Back when Kentucky Fried Chicken came only in Original Recipe—before Extra Crispy, before the Colonel turned cartoon— and Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan, and Ghidrah ruled the Drive-Ins in rubber vestments— my mother packed us four kids and my stepdad into that yellow Chrysler Newport, its trunk already echoing with chicken bones and the breath of last week’s feast. We drove toward the double feature where monsters and family shared the same screen.
The twenty-one-piece bucket sat between us— red and white, the Colonel’s fixed grin beaming Southern hospitality onto our fingers, delight into our mouths—so good the grease ghosted the vinyl for years, and the scent of breast, thigh, and drumstick lingered in seat seams and console cracks until the car itself breathed eleven herbs, the official Moya essence, a family perfume more sacred than Chanel.
We parked in the third row, speakers crackling, the AC hookup blasting arctic air— sweaters required, even in July. My younger sister climbed to the roof, her plate balanced in her lap—slaw, mashed, no gravy—her bare feet curled against the metal. From that perch, she became a signal— her paisley top knotted with intention, her laugh timed to reach the concession stand where Ricky Basten loitered, waiting for her to declare herself in the language of rooftop girls.
My older brother was itching for the coming attractions— the parade of cartoon candy, popcorn boxes, soda cup creatures with broken-line limbs, all urging him to “go to the lobby to get yourself a treat.” That treat wasn’t sugar—it was the joint tucked deep in his bell-bottom pocket, a rolled-up promise from Ricky Basten, calling him toward their rendezvous behind the dumpster, where fryer grease hung in the air and silence waited to be filled.
Then, with the roar of monsters and the hush of static— the screen screamed to life, a green neon aura rupturing the coming dark— becoming “Destroy All Monsters”— a pageant of rubber suits, miniature cities, and tiny people destined to be Godzilla toe jam.
My youngest brother fell asleep before the third reel clicked onto the second projector— a drumstick still in his hand, grease glistening across his knuckles. Then, the movie collapsed into a black hole. The film tore from its sprocket— six seconds of kaiju mayhem burned into ash. Over the speaker, a Kentucky Fried voice promised Rodan’s resurrection in twenty minutes— monsters stitched back together with time and tape, the way families pretend to heal.
I was the only one in the car watching monsters tear each other apart. My mom and stepdad were murmuring their devastations— soft chants my hearing aids couldn’t catch. “Jon, why don’t you take this time to go to the restroom?” she said, her angel-madonna voice a signal: the bickering had turned to overdue bills, calls to my doctor father for more support, her extra shifts counting strangers because Chrysler sales couldn’t hold against the season— assassinations, riots, protests, a country slipping from LBJ to Nixon.
I wandered to the concession stand, the super bucket in my hand, to throw away, my bladder and ice cream on my mind— past the screams and laughter— the rows of cars with dead headlights. Behind the Snack Shack—there was— my sister pressed against Ricky Basten, his long brown hair falling past hers, his bare feet declaring him. He’d reached second base, his hands full of her breasts under her braless paisley top. She was laughing, passing reefer smoke into Ricky’s open mouth— and behind them, half-shadowed, the one who gave them the joint— my brother—watching, letting them know— I’d seen it all, and hadn’t yet chosen what kind of witness I’d become.
My brother stepped forward. He walked with that well-rehearsed step of menace he’d cribbed from late-night mob reruns— and I’d seen better, cooler ones in the frigid hush of the Miracle Mile Cinema or flickering north at The Cinematheque.
His eyes already decided what I owed. He flicked the joint on my “Godard Is God” black T-shirt, balled and scrunched the logo up in his hands— trying to lift me up— pull me toward him— but couldn’t jerk the weight.
“You didn’t see shit,” he said, voice low, badge of ash on his lip. Then, my sister tapped my chest with her nail, grease shining where she touched. “You tell Mom, and we’ll feed you to Ghidrah.” Her laugh cracked the air. My brother’s knuckles popped. I nodded. The bucket in my hands grew heavier with each bad line— and I really wanted that ice cream sandwich too, even if it came with teeth.
