The information age can be kind of eerie. I was scrolling around looking for an old friend from Starkville that I lost touch with, and came across a news article saying someone bought the old abandoned lot at Spring and Highway 12, then mentioned it used to be the “State Theater” back in the 80’s, along with this picture.
Okay, first of all, the “State Theater” was downtown. I believe it’s either a restaurant now or has been converted back to being a performance stage. You kids never do your research. That, my friends, is the Cinema 12 Twin on the left, Pizza Hut East on the right, and the old miniature golf course in the middle. The first time I visited was the spring of 1979, when I first moved to town. My mother and I knocked off a pizza and went to see Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, the first of many great classics I saw there in the 1980’s, including more “sneak through the outside exit” screenings of The Empire Strikes Back than should be legal, but hey, I was 11, I only had a $5 allowance and ticket’s were $2.50, fortunately the statute of limitations has run out on that.
Most importantly, that is where I had my first date in the summer of 1983. I took Cindy Chen to the Pizza Hut (it turns out she was allergic to tomatoes and lactose intolerant), then over to see War Games (it turns out she really wasn’t as into computers as I was). So, I guess you could say this was where multiple trajectories of my life started.
It’s actually amazing that, while long-since faded from its pristine red, you can still make out the unmistakable totem of the Yum! Brand’s undying love that once sheltered generations of hormonally bewildered teenagers. Next to it, the faded yellow lines of the theater’s firelane was once a haven for parents waiting in idling station wagons, wondering why their offspring were taking so long to “watch the credits.”
Based on the article and the comments, the town seemed thrilled that it was all about to be bulldozed in favor of an Aldi or an Applebees or whatever they were planning to putting there. I bit my tongue and barely resisted the urge to rant in all caps, “No, you fools! This is hallowed ground!” We should be erecting a shrine, not a strip mall.
Every town has little archaeological sites of teenage emotional development like these. There’s always a parking lot where you drove a stick for the first time, or an alley next to the laundromat where your band took its promo photos because of the “cool industrial lighting,” or a shopping mall where your girlfriend ditched you for the guy who worked the counter at the caramel corn stand. They’re not eyesores; they’re ruins, in the classical sense. Pompeii had frescoes. We had the salad bar with the sneeze guard.
Some people visit ancestral villages in Europe to connect with their roots. I want to visit the ruins of the Pizza Hut on Highway 12. I’ll stand there, clutching a cold can of Diet Pepsi, whispering the names of our ancient deities: Judas Priest, Kelly LeBrock, the Atari 2600, and Bill the Cat, then offer a slice of Supreme to the asphalt.
Progress demands that we pave over these sites, but we could at least leave a plaque. Something to remind the next generation that before streaming, before delivery apps, before all of life came pre-sliced and algorithmically suggested, we had to go somewhere to be awkward. We had to risk eye contact across a red and white checked vinyl tablecloth. We had to beg our parents for 15 cents to put in the Pizza Hut jukebox or a quarter to play a game of Pac-Man while we waited for dinner to arrive.
So, to the developer who bought this sacred land, I beg you, please don’t build another Discount Tire store. Let the wind whistle through the empty lot. Let the weeds grow over the remains of the booth where I realized dating was not my strong suit. Let it all stand as a monument to teenage nerves, to cheap pizza, and to the analog ache of being fifteen with noplace else ta go.
