Front Row Rebel

By Loretta Redd

The movie theater brought young and old, rich and poor, and eventually, all races together for a shared journey into a world of imagination. Set against the background of the Jim Crow South, through the Depression and two world wars, Walter Wilby takes on not only taboos of class and race, but the pernicious cartel syste

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crisis Navigation Communication
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986640013

Loretta Redd

Loretta Redd is southern born and raised but has lived in California for twenty years. Her doctorate in psychology helps to get into the minds and motivations of her characters, though the people in this book are based on actual history and members of her family. She learned early in childhood that assumptions about truth, whether regarding relationships, business or politics, are rarely accurate. A former Air Force Captain, Executive Coach, political writer and author of Unjust by Coincidence, Dr. Redd melds a lifetime of experience with memories of strong women, imaginative men and determined youth.

Book preview

FrontRowRebel_coverFront Row Rebel: A Novel by Loretta Redd. Crisis Navigation Press 2022

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, ­institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Loretta Redd

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 979-8-9866400-0-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9866400-1-3 (ebook)

Crisis Navigation Press

813 Paseo Alicante

Santa Barbara, CA 93103

To my tribe of family, friends and fellow writers who insisted this story be told. As the original front row rebel, I can only hope it would make my grandfather proud.

Contents

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About the Author

1.

Sweat trickled down my neck and slid past my shoulder blades to soak through to my graduation robe. It was the only thing that moved in the summer sultriness other than the provost’s jaw, his endless speech every bit as boring as his lectures on deflection of light and absorption of heat. Gold and white were the school colors at Atlanta’s Georgia Institute of Technology, yet here we sat, draped in black.

I glowered at the professors seated comfortably on the shaded stage, nudged my head-bobbing classmate before he began to snore. He wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, slipped a mechanical pencil from inside his robe and scribbled on the back of his commencement program. Always handy to have an engineer around, I thought.

Got a job yet? he wrote.

Edison Labs, I replied, Menlo Park, NJ.

I hadn’t actually received an offer of employment, but only a matter of time before one of my endless letters of inquiry gained someone’s attention. Each grew more bold as I neared my degree in electrical engineering. Went so far as to suggest improvements to some of Edison’s inventions, especially the Vitascope moving picture machine.

I was no taller than a grown man’s belt buckle first time I wove through a forest of legs to tuck myself under the ledge at the end of a bar. Safe from projectiles of chewing tobacco and spilled whiskey, I stared at an old sheet stretched between two poles and wondered what the excitement was all about.

Dimly illuminated figures finally appeared on the cloth, no different from the photographs on our mantle at home…until they began to move. That was where my dreams began—dreams that kept me awake at night, dreams that came to life on the simmering screen of my imagination.

Walter Wilby.

My name snapped me out of a humid daze. My legs almost buckled as I stood, numb from the edge of the wooden bleachers. Every grade, every class, two W’s put me at the end of the roll. Today it was a blessing, as lyrics to the alma mater were halfway finished by the time I made it to the stage. Sheepskin diploma secure in my sweaty palm, I flipped the mortarboard tassel right to left and joined the crush of freshly minted alumni, in search of my parents.

Well, my father said.

The one-word I’d heard for twenty years. Only a slight inflection distinguished its translation from one of delight to disappointment, even dismay. Today may have been all three. I scanned for a familiar smile behind the fluttering paper fans. Where’s Mama?

In this heat? You’ll see her when we get back home. That is, unless you’ve got a job to get to?

He let the question hang in the thick air. Listed various opportunities that awaited me in Selma, from his dry goods store to the Savings and Loan. The thought of standing at a teller window morning to night held no more excitement than selling his knickknacks and novelties. Wouldn’t have majored in engineering, or even gone to college, if that were the extent of my dream.

I’d managed to save most of the stipend I’d received as equipment manager for Georgia Tech’s athletic department. Fancy title for a guy who inflated pigskins, dug mud out of cleats and polished baseball bats, but the pay was sufficient to free me from living under my father’s roof.

I’m waiting to hear back from Mr. Edison, I said, as if my employment were a foregone conclusion.

Well, he repeated.

We heaved my trunk into the back of our Ford model T. I ran back to the Student Union one last time, gown flapping like wings of blackbird. The nameplate on my mailbox had already been changed to that of an incoming freshman. I used the pencil pilfered from my snoozing classmate and wrote the forwarding address of Selma’s only boardinghouse. No one around, I gave the card an added kiss for good luck.

