Marboro Memories: Ushering in the Crazy, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Images from
the Internet
Anyone who has worked in retail or has been a
service provider knows that you have stories of dealing with the public. There
are lots of “Karen” videos out there on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, etc., but
even before and beyond that, dealing with both a public and oft times fellow
staff members, can be a challenge, to put it mildly. Here are some stories of
working as an Usher at the Marboro Theater, in southern Brooklyn. The theater,
I should add, had been torn down and is now a CVS chain pharmacy.
It was a big, single screen theater at the time (it would be broken into four separate theaters after I left). My job of Usher was to mostly stand in a particular
spot in the inner theater lobby by the water fountain on the left side. Because
I was positioned inside, I saw films many times. I didn’t often count,
but I do know that I saw American Graffiti about 160 times, and The
Sting about 140. The average film though, was probably about 40 times. I
did get to see a lot of what is now considered classics, such as O! Lucky
Man, Jesus Christ Superstar, Billy Jack (the second crowded run after all
the ads; the first showing held the record for the least amount of people in a
week at the Marboro of 14 paid tickets before I started working there), and Smoky
and the Bandit.
Being an Usher, as well as with many other front-line
employees, as is making the news lately, are usually paid minimum wage, and
know they are easily replaceable. Not only that, because we wear the “uniform,”
be it the company apron, a certain color shirt, or in my case a red jacket of
questionable material, a white shirt, black pants and shoes, and a clip-on bowtie,
we “represent” the company and any resentments were sure to come our way. Our Usher
slogan for the insanity was: “The Masses are Asses.”
* * *
My memories of being hired are a bit murky, but I
do believe I was recommended at a time when they were short of ushers, by my friend
David who worked there, albeit our time did not overlap for long as he left
shortly thereafter. I was seventeen years old in 1972, and a mere 110 pounds of
skin and bones (as I would remain for the next two decades). The problem was, I
was hired by an assistant manager while the manager, Mr. T_____, was on
vacation. He came back to a new employee that he had no say on hiring. When he returned,
he was not happy with me being there, not to mention I would find that he
really did not care for Jews. When David left shortly after, I was the only Jew
on staff during his tenure until 1975.
When I met Mr. T_____, I introduced myself as
Robert. Instantly, he started calling me Bobby. He didn’t ask, he just did.
Soon, all of the staff were calling me that. I didn’t complain because, as I
said, I was easily replaceable, even though it seemed like I was the only one
who swept up the popcorn from the lobby floor. So Bobby I was, and then for
some reason a couple of months later, to my face, he started calling me
Stanley. I was confused: on my paycheck, it said Robert; in front of the other Ushers,
he would call me Bobby; but when it was just the two of us, he called me
Stanley. I think there was someone in his life named Stanley he didn’t like, possibly
another Jew back in his home state of Minnesota, that he associated with me. He
was not a good person, and after some embarrassment that I don’t remember
exactly what, I put some sugar in his gas tank on my way out before heading
home for the night.
* * *
Bensonhurst was largely Italian back then, especially
the neighboring area around the theater, so it was natural to pick of a smattering
of the language. I probably know about 10 phrases and a bunch of words. One evening
I was walking through the lobby, sweeping as usual, when a gent who was
probably in his 60s came over to me and said something in Italian. I smiled at
him and said, “Non capisce Italiano.” Next thing I know, he is screaming
at me, in Italian. I’m baffled, so I repeat, “Signore, non capisce Italiano.”
He became even redder in the face, getting angrier. My look of confusion was
lost on him.
He was creating such a ruckus, one of the older
Ushers, Manny – who was Italian (as was most of the staff) – quickly
came over to find out what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I had
no idea, and he turn to the gent and, in Italian, asked a question. The man was
vigorously and repeatedly pointing his finger at me, yelling. Manny broke out
into a big laugh, which made the man even angrier. Manny calming talked to the guy,
pointing at me occasionally, and the man huffed, and walked away. He then
explain what happened:
The man had recently come from Italy and was embarrassed
that he did not understand English. Being in Bensonhurst, he assumed that everyone
who worked there must be (a) Italian and (b) speak Italian. Why he would come
to an English language film, I don’t know, but there you go. Manny said that he
needed to use the washroom and asked me where it was, and when I said that I
didn’t understand, apparently my little Italian was so good, he thought I was
mocking him, hence the anger.
* * *
The Marx Brothers’ film Animal Crackers (1930)
was a “lost” film due to a copyright fight, for over forty years, and was finally
reissued to theaters in 1974, including at the Marboro, to my delight. One
night, I was by the water fountain getting a drink, and when I looked up, I saw
a shadow on the wall. I turned around and I was surrounded by a guy. Yes, one
guy. He was huge, with slicked back hair, a pencil thin moustache, his polyester
shirt open to mid-chest, and his medallions stuck in the hairs of his chest.
