I recently listened once again to Otis Redding’s classic, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” a song that never fails to bring back intense memories from 1968, and my first “real job.”
It was released on January 8, 1968, just a month after his tragic death in a plane crash on December 10, 1967.
It always seemed to be on the radio when I was driving the family Oldsmobile Delta 88 to the palatial new theater where I worked briefly as an usher during high school. For some reason, it stands out in my mind more than any other song from that time. And it’s because of that particular job that I never imagined doing, but which sought me out.
I was 17 and a junior at Martin Behrman High School, located in the Old Algiers section of New Orleans, across the Mississippi River from downtown. Sure, I had maintained a lawn mowing business since I was 14, and had four steady customers who were neighbors down the street. And, I had worked for a few months stocking Gibson greeting cards at two large grocery stores. But in the Spring of 1968, opportunity knocked, and, prosaic as it turned out to be, I was thrilled.
Across the street from us lived Dr. T and his sizeable family in the biggest house in the area. I got in sort of a fight/disagreement with his son who was my age not long after we moved into the neighborhood, and more or less didn’t have anything to do with them for years afterward. But one day while waiting for Bus 84 to take me to school, Dr. T. stopped his car on his way somewhere and asked me if I wanted to usher in a theater he was opening with several other partners.
Of course, I was flattered to be asked. Not that I was a big moviegoer, but in those days the huge, single-screen theaters that seated upwards of 1,000 people still ruled the cinematic landscape, and this one was to be a showcase theater near Oakwood Shopping Center, the first mall in my area of New Orleans. Also, the theater, I soon discovered, would be showing all the best first-run films, musicals, action adventures, and Westerns — what a great opportunity to see movies for free and get paid for it.
As it turned out, my first disillusionment was the pay of less than the minimum wage of $1.25 an hour. We were to get $1 an hour. The wealthy doctor and his partners showed no generosity towards me and my fellow ushers who were, after all, the front line troops in their investment scheme. However little they could get away with paying was what we got. I didn’t care. We were young and didn’t really know too much about the workings of capitalism.
I showed up the first evening for a 7-10 pm shift in my new, burnished gold blazer and black bowtie. I think the Disney musical “Happiest Millionaire” with Greer Garson and Fred McMurray was playing the first week, and it drew a packed house every night. I felt very important standing in the foyer tearing ticket stubbs in two, and even more busy and significant working the concession stand at intermission, turning out batch after batch of that indescribably greasy, grubby but tasty theater popcorn that filled the lobby with the most wonderful odor. I can smell it to this day. People were standing four and five deep clamoring to place their orders. I was a virtual machine of clockwork efficiency scooping ice for fountain Cokes, filling bags of popcorn, working the cash register, figuring out change. Heady stuff. Had to be on my toes, all cylinders running.
During the movie, I would take a seat in the last row and, gripping my flashlight, absorb myself in what was happening on the big screen. Every 15 minutes to a half hour I would stroll up and down one aisle to see if any miscreants were causing trouble.
There were a couple of other ushers on the other side of the theater. They included the doctor’s son and my former nemesis, who pretty much ignored me, and several of the most popular boys in the high school. Why I was asked to work there I still don’t know. The good doctor barely knew me. I felt out of place since I was not too well-known or highly regarded in the rarefied atmosphere the other ushers inhabited. But they were okay. I was pretty much on my own and withdrew into the song and dance and gritty action on the screen. They left me alone.
How many times did I watch Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine in “The Dirty Dozen?” At least a dozen times. Then there was “Thoroughly Modern Millie,” with Julie Andrews, Carol Channing and Mary Tyler Moore. A great and fun film, I thought , and still would regard it as such if I saw it today, I imagine. I watched that one about 10 times. I’ll never forget the others: “Bonnie and Clyde” with Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty, and, most memorable and unforgettable of all, Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.” What an incredible movie. I had large chunks of dialog from that film memorized.
As synchronicity and fate would have it, I was channel surfing on the TV the day I heard “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” and came across “Cool Hand Luke” on one of the cable channels, and a young Paul Newman being placed in solitary confinement in that little boxlike structure where they put the chain gang rebel and super cool antihero. If you saw the movie, you will recall the scene.
I worked there less than six months, but it gave me some invaluable experience, my first-ever paycheck, piddling though it was, and a sense of having visited for awhile the adult world of work and obligations.
By the way, some of the other big hits on the radio in 1967-68 were “Judy in Disguise,” “Mrs. Robinson,” “People Got to be Free,” “Chain of Fools,” and “Classical Gas.” But nothing even compared to “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Then, and now. I’m not sure why. It’s just a great song with very memorable associations for me.
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