Later on the manager would say,
“It was really nothing at all,” his voice
calm as our living room couch,
but when Gene Autry strummed his guitar
the whole screen crackled with static,
something wrong with the pot belly stove,
the bunk house filling with smoke,
the kids in the front row beginning to cough
though Gene kept singing, the cowboys
grinning and coming in on the chorus
till someone yelled, “Fire!” and everyone
fought to get to the aisle, the kid behind
clawing to get by me and I must have
elbowed him in the gut, almost falling
when he gave me a shove and I slipped
on something spilled on the floor, but I
jammed myself into the aisle, kids
wedged shoulder to shoulder, pain
in my heel, someone trying to climb
over me, but I wouldn’t go down, I grabbed
for the big kid in front, got his belt and hung on,
the two of us upright, driving through the mob,
noise all around, yelling, screaming, someone
stepping again and again on my heels,
and then the lobby, there was room
to move, and we pushed through the door
and outside--fresh air--we sucked it in and
I looked down at my sore heel and the shoe
on my left foot was gone, the kids still
shoving, some of them crying, the manager
telling us to settle down, it was nothing
really, we should let our parents know
it was only a little smoke, the manager
standing firm in his sock feet.

© by Robert Currie.
Used with the author's permission.