Before we met, she was a vaudeville theater. People flocked to her, watching fully-orchestrated shows beneath the sea of stars that glittered on her Prussian-blue ceiling. After the stock market crashed in the 1930’s, her mosaic-covered lobby was tragically concealed beneath the rolling greens of a miniature golf course. The appeal of putt-putt didn’t last, though. She was torn apart as a professional bowling team took up residence in her auditorium, replacing the expanse of velvet-covered seats with lanes and pins. Vacated by the bowlers after two years, she was further remodeled—her once lavish décor and classical Mediterranean architecture were erased as she transformed into a movie theater. After seventeen years of playing host to the silver screen and countless cinephiles, she was abandoned. She sat vacant for ten years, utterly forgotten until 1981 when the city decided to demolish her. If not for the generosity of her namesake, Rose Blumkin, we never would have met.
Eight years before I was born, my dad was there, pushing open grime-covered doors to enter her dilapidated lobby. Once brilliantly colored mosaics were caked in dirt and other filth. Peeling paint, chipping plaster, broken glass, and other trash littered her floors. Pigeons anxiously cooed from the balcony railing as my dad followed a hunched, old man. They walked down a flight of stairs to a long, concrete corridor. They squinted, using the faint glow of their flashlights to navigate the darkness. Halfway down the corridor, the man stopped at a door and pulled out a key.
“When they turned her into a movie theater, they told me to get rid of these. I couldn’t make myself do it, though.” He opened the door to reveal a room filled with art—art that had been missing for over twenty years. She was fully restored, returning, for the first time since 1929, to her original glory. Brilliant mosaic floors. Sweeping marble staircases. Massive, crimson pillars. Her ceiling shimmered with electric stars and billowing clouds. Her original art, saved by an old man, found its place, once again where it could be appreciated by the public. The proscenium arch, destroyed to fit the movie screen, was reconstructed. Sixty-five years since the start of her journey, she was as I would come to know her. In 1995, her doors opened to welcome enthusiastic audiences. Just two years later, my parents were married. The glowing message “Congratulations Michael and Heidi” flashed across her marquee, celebrating a relationship that began with a mutual love of the theater. A year later, I was born.
My parents continued working as actors and instructors, bringing me along to see her. During rehearsal, my mom would glide across her stage with me strapped to her back. I crawled down aisles and played in her waterless fountains as my parents received blocking notes. I bounced on my dad’s knee as he ran sound and lights—as I got older, he taught me how to do it . When my brother, Jason, was born, he took my place on our mom’s back. I didn’t mind, though. I played with the other actors as they waited for their cues, eager to share my crayons and Sesame Street coloring books. Soon, the other actors began having kids of their own and she took up a new role: daycare. A spare classroom was converted into a makeshift daycare where parents could visit their children between classes and rehearsals. At some point, things changed. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when, but I think it started when I was about three years old. My parents divorced and my mom left the theater. My dad stayed, though, moving from the stage to the classroom.
Weekends spent with our dad were spent with her, exploring and familiarizing ourselves with every inch of her. We twirled and danced around her lobby, hopping nimbly across the mosaic floor, following a pattern only we knew. In her green room, we worked on multiplication tables and practiced cursive. We ate our meals in her kitchen, occasionally stealing cookies leftover from the last show’s concession stand. Wandering from dressing room to dressing room, we collected body mics, replacing their batteries before the next show. Occasionally, we snuck into shows, hiding on her balcony or in the unoccupied sound booth. We’d put on the headsets, listening to the chatter of all the people that made the show possible. If we didn’t feel like watching the show, we’d sneak down to her ballet studio, taking off our shoes to slide around in our socks, staring at ourselves in the mirrors that lined the wall. We perched on windowsills, staring at roosting pigeons and watching the itty bitty people as they went about their days. Swinging like chimpanzees, we hung from the box office counters. In her classrooms, we’d snoop in cabinets, searching for new treasures. Markers. Feathers. Props. Costumes. She was a playground with an adventure around every corner.
Eventually, we started taking classes, acting in mainstage productions, and working as volunteers. We spent our Saturday mornings playing theater games with our dad’s students, oblivious to the fact that we were, at least, five years their junior. Before class, we’d eat breakfast at our desks in the upstairs office—of course, they weren’t our desks, but their owners didn’t mind sharing. As we munched on McDonald’s hash browns and pancakes, our dad finalized his lesson plans. At ten ‘til nine, we’d hop in her elevator and ride it down to the lobby. Jason and I would spend the entire day enjoying her company, occasionally stealing away to her green room for a quick nap before the evening show.
The box office staff printed and laminated badges with our names on them, affirming our belief that we ran the place. We must have been a sight to see, two small children wandering unsupervised with badges that said we were employees. As young, unpaid professionals, we took our jobs seriously: tearing tickets and showing people to their seats, distributing sodas and cookies during intermission, handing out programs, running the booster seat rental, vacuuming the lobby and auditorium, refilling vending machines, and hanging up costumes. We attended staff meetings and provided feedback on blocking and makeup design for mainstage productions. By taking up so many odd jobs, we learned the ins and outs from the financial to the technical to the theatrical. She didn’t just provide us with an education in all things theater. She was a home.
Various holidays, birthdays, and weddings were hosted within her walls. Christmas traditions were practiced and costumes for trick-or-treating were selected. She was the backdrop of my childhood. When our pipes froze, we used her dressing room shower. If I had a fever and couldn’t go to school, I slept on her green room couch. The first wedding ceremony I ever attended was held in her auditorium. I learned to draw candy canes and gumdrops hanging out backstage during The Night Before Christmas. In kindergarten, I left the annual pancake feed early because I had to perform in Suessical: The Musical. Jason broke his nose in her green room during a performance of Cinderella. From her roof, I watched fireworks crackle and explode over the Omaha skyline. In second grade, I left a swimming party early so I could run the lightboard. I wanted to spend all my time with her, enjoying the company she had to offer.
When I was seventeen, my dad took a new job and I had to say goodbye. Having lived in nine different houses up to that point—not including the “nomadic period” when we bounced from hotel to hotel, using the points my dad had collected as a touring actor—she was the most consistent home I had ever known. Her presence had provided a sense of consistency when my parents couldn’t. It didn’t matter how many times we were evicted by various landlords because her doors were always open, ready to embrace us. For a long time, she was my favorite place. She might still be. At least, the way I remember her is.