DRIVE IN MOVIES by Gary Soto (1952)
For our family, movie going was rare. But if our mom, tired from a week of candling eggs,1 woke up happy on a Saturday morning,
there was a chance we might later scramble to our blue Chevy and beat nightfall to the Starlight Drive-In. My brother and sister
knew this. I knew this. So on Saturday we tried to be good. We sat in the cool shadows of the TV with the volume low and watched
cartoons, a prelude of what was to come.
One Saturday I decided to be extra good. When she came out of the bedroom tying her robe, she yawned a hat-sized yawn and blinked
red eyes at the weak brew of coffee I had fixed for her. I made her toast with strawberry jam spread to all the corners and set the
three boxes of cereal in front of her. If she didn’t care to eat cereal, she could always look at the back of the boxes as she drank her coffee.
I went outside. The lawn was tall but too wet with dew to mow. I picked up a trowel2 and began to weed the flower bed. The weeds
were really bermuda grass, long stringers that ran finger-deep in the ground. I got to work quickly and in no time crescents of earth
began rising under my fingernails. I was sweaty hot. My knees hurt from kneeling, and my brain was dull from making the trowel go up
and down, dribbling crumbs of earth. I dug for half an hour, then stopped to play with the neighbor’s dog and pop ticks from his poor
snout.
I then mowed the lawn, which was still beaded with dew and noisy with bees hovering over clover. This job was less dull because as I
pushed the mower over the shaggy lawn, I could see it looked tidier. My brother and sister watched from the window. Their faces
were fat with cereal, a third helping. I made a face at them when they asked how come I was working. Rick pointed to part of the lawn.
“You missed some over there.” I ignored him and kept my attention on the windmill of grassy blades.
While I was emptying the catcher, a bee stung the bottom of my foot. I danced on one leg and was ready to cry when Mother showed
her face at the window. I sat down on the grass and examined my foot: the stinger was pulsating. I pulled it out quickly, ran water
over the sting and packed it with mud, Grandmother’s remedy.
Hobbling, I returned to the flower bed where I pulled more stringers and again played with the dog. More ticks had migrated to his snout.
I swept the front steps, took out the garbage, cleaned the lint filter to the dryer (easy), plucked hair from the industrial
wash basin in the garage (also easy), hosed off the patio, smashed three snails sucking paint from the house (disgusting but fun), tied
a bundle of newspapers, put away toys, and, finally, seeing that almost everything was done and the sun was not too high, started
waxing the car.
My brother joined me with an old gym sock, and our sister watched us while sucking on a cherry Kool-Aid ice cube. The liquid wax
drooled onto the sock, and we began to swirl the white slop on the chrome. My arms ached from buffing, which though less boring
than weeding, was harder. But the beauty was evident . The shine, hurting our eyes and glinting like an armful of dimes, brought
Mother out. She looked around the yard and said, “Pretty good.” Shewinced at the grille and returned inside the house.
We began to wax the paint. My brother applied the liquid and I followed him rubbing hard in wide circles as we moved around the
car. I began to hurry because my arms were hurting and my stung foot looked like a water balloon. We were working around the
trunk when Rick pounded on the bottle of wax. He squeezed the bottle and it sneezed a few more white drops.
We looked at each other. “There’s some on the sock,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
We polished and buffed, sweat weeping on our brows. We got scared when we noticed that the gym sock was now blue. The paint was
coming off. Our sister fit ice cubes into our mouths and we worked harder, more intently, more dedicated to the car and our mother.
We ran the sock over the chrome, trying to pick up extra wax. But there wasn’t enough to cover the entire car. Only half got waxed, but
we thought it was better than nothing and went inside for lunch. After lunch, we returned outside with tasty sandwiches.
Rick and I nearly jumped. The waxed side of the car was foggy white. We took a rag and began to polish vigorously and nearly in
tears, but the fog wouldn’t come off. I blamed Rick and he blamed me. Debra stood at the window, not wanting to get involved. Now,
not only would we not go to the movies, but Mom would surely snap a branch from the plum tree and chase us around the yard.
Mom came out and looked at us with hands on her aproned hips. Finally, she said, “You boys worked so hard.” She turned on the garden
hose and washed the car. That night we did go to the drive-in. The first feature was about nothing, and the second feature, starring
Jerry Lewis, was Cinderfella . I tried to stay awake. I kept a wad of homemade popcorn in my cheek and laughed when Jerry Lewis fit
golf tees in his nose. I rubbed my watery eyes. I laughed and looked at my mom. I promised myself I would remember that scene with
the golf tees and promised myself not to work so hard the coming Saturday. Twenty minutes into the movie, I fell asleep with one hand
in the popcorn.
