Midnight Movie: A Novel (38 page)

QuothTheRaven
©DisposableHeroes ©DonJuanTwoThree if your bff blew up in a meth explosion, you’d UNDERSTAND!
September 22 3:03 PM via web

QuothTheRaven
©DisposableHeroes ©DonJuanTwoThree if your house was vandalized by a bunch of fucking tweakers, you’d UNDERSTAND!
September 22 3:11 PM via web

DonJuanTwoThree
©QuothTheRaven ©DisposableHeroes Yeah! What she said!
September 22 3:30 PM via web

What a way to start a relationship. First, Erick has to wait on me hand and foot while I’m getting over my beat-down, then I have to wait on him hand and foot while he gets over his explosion. How very, very romantic.

In retrospect, it’s a damn good thing we had each other, because we
understood
. We
got it
. When one of us woke up in the middle of the night screaming, the other one of us knew not to ask what was wrong. I’d hold him, or he’d hold me, or we’d hold each other. And we wouldn’t say anything. What was there to say, really?

Is it our shared suffering that’s kept us together? I don’t know, some shrinks would probably say yes, but I’d like to think that we both have more substance than that. I’d like to think that we’d both recognize if we were getting married not because we love each other, but rather because we need a support system.

I think we’re getting married for the right reason. No, I’m
sure
we are.

Erick wasn’t a good boy about his physical therapy … that is, until I whipped him into shape. There were a lot of
loud
discussions about his laziness—I told him that I didn’t care that the dreams were keeping him up at night and that he needed to get off his ass and get healthy—but I always came out on top of our little chats. Seriously, that boy can’t argue his way out of a paper bag.

The Regal Arbor Cinema gave Erick a nice chunk of change so he wouldn’t sue their asses—which he wouldn’t have done anyhow, but he figured that he’d had a rough summer, so he didn’t mention that to their lawyers—which meant that if we were smart with our money, we could get by without a salary from him for a year or two. So after we moved here to Cali, he decided to focus solely on writing his three screenplays. Yes, that’s right,
three:
a romantic comedy, a silly action picture, and something he
calls his Judd Apatow homage. Much to Theo Morrison’s chagrin, Erick decided to quit music altogether.

Me, I’m doing personal assistant work for a big, fancy studio guy at Warner Bros. who wants to keep a low profile, so I am not at liberty to divulge his name. The big, fancy studio guy loves Erick and keeps trying to hire him to work for him, but Erick wants to write. Good for him.

I will tell you this: We love it here in Los Angeles. And no matter how much Theo begs us, we’re never setting foot in Austin motherfucking Texas again.

That rainbow smoke almost got me. It was the second-prettiest thing I ever saw, the first being the sixteen-year-old Claire Craft’s eyes. She was a bitch, that one, but my Lord, those baby blues of hers could
slay
you. Anyhow, I’m not a believer in hypnosis—if you have a strong mind, it can’t be bent—but that smoke, man, I damn near lost myself in it.

I wanted to get closer—no, I
had
to get closer—so I bailed out of the projection booth and walked, no,
jogged
, no,
sprinted
downstairs to the lobby.

And who’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my way out the door? That’s right, the man, the myth, the motherfucker, Dude McGee.

I lowered my shoulder and tried to bull past him, but that boy was
heavy
. He was an immovable object, and I was
not
an irresistible force, so I bounced off him and fell ass-first onto the floor. He leaned down, offered me his hand, and said, “Let me help you up, William.”

Now, that came out of nowhere. William is my given name, but I hadn’t been called William since, I don’t know, 1968 or something.

I ignored his hand and said, “I’ve got it,” then, with great effort, hauled myself up.

He said, “Listen, this theater is going to explode in about two minutes. You need to get out of here.”

I said, “Bullshit.”

He said, “There is no bullshit being slung here, William. There will be an explosion, and you will survive the explosion, but you cannot be here when it happens. I’ve proven my point. The Game is over. I won. Now I’m hanging it up. I’m taking my ball and going home.”

I said, “McGee, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

He said, “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, you have about one minute to get out of here. If you’re too close to the fire, there’ll be problems.”

I said, “But I thought you said I’m going to survive.”

