Last week I told you about Annapolis’s Circle Theatre and about its miserable manager, Mr. Scruggs (a name disguised, but only barely.) I also described my usher’s uniform, though not adequately. I told you we had to show up in white shirt and black trousers (and black dress shoes, of course), and that the theater supplied a clip-on tie and a double-breasted blazer of shiny gray gabardine. In fact, there were a couple of blazers in each of three sizes: short, medium, and long. Since only two ushers were on duty at any given time, this usually didn’t cause a problem.

A medium jacket really fit me best; but I was a gangly kid, and the mediums’ sleeves were too short. So I had to wear one of the larges. On these, the sleeves were fine; but the shoulders extended out several inches beyond my own. Where I ended and the fabric continued, the jacket shoulders drooped badly, leaving the stiff gold epaulettes sticking out like stubby wings.

Hard to maintain dignity and control with those wings sticking out, especially at Saturday matinees.

I tried to fix the problem by rolling newspaper into a long tube and slipping it across my shoulders inside the jacket. That solved the droop, but gave me an odd triangular build _ like Plastic Man in the comics. And besides, the paper made me crackle when I took tickets and tore them in half. So I shifted back to a medium jacket and just pulled down the cuffs a lot.

But, about my innocence:

Each evening that a show changed, one of the ushers had to take down the "Now Showing" and replace it with what had been "Next Attraction." The latter was on the front of the marquee, the former on both sides. The job meant dragging a twelve-foot wooden stepladder from around back, taking down all the lettering, and rebuilding the three signs. The letters were heavy red plastic, about ten inches tall; and marquee duty took a long time and many, many trips up and down the ladder.

Throughout the job, that old rogue Scruggs was in and out of the glass doors, scowling up at the work in progress. "How long do you plan to take at this?" he’d snarl. Or, "Get those words centered! Step back and look at them!" He intended, I think, for us to climb down before we stepped back...

The job’s scariest part was striking and replacing "Next Attraction." The marquee spanned the whole sidewalk; and to change its front face, the ladder had to be set up off the curb, in the street. (No OSHA, back then, I guess, to forbid boys climbing tall, rickety ladders set up in traffic.) One climbed up, hoping no friends would pass on the sidewalk or, worse, in a car, and reach over to jog the ladder a bit.

I remember dragging the ladder back to storage, legs shaking, after spending a seeming eternity on setting up one "Next Attraction." It was "House of Bamboo," starring Shirley Yamaguchi and Robert Stack. I had endless trouble centering Shirley’s name.

But the worst marquee experience _ the one that confirms my past innocence _ involved the side panels and Randolph Scott and Dorothy Malone in "Tall Man Riding."

It was late on a hot summer evening. I’d put away my baggy jacket, dragged out the ladder, and climbed into clouds of flying bugs slamming against the back-lit panels. I’d taken down all the old words and was ready to build the new "Now Showing." Through the glass doors slouched old Scruggs, just to harass me halfway through the sweaty, bug-ridden job.

"Tall Man Riding," he snarled, "and I want those words centered! Centered!" He turned to go back in, but added, "Put his name on one side, hers on the other."

Up the ladder I went, stack of heavy letters in arms. I worked out the spacing, set up the title, climbed down and looked. Perfect. Back up I went and added hawk-nosed Randolph Scott’s name over the title. Then I dragged the ladder around the other side. Since I’d already worked out the spacing for "Tall Man Riding," the second side went faster.

I’d put away the ladder and was coming around the front corner of the building when Scruggs confronted me. "Bring that ladder back!" he ordered. Shirt soaked through, sweat running down my face, I dared ask, "Why?"

"Come around here, fool, and look what you did!" He led me to the far side panel, pointed up triumphantly. "Read that out loud!" he shouted.

I did, and blushed scarlet. In innocence or adolescent stupor, I’d put the starlet’s name below the title.

The two lines formed a phrase. A really inapt one.

When the last show let out, I was still on the ladder, putting the name above the title. When I glanced down, I could see Scruggs in the lobby, snagging cronies as they came out of the auditorium. He’d tell them something, gesturing toward me. They’d burst into laughter. Then they’d come out the glass doors, still guffawing. Dozens of them, it seemed.

"Nice job, son!" men would call up to me. Or, "Guess your mind’s on the right track!" Their wives scowled darkly, and a few hissed, "Shame on you!"

Only after the last were gone did Scruggs yank a switch inside. The marquee went black. I dragged the ladder back behind the theater. I headed home. Wasn’t crying, of course _ too old for that.

Scruggs told and retold that story the rest of the time I worked at the Circle, always when I was taking tickets and had to stand and listen.

He’s been dead now, maybe thirty years; so I shouldn’t harbor malice toward him. And I guess I don’t, really.

In fact, I hope the old bozo had a much better end than he deserved.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.