Monday Musings - Memoir

Number 812 Cannery Row in Monterey, California, had existed in many forms on the southern end of the row for decades. In 1970, 812 Cannery Row became an art house cinema, and I worked there in 1977 and 78. In those years, the old fishing village was in serious decline, with most of the empty buildings providing places for kids to play and explore. Old drums that once held sardines and fish oil still stood, 2 or 3 stories tall. In Steinbeck’s novel entitled Cannery Row, he relates the story of one character that actually moved in to one of these drums and made his home there. Ed Rickets (“Doc”) had his lab in the building next door. I was in college at Monterey Peninsula Junior College when I was hired to work there, having been introduced to the founders and owners by a mutual friend. This little cinema held but 56 people, and if your work there didn't involve operating the film projectors, you did every other task that a movie theater requires. The 812 was one of the hippest venues on the Peninsula, home to long running films such as Fellini’s 8 ½ and Amacord; modern movies such as Carey, The Song Remains the Same, Harold and Maude, and the infamous Rocky Horror Picture Show. While most theaters in those days ran a film for a week or two, the 812 ran them for weeks or even months on end. Consequently, I know the movies’ dialogue very well. The theater boasted a unique seating arrangement: hand-sewn tie-dyed pillows on a generously padded deep pile shag carpet. As a concession to those who could not abide watching films while propped up on pillows, there were two rows of standard theater seating at the rear. Patrons who arrived too late for the pillows mostly used these seats. It was a let down -- everyone wanted the pillows. As the sole ticket taker, candy and popcorn seller, bathroom monitor/janitor, I was kept busy during the evening. When the film had gotten underway and folks well settled in, I would climb the narrow stairs to the office (next door to the projection room) and sort the money from ticket and candy sales. I had to make it quick in order to get back downstairs to staff the front counter, which consisted of a stool, and a rudimentary “display case” made of old wine barrels standing in a row. On top of these barrels we arranged candy and drinks. The theater attracted a lot of pot smokers who knew they could smoke freely while watching movies, and because marijuana gives one “the munchies” (an uncontrollable desire to snack) we sold a lot of treats each night. Why the place didn’t burn to the ground I’ll never know, but it was the 1970s and illegal pot was plentiful in our counter culture world, and no one thought twice about lighting up in this decidedly hippie venue. The employees were not instructed to stop any pot smoking, so that was encouragement enough for many. When the evening ended and with everyone was out of the building, the projectionist went home and I locked up. Then began the evening ritual of vacuuming and cleaning the entire joint (no pun intended). This involved stacking all the pillows (three stacked for each patron) and vacuuming the thick pile carpet with a grotesquely inadequate old machine that very often became jammed or overheated. The owners weren’t terribly concerned with the nuts and bolts of janitorial work and just insisted we ‘make do.’ The pillows were realigned, re-stacked and plumped. Next came the carpeted lobby, and finally the worst task of all, the bathrooms. I was a hot sweaty mess at the end of the night. I’d often get out of the theater around 1:00 a.m. and make my way home on my used Peugot ten-speed bike. I lived about a mile away so it was not a hardship, and I had no car at the tender age of twenty, so it was either the bike or walking. Walking was out of the question, as the neighborhood was pretty sketchy and I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if need be. I did have a couple of close calls and I’m sure being on a bike saved me from harm. Our end of the row had almost no streetlights, and the Greek restaurant across the street had closed a couple of hours before. It was high-adrenaline time when I ventured out and climbed onto my bike. I assured myself I was a tough gal and could handle any creep that crossed my path – but yes, I was quaking in my Birkenstocks most of the time.

Fans protesting the closure

The theater closed in 1980, just a couple of years after I worked there. It started with a dispute with the landlord, and things went downhill from there. The theater was a Peninsula favorite, and there continues to be a 812 Cinema fan club on social media, where people share their fond memories of nights spent on the pillows, watching films, smoking pot and eating Tiger Bars and popcorn. When I mention that I worked there, I get “oohs” and “aahs” as if I were a movie star or a person of great renown. It took me decades to appreciate that I was part of this larger than life enterprise. I was young and poor, and the bosses didn’t really give a damn about the ‘girl ticket taker’. I worked very hard for my money and took great risks just getting home in the wee hours of the morning. But time and the nostalgia that the passing years conjure up have made me look back fondly on this landmark address on Cannery Row. The old row is gone, and while many locals complain about the reinvented row with its tourist traps and giant aquarium, I think the city of Monterey did a good thing with a blighted area of their fair city. I remember the decay, the unsafe empty buildings that were easily broken in to, and the smelly drums of decades old sardine oil. Farewell and good riddance to that mess.