A Short (Mostly True) Story by Jorge’s brother

A Short (Mostly True) Story

by Jorge’s brother

The following account is true…mostly.  As the years have passed the mist over my memory gets thicker.  The further back I go the mist turns to haze and that haze then turns to fog. But the parts that are important-the parts that I hope will affect you in some way, well…those parts are true.

If you lived in Chula Vista before 2006 there is a good chance that you know about The Vogue Theatre.  If you grew up in Chula Vista in the 80’s, as I did, then there’s an excellent chance that you saw a movie there.  The Vogue Theatre was built in 1945 and by the time I was introduced to this venerable building it was already run down.  The seats were uncomfortable (with many missing the arm rest), the floor was sticky and there was that old musty smell. It only got worse by the time it closed down unable to keep up with the new multiplexes.  But there is something about watching a movie in an old school theatre. And I saw many a movie at The Vogue. My memories of the Vogue are fond ones and I miss my old friend…

In the fifth and sixth grades I attended Montgomery Elementary School in Otay.  There was a guy in my class whose dad was the manager of The Vogue Theatre. One day, early on during summer vacation, my friend asked me if I would like to go with him and his dad to the theater and hang out. He didn't have to ask me twice. And so, during those two long summers if I wasn't at the river bottom shooting frogs and tadpoles with my BB gun, at the arcade playing Asteroids or Tempest or taking apart and putting back together my BMX bike (because why not) I was at the Vogue sitting in the balcony eating free popcorn and hot dogs and watching movie after movie.  I suppose that has much to do with my love of movies…but that's a subject for another time. My friend’s dad would bring us in and introduce us to the people who worked there. The girl at the ticket counter with her side high tail, the guy at the snack bar in his stone washed jeans and L.A. Gears, the ushers (younger folks: google it) and the lucky guy who got to run the projector. None of these people do I remember. The one man I do remember is someone who was introduced to me as the owner.

You would hear him before you saw him.  He always carried a huge ring of keys with him and you could hear him coming from afar and even around corners.  He was also the owner of a German smorgasbord that was right next door. The keys were for every door to both the theater and the restaurant and he would come and go as he pleased.  He was a very tall, blonde man (as Germans tend to be sometimes) with a humongous beer gut. Every time I saw him he wore a white button-down short sleeve shirt and a pair of brown slacks held up by suspenders (remember the beer gut).  And of course the big key ring hanging from his belt. He was a nice, friendly man and I think his name was John.

The years passed and the Vogue was a fixture in my life.  Teen years filled with good movies, bad movies, good friends, awkward dates, good belly laughs, popcorn and the ringing of keys.  I would see John and say hello in passing. I'm sure he didn't remember me. Inevitably adulthood came and even though the multiplexes had come to town I would still frequent the Vogue.  I didn't notice when I no longer saw John or heard the ringing of the those keys. And so, as so very often happens, John faded into some recess in my mind not quite forgotten and not quite remembered, like your locker combination over Christmas break.

My visits to the Vogue became less frequent as the banalities of life took hold. The rent, the light bill and such had to be paid thus there was always work to be done.  I took a job delivering Pepsi and one day on my route sheet was a familiar stop: The Vogue Theater. A short jolt of nostalgia struck me as memories rushed to my mind…and was that ringing?  There were instructions to deliver in the morning between 7 and 8, if memory serves, in order to meet the cleaning crew who would let you in.  The cleaning crew consisted of a very nice Mexican lady and her daughters. My first delivery was uneventful. The lady showed me where the product was stored but I already knew.  Being in that theatre felt like home. I took a moment by the auditorium to reminisce and the good memories brought a grin to my face…and there was something else tugging at my mind…

A week later midway through my second delivery; the nice Mexican lady approached me and said, “I have something I forgot to tell you last time.”  The look on her face was that look that Mom gives you when she's about to give you some very important instructions. It's a stern yet compassionate look.  Now for a delivery guy that look and that phrase usually mean more work. And so I braced myself for the bad news. Never did I expect her next words. Here is what she said , “I just want to tell you to not be afraid of the ghost.”  I did not know what to say. So I said something like, “…what ghost?” And so she told of this ghost and how he walks up and down the auditorium and how a lot of the times he appears on the stage by the door that leads to the restaurant next door.  She told me that he's harmless and never bothers them, that the scariest times are when they see him upstairs by the offices because they're usually coming around a corner and he surprises them because they didn’t hear the ringing. Ringing?…tug tug.  I listened with a mixture of amusement and doubt, mostly doubt.  She said that now they were used to him but that new delivery and service people got really scared and sometimes wouldn't come back and that I seemed nice and she didn't want that to happen to me.  Tug…As she rambled on I was thinking that I needed to move along because I had a lot of work that day.  Tug tug… Then she told me how one time she had been vacuuming the auditorium and had not heard the ringing of his keys……TUG TUG.

It all came back in a powerful rush and I hoped that my demeanor would not betray how I was feeling when I asked, “did you say the keys ringing?”  She stopped mid-sentence looking slightly annoyed at my interruption . Then she said matter-of-factly, “yes, we can usually hear him before we see him because he carries a ring of keys.  So most of the time he doesn't surprise us.” We were standing at the entrance to the auditorium and I looked inside because I could swear that I heard those keys. I looked back at the lady and saw no indication that she had heard anything.  I looked inside the auditorium again…was that movement?  I looked back to the lady and realize that she had been talking.  I let her finish her sentence about how I shouldn't worry and then I asked, “what does this ghost look like?”  She answered, “he is a tall white man with a really big belly.” I asked, “Is he wearing anything?” “A white shirt and suspenders,” she answered non-chalantly then returned to her point on how I have nothing to worry about.  As my mind raced I thanked her and continued with my delivery. The look on my face betrayed me because she asked, “ Estas bien?” I lied. I worked a little faster the rest of that delivery and a little slower the rest of the day.

The following week as I went about my delivery I listened very carefully and looked over my shoulder quite a bit.  I heard the keys far off…I did. Once I was done I looked for the lady and I told her about The Vogue and I told her about John.  She got that Mexican mother “Ya se” look as she nodded and then said, “I knew there was something with you last time.” Then she told me what she had been told.  That John loved that theatre and was sad when he had to sell it. And had sold The Vogue only with the condition that he keep the keys and be able to come and go as he pleased to visit his old friend any time he wanted.  So he did, come and go, every day until he died. He walked the building and had unheard conversations with an old familiar friend. I listened and understood. Then the lady said, “ I hope you see him, you are old friends.”  The reasonable, grownup part of me said, “ I’d rather not.” The fifth grader in me…

In the eight or nine years that I worked for Pepsi I delivered to the Vogue many times.  I must confess that I never saw John. I can't tell you why. Maybe my grownup part was bigger than my fifth grader part.  Who knows. But there were several occasions where I would swear to you that I heard those keys ringing. I know I did. In the many years since I’ve driven by the Vogue quite often and still do.  And every time I drive by I always wonder…wonder if I would hear those keys…And so as I sat down trying to think of a way to end this story I had an idea.

I get off of work at 12 AM, at midnight, the witching hour.  Maybe it’s time to visit an old friend or two.