In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [106]
“The shipment was wrong this week. You can exchange this Gravy Boat for a dinner plate next week.”
Vaguely uneasy at this unexpected break in the rhythm of dish collecting, the women filed into the theater, bearing redundant Gravy Boats.
The third Friday was significantly marked by a sudden avenging rainstorm that grew in intensity until, as the Orpheum hour approached, it became a genuine cloudburst. Women scuttled through the dark, howling rain, carrying paper-wrapped Gravy Boats, to be met at the turnstile by Mr. Doppler and a shamefaced crew surrounded by cases of more dry, shining Gravy Boats.
“Bring all your Gravy Boats in next week. We will positively exchange them next week. The shipment.…”
The tide had turned. What had been, weeks before, a gay rabble of happy ticket buyers had become a menacing, pushing, dispirited mob.
All through that fourth week a strange quiet hung over Lake County. Even the weather seemed to reflect a sinister mood of watchful waiting. Fitful dry winds blew across the rooftops; screen doors creaked in the night, dogs bayed at the sullen moon, and children cried out in their sleep.
That fourth Friday turned unexpectedly cold, a chill, clammy cold somehow suggestive of the Crypt; mysterious tombs, deserted caves. Solitary dark-clad women bearing shopping bags full of Gravy Boats converged on the Arena.
By 7 P.M. a murky clot of humanity milled under the marquee and spilled out raggedly along the gloomy, shuttered street. The doors remained shut. Seven-five. Seven-ten. A few in the forefront of the rabble tapped demandingly on the wrought brass gateway. Seven-fifteen. It was obvious that something was up. Seven-twenty, the doors finally, reluctantly, swung open.
As the vanguard approached the turnstile, they knew the worst had come to pass. For the first time in many weeks Mr. Doppler was absent from his post of honor. Two weedy substitute ushers, unknown strangers, eyes downcast, handed to each ticket holder another Gravy Boat, the fourth in as many weeks. Each Gravy Boat was received in stony silence, quietly stuffed into shopping bag or hatbox, completing a set of four carried hopelessly for exchange.
The feature that night was The Bride of Frankenstein, the story of a man-made monster that returned to pursue and crush his creator. For long moments the house lay in darkness and almost complete silence, waiting for Mr. Doppler’s next move. On this night no gay music played through the theater loudspeakers. No Coming Attractions. The candy counter was dark and untended, as though Mr. Doppler himself felt the impending end near.
The mothers waited. A sudden blinding spotlight made a big circle on the maroon curtain next to the cold, silent screen and then, out of the wings stepped Mr. Doppler to face his Moment of Truth.
He cleared his throat before speaking into the ringing silence. No microphone tonight. He seemed to have shrunken somehow, his eyes erased by black shadows in that blue light. His tie was a little crooked and for the first time scuff marks and dust marred the gleaming toes of his black pumps. His coal black suit was vaguely rumpled.
“Ladies.” He began plaintively, “I have to apologize for tonight’s Gravy Boat.”
A lone feminine laugh, mirthless and arid, mocking, punctuated his pause. He went on as though unhearing.
“I give you my personal guarantee that next week.…”
At this point a low, subdued hissing arose spontaneously. The sound of cold venom landing on boiling lava began to rise from the depths of the void. Doppler, his voice bravely raised, continued:
“Next week I personally guarantee we will exchange all Gravy Boats for.…”
Then it happened. A dark shadow sliced through the hot beam of the spotlight, turning over and over and casting upon the screen an enormous magnified outline of a great Gravy Boat. Spinning over and over, it crashed with a startling suddenness on the stage at Doppler’s feet. Instantly a blizzard of Gravy Boats filled the air. Doppler’s voice rose to a wail.
“LADIES! PLEASE! WE WILL EXCHANGE.