Al Maginnes

Their authority did not unfold from ironed white shirts and thin ties or from the funereal seriousness that struck their acne-splashed faces but because they stood heir to our native faith in light. So we followed the thin white waver of beams they pointed down aisles to seats we never thought of refusing. It was the first job I wanted, especially after birthday outings far from home showed me the glowing outfits worn by big-city ushers, their get-ups a blend of doorman and military dictator, as gaudy and fine as the plots of movies my Saturdays were swallowed by. None of us knew, as they took us into the artificial light of the cinema, that they walked the path of the pin setter, the blacksmith or elevator operator, professions reduced to curiosity by wandering time. Only in the quick steps of floor salesmen, the slim backs of hostesses bringing us to our tables, do they remain, the artful flutters of their flashlights lost in dark we are left to find our own way through.