You know where to find me.

The edges of the poster tacked to the building curled in the late August sun. Faded hand-painted letters across the featured films and vaudeville acts read

broke mushine

. Mack Jackson’s Bama Bar was an institution among the blue-collar crowd. Known for cheap beer and cheap women, it thrived on day laborers, farmhands and traveling salesmen.

I’d never dared to venture inside, but I was down to my last dollar and rent was due. The sticky doorknob turned as a wave of dank air slapped me in the face. The sting and stink of lingering smoke stung my eyes. I stood there blinking, trying to adjust to the dark.

You lost, son? a voice boomed. Get in or get out.

I crossed the cavernous, near empty room, too late to retreat unnoticed. The proprietor’s greasy hair reflected the lone light fixture overhead. A smoldering cigar balanced on the edge of the bar. Judging from numerous burn marks, it was a common practice.

Saw your poster out front, I said. Thought maybe I could help fix your…machine?

Don’t exactly strike me as the handyman type, he growled. Straightened a make-believe tie, gave the lapels of his pretend suit a yank before crushing my outstretched hand.

Walt Wilby, I said. Degree in engineering, Georgia Tech.

I stepped back quickly when he bent down behind the bar. College rivalries were intense in the South. He didn’t strike me as a graduate of anything but hard times, but this was the Bama Bar, which meant I could get walloped for nothing more than seeking higher education in Georgia.

He straightened up with a loud grunt, arms around a large, heavy object wrapped in a dirty bar towel. Name’s Mack, he said, yanked the cloth away like a clumsy magician to reveal a decrepit looking projector. This here’s what’s broke, college boy.

I hauled it over to the window, used what little sun could penetrate the grime for a better inspection. A chewed-up piece of celluloid was stuck between rusted gears. A broken flywheel and a burned-out condenser bulb left me doubtful there was any hope of resurrection.

My stomach growled, every bit as empty as my pockets. What’s it worth to you? I asked.

He offered a chit for a night of free beer. I countered with four bits, just enough to cover two weeks’ room and board. His Hell no response softened when I turned my back on the half-dissected contraption and wished him luck. Told me to sit down and get to work, not in the nicest of terms.

I’ll need an oiled rag and a screwdriver I said. And any spare parts you’ve got squirreled away. No guarantees.

I wanted to take my time, use the methods of assessment I’d learned at school, but the place was too full. Tobacco juice, spit through gaping dentures, missed my head by inches. One drunken jostle and the disassembled parts would be lost beneath the soles of heavy work boots. Up at the bar, rowdy customers scratched their unshaven chins, lifted their mugs in my direction and shook their heads like I didn’t have sense to get out of the rain. I caught the words Georgia Tech and purdy boy more than once.

You’re Wilby’s kid, ain’tcha? The body odor arrived before the man did, a decided limp on uneven legs, years of grimace carved in his face. They call me Shorty. I built yore pa’s display cases. The man just wouldn’t shut up ’bout you. I wondered if we were talking about the same person. I got a day’s pay riding on ya, he said. Pointed over at Mack, busy taking bets on my repair skill.

Shorty held one of the rusted parts between his calloused fingers and eyeballed it. I figured he wouldn’t know a flywheel from a flyswatter, ’til he flipped his pen knife open and freed it with a simple flick of the blade.

I gestured to an empty chair, figured I could breathe through my nose if it improved the odds of a roof over my head.

Did ya like Mack’s moving pictures? I asked.

He leaned over close enough for me to see the roadmap of broken vessels in his nose. Like ’em? …I loved ’em! Pulled up the leg of his coveralls and pointed to what was left of his knee.

Them pictures was the only thing ever took my mind off this pain. We all ’bout cried when Mack done broke it.

I tinkered with a few more adjustments, gingerly removed the half-melted condenser bulb like a skilled surgeon. Covered the new bulb with my handkerchief, careful not to touch the glass, and pressed it into place. Let’s give her a try, I said.

Shorty elbowed a path to the bar, shooed the crowd back a little as I gently set the projector down in front of Mack. You got a socket back there? I asked, with a quick prayer that an overloaded circuit wouldn’t rob me of my rent money.

The raucous crowd quieted as the projector’s clatter turned to a hum. Rusted screws jerked free, cogwheels meshed and the dim lamp steadily grew more intense.