The first thing he says to me is, “I’m gonna punch yer fuckin’ head in.”
Thinking fast, I looked him right in the eyes, and
said, “Hunh?!” with a crackling voice.
“I’m gonna punch yer head in. Whatcha gonna do
about it?”
Still looking at him in the face with my head tilted up at a 45-degree angle, I
said, “I’m gonna hit you on the side of your head with my flashlight.”
He replied, “Oh, yeah?” and proceed to measuredly cock his fist back, slow but
sure. Now, in my belt, I had my flashlight. It was one of those two-D battery heavy
black plastic ones with the red tip by the light. I quickly pulled it out and
backhanded him with it across his head. Hard. So hard, the flashlight
broke, the cap popped off and one of the batteries went flying, the lens was
cracked, and my hand was numb. His reaction? His head moved about an inch to
the side, and came back, looming over me.
I thought to myself in a brief second, “Well, that
is it; that was my best shot. I’m dead. It was a good life.”
His response? His fist came down, he smiled, and he
patted my shoulder, “I just wanted to see if you could protect yourself.” And
he walked away.
I walked over to Mr. T______’s office. The door was
closed, which meant he was counting the money (remember, it was only cash back
then), and it was forbidden to enter on threat of being fired. I swung the door
wide open.
On his desk were stacks of money. He turned bright
red as I sat down in the chair next to his desk, inches from the stacks. “Stanley,
what the hell do you think you’re doing!?!?” Then I started to shake
uncontrollably as the adrenaline caught up. He became so worried (probably how
it would reflect on the theater), he asked what happened. I told him the story,
and asked him to call the police. What was his response? That I should hide in
the balcony (which was closed except for busy shows and for the other Usher to
bring their conquests) until the show was over and the behemoth had left. Thank
you Mr. T______, for your support. At least I kept my job right then.
* * *
The other Ushers scored a lot, heading off to the
balcony for a quickie tryst. Honestly, the women that they hooked up with were
certainly not interested in a thin-as-a-rail, shy guy like me, though I
actually found it all amusing, except when I had to do the other Usher’s job because
they were literally screwing around.
One night, a woman about my age walked up to me,
wearing a pair of teeny shorts up to almost nothing, a tight top with cleavage
for miles, a short fuzzy jacket, hair the size of Texas, enough make-up to keep Max Factor going for
a year, 6-inch stiletto heels, chewing gum, and holding a clutch bag. She said,
“Where’s da bah’troom,” with a smug sense of privilege.
I pointed it out to her, and she turned around
without a thank you, and started walking way. I said, behind her, “You’re welcome,
mister.” I walked away as fast as possible, counting down from five. Almost on cue,
I heard a screech as it finally reached her brain: “Mistah?!”
* * *
Nearly all of the Ushers had day jobs in the
construction field. Because I was the only Usher who was attending or had
attended any post high school education, sometimes the other Ushers would occasionally
call me “Doc.” One day one of them, who was still in high school, brought one
of his friends in. “I hear your smart. Oh, yeah? What’s the square root of
[whatever number he gave me]?”
I smiled at him and said, “You just learned that in
school, right? I haven’t been to high school in years. Name five parts of the paramecium.
Can you?” He didn’t see that I turned it around on him, because I
was terrible in math. It was my shining Good Will Hunting moment.
* * *
Some of the Ushers had a con going, which I
honestly didn’t participate, because I did not want to go to jail, get fired,
or lose a possible recommendation. It was a co-conspiracy between the cashier,
the doorman and the Usher (although not all of them were doing it). It went as
follows: the cashier would sell the ticket (remember, it was cash only). The doorman
would rip the ticket. The customer often would throw the stub on the lobby
floor. The Usher would pick up the stub and give it to the doorman. When another
customer came in, he would pretend to rip the ticket and palm the whole one, and
then give the used stub to the customer. He would then give the unripped ticket
to the cashier to resell. They would then split the money three ways. They were
making on average $50 to $100 a night when it was busy. I was told that most of
them spent it on food or pot. None of it was saved apparently, and in my years
there, no one was ever caught, either.
* * *
During one of the local elections, a neighborhood Assemblyman for the 47th District named Frank Barbaro (pronounced BAR-ba-ro; d. 2016) was up for re-election. He held a fundraiser at the Marboro, and I took the tickets. The special guests were husband-and-wife acting team of Joseph Bologna (d. 2017) and Renée Taylor. Before the show, Frank came in with his wife, Mary (though she was called Patty) and Mr. T______ and went to pin a button on the lapel of my flammable red jacket. I said, “No thank you.” Confused, he asked why not.
