “punishment” arrangements.
So I approached him with my plan intact. I explained the importance of my attending the double feature. I offered to take a spanking (unpleasant at the moment, but then it’s over). I honestly spilled my guts to my father about the situation.
He said to me, “Son, this trip to the movies is really important to you, isn’t it?” (Now I’ve got him, I thought.)
“Yes sir, more than anything in the world. I’ll just die if I can’t go with everybody.”
“Then, next time, maybe you’ll think ahead a little before you do something again like you did today.”
And that was that. It was set in stone. I doubt Henry Kissinger could have negotiated with Bob Cline that night.
So for the next four days of school, I had to listen to all the guys’ excitement about going to the Playhouse on Saturday. And the following Monday, I had to hear them all talking about what a great show I had missed.
I believe even Jimmy Pickett went. Seems he got “the strap” again, and his attonement was finished. I’ll bet Eric was there too, maybe even wearing his new hat.
My mom told me what Jimmy and I had done to Eric was cruel. Of course, she was right. But don’t feel too sorry for Eric. During his senior year of high school, he won the Morehead Scholarship to UNC.
Did I mention I won an electric train at Dingler’s Drug Store?
Mike Cline lives just outside Salisbury. His website, “Mike Cline’s Then Playing,” documents every movie played in Rowan County theaters from 1920 to 1979.