Midnight Movie: A Novel (6 page)

I told her, “If you have to ask, sweetie, you probably haven’t had one.”

She said, “I
definitely
haven’t. But if it happens, how’ll I know?”

I asked her, “Do you know where your clitoris is?”

She said, “Yeah.”

I said, “Have you, um,
experimented
with it?”

She said, “Not really.”

I said, “Okay, here’s your assignment. Each night for the next week, diddle around down there for a few minutes and get back to me. You might figure it out for yourself.”

And that was the last time I discussed sex with little Andrea Daltrey.

She asked me if she could sit with me by the door while I sold tickets, and I told her, “Why? Don’t you want to mingle with everybody?”

By then, there were probably a couple dozen guys on the scene, none of whom looked like Andi’s type. Actually, I didn’t know what Andi’s type was, but I
did
know that these guys weren’t it. I had a hunch she wasn’t into the men of Comic-Con.

There were only two girls there, and they were clinging on to their boyfriends for dear life; they both looked miserable, like they’d been dragged there against their will. The single guys seemed to be jazzed up about the movie, so even if there were some prospects there for Andi, they probably wouldn’t be able to tear themselves away from the screen.

Andi’s clueless when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex, but she’s a sharp cookie in every other venue of her life. She looked at the crowd and said, “Seriously, sis, this is nerd central.” She pointed to a guy wearing a
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
T-shirt, carrying a plastic chainsaw, and said, “Like I’m going to let that guy ruin me for my future husband.”

I said, “You have a point. But you
could
stand some ruining.” I flicked the top of her left boob, then said, “And with those, you can find somebody to ruin you
easily.
”

She smacked my hand away and said, “Just for that, you’re buying me a beer.”

I told her, “It’s Black Strap or nothing.”

She blew out a big puff of air, then said, “My God, I hate the Cove.”

I don’t get out much. Being
in
is crazy enough, so who needs
out
?

Before all that Game shit went down, my typical day probably would have sounded like a snooze to the regular nine-to-fiver. Actually, it probably would have sounded like a snooze to a ten-to-sixer, or an eleven-to-sevener, or a midnight-to-nooner: wake up; shit; eat; smoke my one butt for the day; watch two movies; eat; watch another movie; maybe write, maybe not; eat; sleep; repeat. For a dude like me, that’s a lot of day.

The only times I got sociable, truly sociable, were when I was making a movie or doing a signing at a horror convention. On a film set, behind the camera, communication is king, and if you can’t get your vision across to your DP, or your lighting guy, or your second-unit director, you’re fucked. As for in front of the camera, that’s another story. Sometimes actors don’t
want
to communicate. I’ll take a malleable amateur who’s eager to learn something, who takes a big-picture view of the project, and who doesn’t bitch about the size of their trailer over a megastar any day of the week. You might not end up with a perfect performance, but at least it’ll be
real
, and if something’s real, then the horror is more horrifying.

As for those movie and comic conventions, suffice it to say that when I want to, I can work a room with the best of them.

Since I’m not out in the real world all that often, I have very little sense of how the real world feels about me. Even when I do get out, it’s not like I’m recognizable—the only directors that the
general public recognizes are the bigmouths like Marty Scorsese, or Woody Allen, or Spike Lee—and that’s fine with me. I offer the world what I offer the world: scary flicks. I’m not trying to make a grand statement or anything. I want to entertain, and I do that best from behind the camera, not in front.

So when I was out in front of the Cove jawing with Gary, and all these folks started wandering over, and introducing themselves, and asking me to sign their
Chainsaw
DVDs, and quizzing me about what I’m working on, and wondering what the hell
Destiny Express
was about, I was pretty shocked, and—I’m not going to lie here—flattered. I don’t seek one-on-one acceptance, but when I get it—especially if it’s unsolicited—it feels pretty good.

I was leaning against the wall, staring at the stars, enjoying the breeze, and trying to not stare at Andrea Daltrey’s breasts when I felt a tap on my shoulder and smelled a waft of luncheon meat. That’s right, you guessed it, it was my old pal Dude McGee.

He giggled this weird, high-pitched giggle and said, “Glad to see you made it, Erick, Earache, Erick the Half a Bee, Erich von Stroheim.”

I grunted a nonanswer.

He said, “I’m kind of surprised you’re here. Wasn’t twice through the movie enough?”

I leaned away from him. He made me feel dirty. I said, “I’m here for the Q and A.”

