The Cumberland Four, which closes forever Sunday night, was not a majestic movie theatre. It wasn’t regal or any of the other nostalgic adjectives we tag onto that vanishing cultural object — the urban film house in its non-mulitplex form.

It was narrow. The theatres were small (No. 4, upstairs, played like a biggish living room). The sound was terrible. The place was glum in an overlit, modern way.

But it had style. For many years it was the hub of the Toronto International Film Festival and the north of Bloor go-to joint for the subtitle set.

Now that it’s gone, it’s the first building I’ve ever felt weepy about. I worked there as a teenager. I was an usher, a cashier, a candy counter guy and eventually an assistant manager.

Looking back, honestly, I think that was the best job I ever had. They trusted me. You remember the first people who trust you.

My favourite memories are the fist fights.

I had two, both with patrons. The first was some mope trying to jump the line outside a showing of Music Box. He dumped a box of popcorn over my head when I wouldn’t let him in. That might’ve been the best punch I’ve ever thrown.

The second was with a couple of idiots my pal Brian and I caught smashing stolen Christmas tree lights in the laneway that runs alongside the theatre between Bloor and Cumberland. They’d unscrewed all the lights from the tree in the Cumberland’s lobby. It took us hours to decorate that damned tree.

While I was wrestling with one, Brian was beating the other with a broomstick. Really laying into him. Brian was my best friend. I’d gotten him that job as an usher.

It was a responsible position. They left me alone with the money. I balanced the books. I turned out the lights. I worked Saturdays alone. I settled disputes. I handed out free passes to the aggrieved. As a rule, I assaulted very few of our customers.

I still have a delicious memory of some complaining wretch looking over my shoulder and yelling, “I want to talk to the manager!” And me letting a beat pass before I said, “Sir, I am the manager.”

I was 16 years old. “Drunk with power” might cover it.

I met my first serious girlfriend there. I hired all my best pals there — Ronan and John and Isaac, as well as Brian. I had my last conversation with my father there, screaming down a phone line while sitting in a windowless office with all the lights out.

I was a Grade 11 student going home at 1 a.m. most mornings. They wanted me to quit school so that I could run my own theatre. I thought about it.

Back then at the Cumberland, movies tended to have longer runs. A good earner ran for months. It felt like Manon of the Spring, which was a terrible film aside from the nude dancing-with-the-goat scene, felt like it ran there for years.

We measured the time in movies. I worked through the Cocktail era and the Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade era and Who Framed Roger Rabbit? era. I stood through that last one at least a hundred times. I memorized every line of dialogue. I would stand at the back of the theatre while it played, acting the whole thing out to amuse myself.

Movie theatres are, as a rule, staffed largely by thieves. Many of the customers are con artists as well. Everybody’s trying to work some sort of scam. I’d worked a few in my day, and was well prepared to head off my co-workers once they made me a manager. Funny how somebody else’s money becomes your money once they slap a polyester blazer on you.

The best time to work there was during the Film Festival, when I would give up on school and live at the Cumberland for a couple of weeks. Back in those days, they didn’t sell tickets to specific movies. They sold a seven-dollar, first-come, first-served all-entry ticket. This caused no end of ill-feeling and resulted in one riot that I can recall. The movie was Urinal. We were forced to hide behind locked doors when the crowd turned on us. I snuck up to see what the fuss was about, spun into the theatre, caught a glimpse of what appeared to be two men having sex on a Union Jack, and spun back out.

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The movies went by in a blur. We only half-watched most of them. The fascinating thing is watching people watch movies, which is what ushers do. Try it some time. It’s hypnotic and for some strange reason, deeply soothing.

I remember that place better than any house I’ve every lived in. I changed the marquee every Thursday night. I swept every inch of floor. I scrubbed every uncarpeted surface.

I lived at home. But I grew up at the Cumberland.