I remember, Aunt Sarah took me and my cousin Gene. I was six. Gene was eight and knew all about dinosaurs. He had little rubber ones in his room and knew their long names, their attitudes and eating habits. And while I sat there in my thick red seat, gazing at the blank screen, he whispered in my ear that no one knew why the dinosaurs all died out but this movie would explain what happened.
The lights lowered.
Dinosaurs, huge and steamy and sluggish, roamed among palm trees and giant ferns. Gene leaned his head near mine. “That’s a brontosaurus,” he whispered. And: “That’s a tyrannosaur.” And: “That’s not a bird, that’s a pterodactyl.”
Meanwhile, a man’s deep smooth voice was telling us how contented the dinosaurs were, what a good life they had. Most of them were plant eaters. Some, it’s true, ate other dinosaurs, but that was all right. Peaceful music played on.
Then the music darkened.
Something bad was going to happen.
Then it happened.
Volcanoes blew their lids, the music exploding, and thick boiling lava came oozing down, spreading everywhere, picking up speed, moving swifter than the dinosaurs could flee, some sinking into it, bellowing, others galloping through the smoke and falling flakes, their bodies on fire, howling like huge dogs. And the volcanoes caused earthquakes, opening long jagged cracks in the ground, one of them running right between a dinosaur’s feet, and he spread his legs while the crack grew wider until he couldn’t stretch any further and fell in, roaring with horror.
I couldn’t take this. I was crying. I wanted out. Aunt Sarah took me into the lobby.
It was quiet out there, clean red carpeting everywhere. I sat on a padded bench while she went to the glass concession stand and returned with a box of popcorn to settle my nerves.
But I was so shaky I dropped the box, popcorn tumbling out on the beautiful clean carpet. I got down on my hands and knees and began quickly picking up kernels and putting them back in the box, an usher coming in a red coat and tie, swinging a big-headed flashlight.
He stood over me. I waited on my hands and knees, head hung, hoping whatever he was going to do he would do it quickly. He spoke to Aunt Sarah, who was sitting there smoking a cigarette. “Nice boy,” he said.
“My sister’s kid.”
He bent down to me, hands on his knees. “Would you like another box of popcorn, fella?”
I looked up at him. He had thick dark hair in his nose. “No, thank you.” I didn’t want any popcorn. I just wanted to go home.
The usher patted me on the head, good dog, and went away.
I sat next to Aunt Sarah and chewed linty popcorn while she smoked another Lucky Strike and told me not to worry, it was only a movie, and anyway it all happened millions of years ago.
I could still faintly hear the dinosaurs bellowing away in there. They were so huge and pitiful. It seemed hard to believe that God would allow such a horrible thing to actually happen. But there it was, on film.
I wondered what else He would allow to happen.