The neighborhood always seemed a bit brighter on Friday nights, with the blue flicker of televisions visible through every window but ours. We didn’t have cable. To any other kid, that might have felt like a tragedy, but in our house, it was the start of the greatest show on earth.
As soon as dinner was cleared, our “theater” opened. On Friday nights, my dad would act out entire movies for us in the living room. He didn’t have a script, a costume, or a green screen, but he didn’t need them. He was doing all the voices and stunts with the commitment of an Oscar winner. One minute he was a daring adventurer swinging across an imaginary chasm, and the next, he was a croaking villain plotting world domination from behind the armchair.
I would watch him with wide eyes, laughing until my stomach ached. I thought he was just being funny. I thought he had as much energy as I did, and that those performances were just his way of blowing off steam.
I realize now he was exhausted from a 12-hour shift, his body likely heavy with a fatigue I couldn’t yet comprehend. He didn’t do it because he was bored; he performed a one-man show because he couldn’t afford to take us to the cinema. He chose to spend his few hours of rest being our hero and our entire cast, ensuring that our childhood was filled with blockbusters even when the bank account was empty. I don’t remember any of the movies that were actually in theaters back then, but I’ll never forget the one-man shows in our living room