McGee nodded. “Ah. The Q and A. I’m here for that, too. Lots of Q’s, I have.”

I said, “Like what?”

He belched—surprise, surprise—then said, “Like how did he make such a masterpiece at such a tender age?”

I asked him, “You think it’s a masterpiece?”

He said, “Of sorts.”

I said, “What’s your favorite scene?”

He said, “Oh, I don’t have one. They’re all good.”

I said, “Okay, what’s the scariest moment?”

He said, “They’re
allllll
scary.”

I said, “I was pretty impressed that he was able to get such a nice color scheme.”

He said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

I said, “The movie is black and white. You didn’t watch it at all, did you, you dipshit? Not even the ten minutes you claim.” It was unbelievably rude for me to call a guy I was meeting for only the second time a dipshit to his face, but he brought out that side of me.

He shrugged and said, “So what? I’m not the critic. You are.”
He made a shooing motion at me, then said, “So get in there and go criticize.” And then he wandered toward Tobe.

My throng of fans—such as it was—gradually made their way into the bar. I was about to follow when somebody grabbed me roughly by the wrist. I turned around quick, ready to swing. You don’t grab a man by his wrist from behind.

It was Dude McGee. He turned the grab into a sweaty handshake and said, “There’s that shake, Mr. Homer. We’re even. So I never asked if your flight was satisfactory.”

I said, “It was perfectly satisfactory.” I didn’t mention that nobody came to pick me up. Why bother? “And it’s Hooper.”

He said, “Of course it is,” then he put his hand on my back, nudged me toward the club, and said, “Shall we?”

I gently pushed his hand away and said, “No offense, Mr. McGee, but you’re awfully touchy-feely. I’m not a fan of touchy-feely. No offense.”

He ran his index finger up my spine, then pulled his hand away and said, “No offense taken.” Then, as if out of nowhere, the film canister appeared in his hand. “Are you excited? Because I am. I’ve watched it countless times all by my lonesome, but this is my first chance to see it with a crowd. Exciting, very exciting, very,
very
exciting.”

I said, “Sure, exciting. Listen, can you give me a rundown? I don’t remember a damn thing about it.”

Erick, the kid with that Massacre This band, called over, “He hasn’t watched it, Tobe!”

I asked McGee if that was true. He said, “I
feel
like I watched it. Isn’t that good enough?”

I said, “No. It’s not good enough. So why’d you set this up? What if it’s a piece of shit?”

McGee said, “You’re Toeb Hoopster—”

I said, “Tobe Hooper.”

McGee said, “And you did
My Texas Chainsaw Attack—
”

I said, “
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
”

McGee said, “So I know deep in my gut that it’s not a piece of shit.”

I almost said something about how deep his gut was, but that wouldn’t have been polite. Say what you will about southerners, but we’re usually nice to strangers, even when they smell like delicatessens and have a habit of touching you in what has to be considered a strange manner.

He said, “Mr. Laughlin, Mr. Laughing Boy, Mr. Laugh-a-Minute will tell you. It’s not a piece of shit, right? Right?”

Erick took a deep breath and said, “It’s kind of a piece of shit.”

I tried to suck the sentence back into my lungs. I mean, I’d just told Tobe Hooper that something he made was a piece of shit. I was a dick, right? Right.

If I may put on my objective critic’s hat for a second, I’d have to say that, like with every filmmaker in the world, some of Tobe’s flicks are better than others. But none of them could be considered a piece of shit.

Except this one.

Fortunately, Tobe laughed. “Okay, lay it on me, brother. What’s shitty about it?”

I said, “I don’t know if I’m qualified …”

Then Janine, who I hadn’t even realized was listening, piped up. “Erick, Jesus Christ, you’re a goddamn film critic. Give him your goddamn review.”

Tobe said, “Yeah, Erick. Give me your goddamn review.”

I took a deep breath—it was more of a sigh, really—and said,
“Okay, the script is a mess, and the story is barely existent, and aside from your pal Gary, the acting is atrocious.”

Tobe clapped me on the back and said, “Sounds awesome to me. Let’s go watch this.”

I said, “I watched it twice yesterday—”

He interrupted, “And twice was enough. Don’t worry, brother. I’m glad you didn’t blow smoke up my ass.” He gestured at the front door and said, “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of smoke blowing from that lot. I’m going in. Catch you after.”

As Tobe walked away, I called after him, “The effects are good!”

He laughed and said, “You’re full of shit, pal, but your heart’s in the right place.”