We did it! Shorty beamed with far more credit than his one flick of a blade deserved, but I didn’t mind.

I opened my palm and waggled my fingers to summon the payment due. Mack’s expression made it clear which side of the bet he’d taken, and it wasn’t in my favor.

So ya got the motor runnin’…how do I know it works? Ain’t got no films to show. He pulled the plug, patted his wager-filled pockets and sauntered away.

Shorty worked the crowd into a chant, fists pounding on the bar, Pic-tures, pic-tures, we want pic-tures!

I extracted the new bulb, wrapped it in my handkerchief and slipped it in my pocket. I’ll be back for my money, soon as you get a decent film strip, I said.

That may take a while; not like Im some picture palace, he replied, sparking a groan of disappointment from his patrons. I’ll send word tomorrow to the film distributor for these parts."

I tucked what passed for a clean apron around the projector and set it in the corner.

Problem is, folks don’t drink much when a picture’s playin’.

I left the Bama Bar no richer than when I’d entered, but I had a plan worth far more than the two bits Mack owed me—or the money in Mack’s pockets.

2.

Here’s our college boy, now, Mack announced.

A hulk of a man at the far end of the bar turned with a scowl and drank from a jug of cold sarsaparilla the size of a barrel. The watch chain across his expansive girth pulled tight as he burped loudly and offered a fat-fingered handshake.

Larry Rosen, he said, Motion Picture Patents Company. Most folks call it the Trust.

Can’t trust a damn one of ’em, Mack injected. Every film you sold me was a swap or a trade. Chewed-up edges broke my machine. Just ask Mr. Wilby here. The use of my name, like I was suddenly his best friend, told me I was being played. He’s a recent grad-u-ate, so don’t try to pull nothin’. Mack cupped his hand next to his mouth and jerked his thumb toward Rosen, His kinda immigrant is always lookin’ to make a buck.

I added Jews to the growing list of people Mack found objectionable, along with college grads and Georgians. Rosen removed his sweat-stained bowler, same tan color as his three-piece suit, and waddled toward the projector, tucked under the apron like a small ghost.

You got that thing to run? Impressive.

I pulled the condenser bulb from my pocket. Insurance. He still owes me for the repair. Won’t make good on our deal ’til we run a film on it.

Rosen threaded the celluloid onto the reel while I plugged in the projector. We let it warm up, then he flipped the switch. I held my hand out toward Mack as the picture ran smoothly.

Rosen suddenly yanked the cord from the socket.

Wha’d ya do that for? Mack hollered, helplessly transfixed by the images.

Rosen pulled out a small leather booklet and flipped through the pages. You’re six months in arrears. That’s five dollars, plus whatever you owe this young man. He forced another belch to escape and strolled behind the bar toward Mack’s gleaming brass cash register. It was the only thing that ever got polished, stationed midway along the row of liquor bottles, like a general leading his troops to war. Rosen held his fingers above the

tender

button.

All right! Mack yelled before the distributor could rummage through his cash drawer. Pulled a scrunched-up five-dollar bill from his pocket, plus four bits in coins, and slammed it all on the bar.

Rosen smoothed the wrinkles from his cash and dropped the quarters in my hand. I could use someone with your skills, he said. I cover four states, lose a lot of business waiting on repairs.

Thank you, but I’m expecting an offer of employment from the Edison Company any day now.

Mack had listened to plenty of dreamers in his years as a barkeeper. I couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or desperation in his voice as I turned to go.

You gonna stick around and help me run this thing? he asked.

I felt like a youngster with a fish on the line. Just bring him in gently before he spits the hook from his mouth. Kept walking toward the door, doubtful I could hide the grin on my face.

I’ll run it for you. How ’bout on Sundays?

Mack hurled a soggy dishtowel, hit me square in the back. You know we ain’t open then.

I rotated my torso, though my feet still said I might leave. Let me rent the place from you, I said.

Rosen encouraged the deal with a final gulp of sarsaparilla. Something’s better than nothing, he argued, knowing that puritanical blue laws prevented barrooms and saloons from operating on the Lord’s day.

I’ll need a key, I said.

I returned to the bar with an appreciative nod to my new film distributor as Mack removed a spare key from his ring and slid it toward me hard enough to shatter a beer mug.

Leave the place the way you found it.

I looked around at years of accumulated filth. That may be hard to do, I said.

