Midnight Movie: A Novel
Page 24
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 …
Tobe never finished that sentence. Instead, he stood up, gave me a companionable clap on the shoulder, turned around, grabbed a gun off his desk—it turned out to be that Colt he was always too damn lazy to take out of his safe—stuck the barrel in his mouth, and blew his brains out.
All over me. My face, my neck, my chest, covered with the gray matter of the man many consider to be the godfather of slasher flicks. His critics might call it poetic justice.
If you were to read something into that—and after you’ve worn someone’s brains as a necklace, trust me, you read into everything—you’d think that maybe Tobe Hooper was trying to tell me that what’s been done can be undone if you do it right. Or maybe he was saying that if you have the opportunity to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good, then you’d better goddamn well do it.
Or maybe he was saying, Walk a mile in my shoes, motherfucker. Here’re some brains for breakfast. Enjoy your ride on the Destiny Express.
I suppose it’s now worth mentioning that this morning, when I awoke, I noticed some blue slime oozing from the tip of my penis. And holy shit, I’ve never been so horny in my entire life.
—Alan Goldsher, April 2011
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.
A Conversation with Tobe Hooper
Tell us about your real “lost” 1969 film, Eggshells, and describe its screening at the South by Southwest Festival forty years later.
In the late sixties, there were a lot of movies coming out of Hollywood that were supposed to be about hippies—Easy Rider, which came out in 1969, is a good example—but even though some of them were quite good, the film hippies weren’t anything like any real-life hippies I knew, so I wanted to make something that reflected my own
experience. When it screened at SXSW, it was terrific to be seeing it with an audience after all those years, and the response was both positive and gratifying. And for the record, nobody contracted any virus from seeing the film. At least as far as I know.
Were you really in a car wreck when you were a teenager?
Yes, a serious one. To this day I can’t even remember having gotten out of bed that morning. The pain was horrible, obviously, but one of the creepiest things about it was the memory loss. The whole incident was a big blank, and the concept of blankness is flat-out frightening—not knowing what did or didn’t happen in any given situation is a mind-fuck—which is why we made that forgetfulness a theme throughout Midnight Movie.
In Midnight Movie, you’re portrayed as a loner. Is that the truth?
Yes and no. Don’t get me wrong. I like people. Working on a movie set with a good crew always gets me jazzed, and I love going to conventions and meeting my fans … but I do like my alone time. I’m not quite the hermit that I am in the book, but I sure dig staying in.
Is there really any Tobe Hooper memorabilia in a creepy film museum?
My house was robbed while I was out of town a couple years ago and a lot of my memorabilia was stolen … not all of it, but a good chunk. That event was the inspiration for putting the museum in the book. And if anybody does see any of my stuff in some weird museum, call the cops!
What is it about zombies that you find intriguing?
Part of it is that they’re dead and alive at the same time, and the dichotomy gives you a lot to play with in terms of the story. Also, since zombie mythology isn’t as templated as that of, say, vampires, you have more room to stretch. And it’s always fun to write about a creature that’s pure id, who has no motives other than a hunger for brains.
In the book, you’re described as being obsessed with moviemaking when you were still in high school. How old were you when you decided you wanted to make movies?
I was barely out of the womb when I was bitten by the film bug. All I ever remember wanting to do was make movies, and director/writer is the only job I’ve ever had.
What was it about the medium that was so attractive to you?
I think the most interesting thing about film is that it’s limitless. You can do anything you can imagine, and because of that, it always is a challenge, and it always will be a challenge, so I have a job for life.
Do you think your fans will follow you from the screen to the page?
I certainly hope so. These days, horror fans seem to be more open to more forms of literature than they were when Chainsaw hit—graphic novels, long-form books, etc.—and I feel confident that this book, which I think is quite cinematic, will be embraced.
Does this book reflect any frustrations you actually feel toward Hollywood?
Hollywood is a magical place where unicorns dance under rainbows, and everybody loves everybody, and everyone speaks the truth at all times. How could I ever get frustrated with that?
Why a book, and why now?
It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, and when my talented cowriter, Alan Goldsher, suggested we work together, I jumped. I’m as proud of this book as I am of any of my movies, and I could absolutely see doing it again. In fact, I have a fucked-up idea brewing as we speak.
About the Authors
TOBE HOOPER is the director of numerous movies but remains best known for the genre-defining Texas Chainsaw Massacre, which spawned one of the highest grossing horror-movie franchises of all time.
ALAN GOLDSHER is the author, most recently, of the acclaimed Beatles-horror mashup Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion.