When I began college nearly ten years ago, I started working for a small, single-screen movie theater known as the Academy. The Academy Theater was located in the sleepy downtown of Provo, Utah. My co-workers were other college students or high school students all biding time for minimum wage. The work was simple - we worked for a half hour schlepping tickets, popcorn, candy, and overpriced soda, then we played cards, did homework, or chatted for an hour and a half while the movie played.

We often commented how we could write a sit-com set in the theater. Each of the employees was a character in their own right. We had the managers - a divorcee with a child and a high school senior who would make out in the dry storage room; the gay Hispanic; the gay, deaf kid; the large and loveable drunk; the womanizer; the long-haired death metal enthusiast; the high school cheerleader; and myself, the straight-man. John Hughes could not ask for a better cast.

Besides the cast of employees, the patrons would provide a sufficient amount of comedy. However, from the hundreds of bizarre and hilarious encounters with moviegoers, the most memorable was Mar-Tie Productions. Mar-Tie was an elderly gentleman, approximately 85, in sandals, a poorly knotted tie, full suit, and a Casio SK-1 keyboard tucked under his arm. His eyes were a crazy, clear blue, his hair was always disheveled, and he always seemed to have some half-chewed nuts sitting in the corner of his mouth.

He introduced himself as Mar-Tie Productions when he tripped into the theater in the summer of 1993 just to see a movie, any movie. He just wanted to get out of the oppressive desert heat. The movie happened to be Sliver starring Sharon Stone and Billy Baldwin. Our box-office worker took pity on him since he was apparently homeless and a little mentally ill. She did not want anyone to have to pay unnecessarily for such an atrocious piece of cinema. She let him in for free, he went inside, and fell asleep for two showings.

Since then, he would come back frequently for free movies/naps in our air-conditioned and near empty house. But each time he came, he insisted on singing for his supper. He would set his toy keyboard on the counter, look into my eyes and say, “What’s your name?” “Chris,” I would reply. “What do you like to do?” “Draw and paint,” I would say. “And your eyes are… brown!” Then he would turn the keyboard on, start up a pre-programmed beat, and begin crooning a sloppy, improvised song all about me. He would hunt-and-peck for notes on the keyboard, the time signatures would change often and erratically, and it was clear that he had little to no musical talent.

He would also regale us with songs about Navajo ladies and their long skirts, what he did when he woke up in the morning, or his fantasies about our manager upstairs brushing her red hair.

He became a mascot of sorts - a slightly off-kilter, tuneless mascot. I don’t say that to belittle him. We loved Mar-Tie. We loved his ridiculous, clumsy songs. We loved his strange fixations with Native Americans and our manager. We loved when customers informed us of the old man on the back row that they were afraid was dead. He embodied all of the quirkiness of our theater and then some. He even seemed to usurp our roles as main characters in our own theater sit-com.

Mar-Tie would disappear every winter and reappear every summer. Each winter we assumed he died, but he would return a few months later insisting that he was only hibernating. But one year he didn’t return. We never took a picture of Mar-Tie Productions. We never knew his real name. All that I have left to prove that he existed are three audiotapes he recorded of his improvised songs and gave to us. I still listen to them. Mar-Tie is still my mascot.

Navajo Lady, 1994 audio tape Mar-Tie Productions

Postscript
07.09.03
The mystery of Mar-Tie has been revealed. On the 365 Days Project, Otis included the article written by Mar-Tie’s grandson, Phil Jacobsen, for the Salt Lake City Weekly shortly after Mar-Tie’s death. Maybe he’s just hibernating.

Mar-Tie Bibliography

• A message group commenting on Mar-Tie’s “performance” with Rainer Maria at Kilby Court in Utah.