Vic Socotra

15 July 2009

The L’il Ole Opry

(Donk's House Band)

It is a quiet morning, soft and cool, very unlike DC's normal going-on-August feel of a soggy beach towel, rife with the scent of sweat and mold.

I was thinking about the show at Donk’s while I shoveled out the company mail in the morning silence of Tunnel Eight, I saw that we won a contract I had worked on. Things have been busy, and I had forgotten about it. Most of my contribution was the sincere vow to contribute several hours a month to the betterment of the program.

I wondered where that was going to come from, and if I could print more time, the way the government seems to be printing promises. The amount of money I am likely to make on the new work is less than what the triumphant Congressman are going to take away in 2013, if I can believe what the Times is reporting.

That is not the full cost of the program, of course, which will be fully offset by prospective efficiencies and cost savings in Medicaid. The trick to enacting impossible things is to put them far enough in the future that there is no immediate pain, and everyone responsible can deny any involvement when the axe comes down.

I believe there will be savings and efficiency in the government as firmly as I believe in the Easter Bunny, which means the real taxes, when they come will be at least double what the politicians claim.

Running faster to stay in place seems to be what is coming, though for he life of me, I think run as fast as I can now. They say with a little tinkering they can get health care extended all the way to the undocumented residents, which will be quite an accomplishment.

See, only the rich are going to pay for it, so there really is no problem. I was talking about that with another plutocrat in the back seat of the Outback approaching Mathews, Virginia.

There is not much to the village, barely enough to slow down for if you were on your way to Glouchester or someplace on the water. “That is the way it works down here in Tidewater,” said my pal. “The farmers figured out they could sell the crappy land where the corn won’t grow to the city slickers from Richmond or DC. That is why the single-wide trailers are right up the lane from the million-dollar places.”

“Don’t the farmers like the water views?” I asked.

“They can’t see it when the corn is as high as it is this year. When the rain doesn’t come and the corn doesn’t grow, they can see it just fine from he poorhouse. You make your choices in the country.”

There was plenty of free parking in the Baptist church parking lot across from Donk’s theater, which was an imposing presence on Main Street, looming over the crooked façade of he post office and a small-motor repair shop.

The Neon was bright in the soft dark air, and only the Quarles Gas Station and the Church gave it any competition for light. The Moon struggled with the clouds and made no significant contribution.

The doors to the theater were wide open, and young girl sat in the ticket booth up front, just like things used to be, when theaters just like this anchored every downtown street in America.

Out in the country the buildings still exist, though most of the ticket booths were boarded up long ago. Two white women of a certain age were selling popcorn and cups of soda from a small snack bar in the tiny lobby, and first-timers were queued up to sign Uncle Jimmy’s Guest Book.

The white van filled with other retired Plutocrats disgorged its cargo out front- they were all nice folks we had met at a wonderful cocktail party thrown at a water-front property north of Kilmarnock too near the river to grow crops on properly.

The wall behind the snack bar was papered with 8x10 glossy publicity photos of people I may have heard of. They were country stars, or close to it, and all had appeared on this stage. I gave a low whistle when I saw the images of Dolly Parton, Lorrie Morgan, Linda Davis, Joe Diffie, Porter Wagoner, Bill Anderson, Ernest Tubb and Mickey Gilley.

This may not be the Grand Ole Opry, which left the Ryerson Auditorium in downtown Nashville long ago, but it is right here in downtown Mathews, and it is still going today.

My pal gestured toward the steps that led up to the theater. “The place opened on June 9, 1947, after almost two years of frustrations common in the construction game. Wartime production issues held things up.”

I wrote in the guest book: “VIC SOCOTRA, Detroit, Last One Out Turn Out the Lights!” It seemed appropriate, though I have not been back to the Motor City as a resident since 1975.

“A fellow named Wilton “Donk” Dunton and his wife Mary opened this place as the grandest building in all of Mathews. They called it DONK’S THEATER, and the neon signs are original. They had a big screen, and even adapted it to show Cinerama films. Remember that?”

“Vaguely, I think Dad had to drive us down to the Fox Theater in Detroit to watch the film Windjammer. It was three screens that wrapped right around you.”

“This place wasn’t that grand, but it could seat five hundred people, which was more than lived here. They had air conditioning and heating, a professional-grade projection room and sound equipment. The acoustic materials they used were the finest available after the war.”

I asked for a popcorn and a Pepsi, since that is all they sold.

“Ya’ll want salt?” asked the kindly woman behind the counter, and her daughter looked at me with questioning eyes, holding the shaker.

“Make it as salty as it gets,” I said, wishing that I had brought a flask of vokda.

“Hurry up,” said my pal. “You do not want to miss Uncle Jimmy.”

With that, I grabbed my cup, took a sip of cola from the straw and followed him up the steps into the darkness.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsoctra.com

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