In Kent's twisted version of autumn, the sun does not completely disappear into complete darkness ­ it collapses in an overwhelming cloud of dead gray. The lost highway of state Route 59 is no exception. Any motorist who braves this sullen course from Kent to Ravenna in the evening is all too familiar with the routine. Nothing exists to break the morose monotony. Nothing, that is, except for the scowling visage of Demi Moore, miraculously performing one-handed push ups in the middle of the night sky.

For nearly 50 years, the Midway Drive-in has dwelled peacefully on Route 59, a silent resident of Nowheresville. Up to 500 cars populate the theater during summer's apex, but the last Friday of September marks the Midway's final show.

It is common knowledge that the drive-in is an endangered species. Although the Midway has no plans of closing permanently, it is one of merely four area outdoor theaters left in the area and 61 in the state.

On this year's final Friday, rain, menacing clouds and wind circled above Midway's two gigantic screens. Anticipating the cold, manager Joel Reynolds surveyed the gravel terrain from the concession stand. "The movie goes on and people stay whether it's raining, lightning or anything," he says, smiling in disbelief. "Fog is a problem, though, because you can't see the screen. When it's foggy, we ask people to start their cars to generate heat."

Reynolds and his staff of two arrived at 6 p.m., two hours before the features were to begin. They prepared popcorn, jalapeno poppers, funnel cakes and buffalo wings as concession delicacies. As the aromas wafted through the damp air, Reynolds lamented the Midway's recent cold spell and older film selection, both of which hurt ticket sales.

"Horror movies always seem to do well here," he offers. "We had 'Scream' for weeks on end. It must be some kind of nostalgia thing, but people love to see a horror movie at a drive-in.

I kind of like to think drive-ins are coming back again," Reynolds predicts, in contrast with the statistics."The trend is towards big multiplexes right now, but there will always be a place for drive-ins."

The barely illuminated sky murmured a polite thunderclap, and shortly thereafter, the night's first droplets of rain spattered on Route 59's pavement. Perhaps an hour before showtime, the evening's clientele slowly filtered into the lot. The price at Midway is $10 per car, but most of Friday's brave souls boasted season passes for the year's final go-round.

Midge Knepp has worked the Midway's box office, a claustrophobic's nightmare, since 1993. This particular evening, she greeted her customers with good cheer as the Indians game flickered on a portable TV behind her. Her son, John, owns the Midway and two other area drive-ins. He asked his mother to run the box office after her husband died.

"When he first asked me to do it, I said I didn't want to deal with money," she says, "but I love it here. I love to meet people and I meet lovely people up here."

Still, Knepp says she is petrified by the frequent thunderstorms she has endured in her tiny alcove. "A couple weeks ago we had a tornado warning, and a mother drove in here with three or four kids," she says. "I told her about it, but she just looked at me and said, 'I don't care. I came here to see a movie' and went right in."

As she spoke, cars crunched their way up to the box office. Drivers stopped to purchase their tickets and converse with Knepp.

Only a few precious yards separate this checkpoint from Route 59, which makes for interesting logistics.

"During the summer, you would look at the road and all you would see is signal lights turning in left, all the way up to Wal-Mart," Knepp says.

The image of cars lined along Route 59 bumper to bumper, awaiting spots in Midway's spanning parking lot recalls the mantra of "Field of Dreams": If you build it, they will come.

"People have come here from as far away as Texas and Michigan just to see a movie outside," Knepp says. "This summer a family came by from Virginia. They don't have drive-ins in Virginia."

She whispered this with the same disdain as if they didn't have indoor plumbing or kindergartens in Virginia, either.

The next morning, Midway closed for the year. There will be no more horn honking battles to see which side's movie starts first. There will be no more jalapeno poppers.

I told John I'd work here all winter telling people we're closed," Knepp says. "It's sad, but I already put my application in for next year."

There will be no more movies suspended in the evening sky over Route 59 until next summer. Then it begins again.