Given my lifelong love for movies and television (especially the former when I was a kid), there’s something oddly perfect about the fact that my first job—at the ripe old age of 14—was as a matinee usher at the Twin-Shirley Theatre, located on Long Island, New York. My cousin Alfred was the assistant manager at the time and got me in, and as it turned out, I apparently never wanted to leave. But really, who could blame me?
I’d spent my early childhood in Brooklyn, where moviegoing meant palatial theaters on Flatbush Avenue—massive interiors with balconies, chandeliers, velvet ropes, music rising before the curtains parted. And, of course, the ever-present smell of popcorn.
The Twin-Shirley was no palace. It was a modest two-screen theater with a divided lobby and a cashier booth awkwardly centered between the entrances—funny when only one cashier was on duty, turning back and forth between windows. The two auditoriums were functional, not fancy, each seating about 300 people. A metal gate separated the two sides, and the candy stands were mirror images of each other. Nothing about it screamed grandeur.
And yet, something magical happened every time we turned the lights on. There was always this odd sensation walking into the theater before opening. Without light, it felt barren—like a hollow shell. But once the lights came up and the smell of fresh popcorn filled the air, the place came alive. Its size and lack of ornamentation didn’t matter. What did was that in a few minutes, people would arrive, the projectors would come to life and another story would begin.
‘Can You Impersonate a Mute?’
I was hired in 1974 by a gentleman named Pierre Maynard, who, for some reason, liked me—even though I never shut the hell up. One day I decided he just had to hear my impersonations. Eventually, after enduring more than anyone should have to, he smiled painfully and said, “Eddie, can you impersonate a mute?”
Ouch.
And yet, when he sold the theater around 1977, I was the only employee he recommended to the new owners. I didn’t find that out until later, when one of them—Rick—told me from his hospital bed, “You’re a good kid.” I had come to visit him after learning he’d been hospitalized due to complications from alcoholism. Despite how poorly he treated me over the years (Rick and his partner hated me and tried every trick in the book to get me to quit), it felt right to check in on him. He laughed when I joked about getting a gold flashlight for my years of service. That’s when he told me about Pierre’s recommendation. He died not long after.
Ironically—or maybe cosmically—I stayed. Ownership changed hands at least three more times, but I always came with the building, like I was part of the real estate deal: two screens, four projectors and Ed Gross.
From Fan to Fixture
Even before I was officially on the payroll, my cousin Alfred gave me unlimited access to the theater’s storage room. I could take home whatever one-sheets I wanted—and I did. I hunted down posters for Planet of the Apes, James Bond, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and anything else I loved. I unfolded them at home like treasures. Each one was a portal into a world I already adored.
But even more formative than the posters were the back issues of Box Office magazine I found. Hundreds of them. Pages filled with industry ads, upcoming releases, box office performance charts and status reports on films in production. I devoured those magazines.
And this just hit me—like really hit me: those magazines planted the seed. That was the moment I started hungering not just for the movies themselves, but for the story of the movies. For how the business worked. What made films succeed or fail. Who was behind them. That’s when the journalist in me began to stir.
It only took me 50 years to realize that the Twin-Shirley Theatre didn’t just employ me. It actually changed me.
The Theater as Community
The job itself was fairly routine—ticket-taking, sweeping up popcorn, ushering customers to their seats. The people I worked with were generally friendly, though I wouldn’t say we were especially close. Joe, the elderly projectionist, resented being told what to do by a teenager once I became assistant manager at 16. “I’m not taking orders from a kid,” he’d growl. But even Joe eventually mellowed.
Teresa, one of the concession stand girls (yes, I know how dated that sounds), and I got along well. We hung out often. Years later, she told me that during a matinee of the 1976 King Kong, when no customers had shown up and we sat together in the theater watching the film, she was hoping I’d “make a move.”
Sigh.
Sometimes the audience itself provided the best stories. Screams echoed during Jaws, cheers erupted during Rocky and when Carrie White’s hand burst from the grave in Carrie, I swear the whole theater jumped in unison.
And then there was Bug. I was 15. A group of loud teenage girls were talking non-stop during the screening. When the fire-starting insects began their attack on-screen, I tossed a handful of popcorn in their direction. They screamed and bolted for the ladies’ room. I waited a beat, went to the breaker box and flicked the restroom lights off and on.
They screamed even louder.
Cruel? Probably.
Hilarious? Absolutely.
Again, I was 15.
In the Booth, in the Moment
Though I never operated the projectors, a younger projectionist named Bob sometimes let me sit with him in the booth. I’d pull up a chair and watch the movie through the tiny viewing window, with the steady rhythmic hum of the projectors only feet away. There was something about it that I can’t explain, except to say: it felt magical.
Full Circle
If I could go back in time and say something to 14-year-old me, flashlight in hand, nervously ushering his first matinee crowd into a modest Long Island movie house, I think I’d tell him: “You’re going to write about all of this one day. You’re going to keep living in these stories—and telling them—for the rest of your life.”