He said, “You will. But—”

I said, “No buts. I’m going to see the end of the movie, and I’ve got to get a better look at this smoke.” And then I pulled the oldest trick in the book: I pointed over his left shoulder and yelled, “Holy Christ, a headless zombie!” When he turned to look, I bolted right past him.

He may have been an immovable object, but even though I’m an old man, I could outrun his fat ass.

I made it across the lobby, and right as I touched the theater door,
kaboom
, massive explosion.

And it was like the goddamn car wreck all over again.

I remember the doctors poking and prodding the shit out of me, and I remember it hurting like hell, the worst physical pain I’ve felt
ever
.

I remember a nurse telling me that I’d probably flown thirty yards in the air and landed face-first on the pavement, cracking my skull. Some of my brain fluid apparently leaked onto the
street. There went
another
piece of my memory. The next time it rained, it got washed into the sewer.

After that, it was a bunch of nothing.

The next thing I remember, I’m in one of those SUV limo things, hooked up to an IV and a bunch of machines. There’s a smoking-hot girl in doctor’s scrubs diddling with a couple of the machines I was hooked up to. My mouth was dry as sand, and it took me a second before I could speak. I said to her, “Forgive me if I sound stupid, but what’s happening here?”

The girl laughed and said, “Ah. Mr. Hooper. Hello there. Good to see you. And hear you.”

I said, “Where the hell am I? And what day is today?”

She said, “We’re in Los Angeles. You’re on the 101. We’re about half an hour away from your house. And today is September nineteenth. And we’re glad to have you back with us. You’ve been out of commission for a while.”

I said, “Who’s ‘us’? Better yet, who’re you?”

She said, “I’m Cori. Dick Gregson from Warner Bros. sent me.”

I said, “Whoa. Really?”

She laughed again—a beautiful laugh, I should note—then said, “He told me to—and this is a quote—‘Treat Tobe right, and make sure you tuck him in nice and tight, because he’s
my guy.
’ Now, I’ve worked for Mr. Gregson for almost five years, and I’ve never heard him refer to anybody as ‘my guy,’ that’s for sure.”

I said, “Hunh. That’s mighty nice to hear.” I thought,
Holy shit, I bet I can make whatever goddamn movie I goddamn well please. How about that? Then
I told Cori, “Sister, if Gregson wants you to tuck me in, then you can goddamn well tuck me in.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

Cori stayed with me for a few weeks. When I was more or less strong enough to take care of my own self, I sent her on her merry way. I could’ve used the help, but she needed to split.

I haven’t left my house since.

Everybody’s cool about coming to me. But I won’t see them. I
can’t
see them. The only reason I’m seeing
you
, Alan, is that I had to tell
somebody
the goddamn story.

See, here’s the thing.

The day before I sent Cori away, I’m peeing, and it starts to sting, and I look down, and there’s this blue shit oozing out of my cock.

So yeah, she had to go. I’ve been alone ever since.

I don’t really know what else to say. This is it. It’s the end. All I can tell you is that I’m sorry, brother. I know none of this was my fault, but I’m still sorrier than the sorriest motherfucker you’ll ever meet.

But on the plus side, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that it’ll never happen again.

Which brings us to the moral of our story. And that is …

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My deep thanks:

First and foremost to Alan Goldsher, for all the obvious reasons and then some, and for being a writing partner par excellence

To Jason Allen Ashlock who made Alan’s good idea into a deal

To Julian Pavia who made that deal into a book

To Campbell Wharton, Heather Lazare, Tina Pohlman, and the entire Crown/Three Rivers team, from publicity to design and beyond, for making that book into a thing of creepy beauty

To Chris Ridenhour, my tireless manager

To Lee Keele, perhaps the classiest agent in the biz

To Howard Abramson, the attorney you always want in your corner

To Joel Behr

To Doreen Knigin

To Rebecca Hodges, the love of my life

To Louis Black and SXSW gang for making magic and letting me be a part

To dear friends Mark Rance, Mick Garris, John Landis, Guillermo Del Toro, and the Ale and Quail Club for their unwavering support

And most of all, to my fans, wherever you are across the world. I tell this story, like all the others, for you.