For someone who made his living, sort of, on the big screen, Bob Groves sure picked a bad time to fade to black.

Groves, 55, owner of the delightfully out-of-date Starlite Drive-In, died late last week -- just as the weather is getting right for drive-in-movie-going.

The Starlite is an institution not simply because it is one of the few remaining in the country but also because it is just about the only place in the Triangle where people from all social, racial and economic groups gather weekly without regard to who is parked next to them or standing behind them at the concession stand.

The Bull Durham Blues Festival fits that bill, too, but that only comes once a year.

The Starlite and the festival are, simply, two of the things that make Good Durham good. Sadly, there might be only one thing left now. A message on the drive-in's Web site -- saveourstarlite.org -- said, "As Bob was the sole proprietor ... The Drive In theater is closed and will remain closed until further notice."

Man, what'll we do on hot summer nights now?

I knew Groves for years, having been a fan of the Starlite for more than a decade. In addition to owning the theater, he usually sold tickets and greeted each vehicle of customers.

Just as you knew Eddie Murphy's latest talking-animal movie was going to be a stinker, you knew Groves would greet ticket buyers with, "How many you got hiding in the trunk?"

Said the wrong way, those could be fighting words. Groves, though, always asked it with such a twinkly eye that only a jerk could be offended.

Once you got to know him, you marveled that he could even possess a twinkle because much of the Army veteran's later life would have been a three-hanky weepfest on-screen.

I sat down with him in his steamy trailer in August 2004, two days after the drive-in screen burned to the ground.

He lived at the time in the trailer on the drive-in grounds, with his German shepherd, the theatrically named Sir Robert Blackhawk. In heart-rendingly quick succession, Groves' father and his girlfriend of 28 years -- he actually called her his "soul mate" -- both died. The screen burned down two months later.

The Starlite's greasy corn dogs -- the best kind -- and equally heart-clogging fries and burgers were nobody's idea of gourmet fare, and you probably didn't want to look too closely at how they were being prepared. But when you ate them with a carful of excited kids who before that night didn't even know there was such a thing as a drive-in, they became a gustatory marvel.

Another good thing about the Starlite: If you got drunk, passed out and woke up hours later, you could buy guns, ammo and a crushed-velvet sofa at the flea market it turned into during the day.

When I last talked with Groves, he was overwhelmed by the way businesses and individuals had rallied to his aid.

"I really have no family anymore. The people who work here are my only family. ... The theater can be rebuilt, but the memories can't be replaced," he said. "I guess now we can make new memories."

Don't fret, Bob. Long after we've forgotten "Pirates of the Caribbean XII," we'll still remember the Starlite. And you.