Faded curtains retired from my father’s store windows obscured the bar. Hands and knees raw from attacking every inch of the Bama Bar with lye soap and a scrub brush, I sprayed the place with rose water cologne to mask the stale smell of tobacco.

Went outside to cover Mack’s sign with a piece of cardboard, tacked a new poster by the door that would have horrified Larry Rosen, my father or any profitable businessman:

FREE ADMISSION—Families Welcome

Made the letters large enough to be read by the churchgoers who normally strolled on the opposite side of the street to avoid the source of the devil’s brew or to ease their temptation to peer inside. Windows clean and doors stood wide open, I shouted entreaties of wholesome entertainment, offering sweet tea for the ladies…root beer for the little ones.

Finally, a taker. Not the friendliest looking soul, with an unruly gray beard sprouting across his face like dandelion weeds. A loud snort was his initial comment; I hoped it was the cologne he found offensive. He turned and walked out without a word, but then from the doorway made an exuberant gesture for others to come on in.

Help yourselves to the refreshments, I said. I silently blessed my mother for loaning me her punchbowls as they filled the long benches crafted by Shorty from a pile of discarded, poorly hewn boards.

I’d recruited a fellow from my boardinghouse to provide entertainment while the projector warmed up.

An aspiring young writer with a mellifluous voice, he read a poem he’d composed about our gallant heroes in the War of Northern Aggression and led my first audience in a gentle chorus of Stephen Foster’s "Old Folks at Home."

Even the curtains couldn’t dampen the sound of applause as I darkened the room and began the picture . Any preacher on the planet would have envied the rapt attention of the crowd. Men turned into little boys, women cried out, unruly children froze in silence, thinking the horse and rider might jump from the screen.

When the picture was finished, I walked up front, hands shaking harder than when I’d first asked a girl out on a date, and thanked the audience for coming.

Much in the tradition of the church, I said. I will simply pass a hat among you. If you enjoyed today’s performance, please give what you can. If you did not, please let me know what I can do to improve your experience.

My life as a showman was born.

3.

Gossip in Selma spread faster than fleas. When Mack summoned me to the Bama Bar for a breakfast meeting, I knew who was on the menu.

Rent’s going up, he hollered before I got through the door.

Up, by how much? I asked, sufficiently close to know there was more than just coffee in his mug. The blessing of a cigar-free morning ended as he tucked a chewed-off tip inside his cheek like a chipmunk, struck a match on the rough wall.

Double, he said from a cloud of blue-gray smoke.

Raising my overhead wasn’t unexpected, but this was robbery. I was barely subsisting on one meal a day, too proud to accept Mama’s leftovers. I slept with my one good suit laid between the cotton batting that passed for a mattress and the plywood below, a trick I’d learned in college to smooth wrinkles and crease my trousers. Sunday matinees resulted in a small drawer filled mostly with pennies, but hardly the treasure trove I’d envisioned.

Dammit Mack, I don’t clear that much on contributions. I’m still trying to build a reputation…you know, draw in a more refined crowd.

I ain’t in business to make you rich, son. May have been the most honest thing I’d ever heard him say. "Refined? I bet half those hypocrites are my regulars. This here’s a saloon, college boy, not some ‘salon.’ You want a high-brow crowd? Then sashay your ass over to the opera house. But in the meantime, two bucks a month."

A hideous building, Selma’s Academy of Music was three stories of reddish-brown plaster with white boards nailed in a mish-mash pattern. I suspected the architect had a considerable drinking problem. Two square windows above the overhang looked out like a peeping Tom, while round portholes lodged under three attic dormers.

No need of a marquee, as few traveling operatic companies considered Selma a premier destination. With the exception of fraternal groups like the Masons, school graduations and Confederate Memorial Day, the theater went mostly unused.

The front doors were locked. I pounded on the side entry marked

deliveries

until a pair of eyes squinted suspiciously through a narrow crack.

Ain’t no shows today, he said. Gave me an up and down. The opening grew a bit wider. I’m the handyman. Name’s Sam.

I slid my foot inside the opening. Thought I might speak to the manager.

Ain’t got no manager, he replied. Jus’ me an’ da widow Walton, who own da place. But she ain’t here, ’cept when there’s a show.

When I asked for her address I got only silence. I gathered she must be elderly or frail. I mean her no harm, I said as I moved my shoe and stood back. Might want to use this place to show films on a Vitascope machine.