I turned to toss the super bucket into the rusted bin behind the Snack Shack— its lid crooked, buzzing with flies. The laughter had stopped. Ricky Basten’s bare feet shifted, his eyes narrowed. My sister didn’t move. Her mouth tightened around the joint. My brother stepped forward, again— not fast, not slow— just enough to make me almost— drop the bucket before it reached the bin.
“You want to play dirty?” I said, to my brother, not flinching. “Let’s talk about your tomato project— the one growing behind the pool screens, under the busted swing set, I pressed a long finger to his chest. His face twitched. “And the aluminum foil bricks in the garage freezer— science fair, my ass.”
He stepped closer, his gate becoming more monstrous. Do you want Mom and Dad to hear what you do with the Sunday supplement? The bra cutout ads? How you let the dog lick you while you stared at the women?” My sister snorted. Ricky Basten snickered.
“I saw it,” my brother said, “from the bedroom window, behind the dead banana palm. You think you’re clean?”
I held the bucket tighter. “I’ll tell Dad,” I said. “Not Mom. Not the stepdad. Dad. You know, the one with the house on the other side of town, the new wife, the two kids, the big dumb black lab who doesn’t bark at anything, but still knows when something’s wrong. Our Dad— the one who thinks you’re so perfect.”
My brother brought his fist high— struck the air three times— and then, brought it down slowly to his hip— and unclenched his fist.
He didn’t hit me. He didn’t even touch me. Ricky didn’t speak. My sister blew smoke toward the moon and turned her back. I threw the bucket silently in the bin.
The kaiju had started battling again, but I knew I knew the real monster fight was coming. not now—long in the future after mom, stepdad and dad had passed, once they were beyond the embarrassment of long held secrets being revealed, and the silences between us three would rupture into bitterness, resentment and grief.
I went to the Snack Shack, peed, and bought myself a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich— the kind with strawberry barely holding on. I heard three sharp blasts from a car horn— the signal from mom to head on back. I stood there a second longer than I should have, watching the strawberry melt along the edges of my palm— gently, carefully revolving it so that the pink never merged with the vanilla and chocolate— before heading back.
Ahead of me, where the walking zombies, of Night of the Living Dead, the second feature, and my brother and sister homaging them— arms outstretched, bumping into cars, placing their faces against the backseat windows, yelling “Brains! Brains! Brains!” to couples making out in the dark.
We got to the car. I climbed into the front seat, wedged myself between my mother and stepdad. My brother slouched behind my stepdad, the driver, my sister behind my mother, my youngest brother still asleep in the middle— his head tilted, his mouth open, the drumstick from earlier gone.
My stepdad turned the key. The engine coughed once, then held. He flicked on the headlights. We were the only ones leaving. All other cars stayed dark, entranced by the screen— zombies breaching the farmhouse, humans swinging axes, shovels, pots and pans, the lone gun down to its last bullet.
My mother wiped her face with a crumpled facial tissue. She didn’t speak. Her eyes were red, but she kept them forward.
I reached into the white paper bag and pulled out three ice cream sandwiches. Vanilla for my sister. Chocolate for my brother. The Neapolitan— I placed it gently into my youngest brother’s hands.
We unwrapped them. We stuffed them into our mouths— the monsters that we are and hoped not to be — ice cream smeared across our cheeks, dripping onto our shirts— melting into our silence.
As we pulled onto the highway, we began to chant— “Brains! Brains! Brains!”— first the three of us, then my stepdad, then, finally— my mother.
For this moment, we were all together— A family— leaving the drive-in with our headlights on. The monsters behind us. The real ones still ahead.
All I can say is wow! Your words painted a vivid picture of childhood trauma. I do remember we would go the drive-in with a bucket of KFC. I think it tasted better than.
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