I explained, “You are my Assemblyman, and I don’t vote for you because you are often absent for votes.” His wife, in anger (and my boss was not pleased either, I could easily tell), said, “That’s because he was in court defending a tenant’s rights!”
My response was, “Even so, any lawyer could represent a client in court, but only you can vote, which affects more people than a court case with a single client.” At that moment I thought, well, this was a good job…”
Instead, to his credit, Frank laughed out loud, shook my hand, and
said he respected that I said that, and turned to Mr. T______ and said, “I like
this guy. Don’t let him lose his job over this.” And I didn’t…over that.
I took pictures of the show, but my camera was new
and I didn’t have a flash, so the pictures all came out too dark and blurry,
sadly. Barbaro was re-elected and served until 1996, and still remained absent where he was
needed most. I never did vote for him, including when he ran for mayor against Ed Koch.
* * *
When Jaws (1975) played, it was huge, and
the theater was pretty consistently packed. Let me give a quick logistical
aside so this makes sense: the cashiers booth was inside the outer lobby of the
theater. The Theater was on Bay Parkway, a four-lane street that was extremely
busy. Most of the time, when people lined up, if the line went out the doors,
the queue continued along the side of the building and down the block. But not
for one Saturday afternoon of Jaws.
As the people lined up and it went out the doors,
rather than turning and hugging the building along the sidewalk, they went
straight out into the middle of the street. When I first saw this, they were
about a car’s length into the road, and shortly the line made it out past the
yellow line road separator. Buses and cars were having to go into the opposite
lane to get around them. They honked their horns, but no one would move because
keeping their place in line was more important than safety. Kind of the same
mentality of those who will not wear masks during a pandemic. I stood there and
watched, amused to see what would happen, wondering if anyone would catch on.
At this point, Mr. T______ came out the door and I
sprung into action, shepherding the people to line up along the storefronts.
Calamity was saved, but I wonder how long they would have kept lining up into
the street.
Jaws was also a turning point in when I started to get
fired, and I got fired a lot from the Marboro. The first time was during Jaws,
in 1975.
During the film showing, they issued special Jaws-designed
cups that sold for a dollar extra as souvenirs. Basically they were harder
plastic with the Jaws poster on them. We were told by Mr. T______ that
someone was taking them out of the stock room, and it had to stop. I was fairly
sure I knew who was taking them, but had no proof.
One day, I was in the balcony during my break, and
I saw five or six sleeves of the cups tucked away among the seats. I went down
and told Mr. T______ about it, and said, “If you keep your eye on them, you can
catch whoever is taking them.” I thought that might put me in some better
graces with the curmudgeon. Two days later, I get a phone call with him
accusing me of taking them, and he fired me.
A few months later, I got a phone call from the new
manager. Apparently, Mr. T_____ got into an altercation with some people trying
to sneak into the theater and had his hand broken when the thugs slammed one of
the exit doors on it. He retired, and the other Ushers urged the new manager –
he had a long Italian name that I no longer recall, but everyone called him Mr.
D – to rehire me since I had also been doing their chore of cleaning, and he asked
me if I wanted the job back. And I did. We got along pretty well.
A few months later, Mr. D was having a conversation
in the lobby of the theater with the district manager (DM). The DM said he
wanted Mr. D. to hire his nephew as an Usher. Mr. D explained that there was no
room for anyone else on the schedule. “Just get rid of someone,” pressed the DM.
“And who am I supposed to fire for no reason?”
At that moment, I came into the lobby with the broom to do the cleaning, and
the DM pointed to me and said, “Him.” Fired a second time. Two weeks later,
when the nephew was caught with his hands literally in the till, he was gone
and I was back.
A year or so later, I walked through the lobby near
the end of the evening and saw the elderly woman behind the candy counter
cleaning out the popcorn bin with the broom I had just used to sweep the floor.
Yecch is right. I was upset and explained to her about how unsanitary
and disgusting that was. I should have thought first, because she was the
assistant manager’s wife. Let go for the third time. Thing is though, they were
in their later ‘70s or early ‘80s, and I was their ride home (they gave me two
bucks to drive them, though I offered to do it for free, but it would have been
$5 or more for car service) in the late hour, and they did not feel safe
waiting on the street for the car, so they had me hired back.
Finally, a few weeks later, Mr. D took me aside and
explained that it was embarrassing to the company that I kept being fired and
rehired, so he was having me transferred to another theater in the Bay Ridge neighborhood,
called The Alpine. I said my farewells and moved on to the new theater in 1978,
where I worked for another 3 years or so.
* * *
Some of my adventures at the Alpine are HERE.
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