Reluctant door hinges suddenly squealed as Sam pushed it wide. You say films? You mean like dem movin’ pitchers?

I must have looked like I’d been shot, staring at the last person I’d expect to know anything about the cinema. All I could do was nod, but my expression asked the question for me.

My daddy, he useta wash dishes over at da Bama Bar, Sam explained. Told me what dem films was like. But da machine done broke, an’ Mr. Jackson, he be too cheap to fix it.

Might need someone with your skills to help me out, I finally managed between fits of laughter. You’d get to see all the pictures. I just need to speak to Mrs. Walton.

It didn’t take Sam long to consider the proposition. She live over on Upham Street, off Pine. You can’t miss it, he said.

Spotted it from the end of the block. Fortunately for the neighbors, the two-story home was set back from the curb. With the same god-awful architecture as the theater, it had manicured lawn surrounded by a picket fence that matched the hideous color of the walls.

A housemaid dressed in a gray uniform, white collar and apron appeared before I could ring the bell. Whatchu want? she asked, no more welcoming than Sam had been back at the Academy of Music.

Name’s Walter Wilby. I was just over at the opera house. A gentleman there named Sam said I might find Mrs. Walton at home.

The maid left me standing on the porch, though the door remained ajar. After several minutes she returned, and with a less-than-welcoming grunt ushered me into the drawing room. I had to look at the ceiling as I walked. No two furnishings shared the same fabric, or blended with the patterned wallpaper. Must be blind as a bat, I thought. I braced myself on the edge of the mantelpiece, pretending to be captivated by the array of framed souvenir programs and photos of opera stars.

The maid took up a station in the corner, offered a long, searing stare like I might be patted down for stolen items; then, suddenly, a willow of a woman swept into the room. Elegant pearls clutched in one hand; she extended the other toward me.

Leonora Walton, she said, voice as strong as an opening aria. Annie Mae tells me you have inquiries regarding our beautiful palace. I wondered if we were talking about the same building.

Far from decrepit, she was radiant, though her glow may have been attributed to a significant application of makeup. Made a grand gesture toward the sofa, but I opted to remain standing, uncertain I could make it across the busy Persian carpet without getting dizzy.

I’d like to propose a unique form of entertainment for your theater, I said.

You have captivated our attention! she said, turning toward her maid to share in the excitement. The maid’s expression from the corner didn’t budge.

Deep breath, I coached myself No harder than oral exams at Georgia Tech. Relieved to not waste time on endless chit-chat and niceties, I pulled back my shoulders and stood as tall as my frame would allow.

"I wish to use your beautiful palace to feature the very latest in moving pictures."

Stunned at first, Mrs. Walton slumped back against the damask sofa and began to flap her hands toward her face like the wings of a trapped bird.

Oof, oof, she puffed. Oof.

Her eyes rolled skyward as the maid rushed to her side. I knelt down beside her, patted her hand as I’d seen my father do whenever mother felt faint. My manners told me I should show myself out the door; desperation had a different plan.

Just imagine, I said softly, "a stage production of Rigoletto… I turned my head to revisit the collection on her mantle. …or Puccini’s La Bohème, captured on the screen to be shown as many times as an audience wishes."

She straightened her spine, stared off into the distance. But I can’t hear their voices, she said.

With a sly smile I took a seat in the wing chair her maid pointed to, my mind racing to find a solution. I have it on good authority that Mr. Edison has improved the sound cylinder, I said with more certainty than I really felt. A grooved disc that records sound to play on a….

With a finger across her lips, Mrs. Walton silenced me. Show Mr. Wilby out, please, she told the maid. I’m not feeling well.

The maid walked me to the door. I didn’t mean to upset anyone, I apologized. Then, for some unknown reason, I shook her hand.

Only the briefest change registered on her face. We all got dreams, she said, looking into me rather than at me.

My pastor seen one uh dem pictures up North. Said if dey could put the Testament on da screen, da whole world would follow Jesus.

I wiped a tear from my cheek. Streetcar dust, I said.

Gimme some time, I heard her say as the door closed behind me.

4.

I cursed myself for placing an announcement in the Tribune. Mrs. Walton was thrilled to have her name in print, but with barely a week to go, I wondered how I’d make good on descriptive enticements like The Latest in Projection, Fine Musicians, and The Utmost in Hospitality.

The Academy of Music had none of the gilded glamour of the ­palatial theaters of Chicago or New York. But