by Don Calame
Dad shrugs, tightening a nut. “I’m not sure I see the point in postponing the inevitable.”
“Whatever,” I say, catching Matt and Coop’s “yikes” expressions. “Can you guys just please leave now? We’ve got a really tight deadline, and we need to get back to work.”
Dad looks down at the half-erected crib. “Okay, okay. Got it. I can finish putting this together later. But if you want some help with your biology project —”
“No, thanks.” I usher my parents from my bedroom and shut the door behind them.
“Holy crap,” Coop says, staring at the crib. “This is way more desperate than I thought. They’re squeezing you out, dawg. Forget four months. You’re lucky if you have four weeks.”
“It sucks.” I kick the stupid headboard. “I’m completely screwed.”
“No.” Coop points at me. “Not completely. Worst-case scenario you’ll have to share a room with your sister for a few months. But we’re going to do this thing. We’re going to make this movie. And we’re going to sell it. The three of us. Together. Don’t you worry.”
“That’s right,” Matt adds. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Forget it.” I collapse into my Jabba the Hutt beanbag chair. “It’s hopeless. Who are we trying to kid? We don’t know anything about making movies. We don’t have any money. We don’t even have a story, for Kirk’s sake.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, dawg,” Coop says. “Because I just came up with a killer idea. Full of gross-outs, gore, and cheap scares. I even have a title.”
“Oh, really?” I look at him. “And what’s that?”
Coop stares at me and Matt. His eyes dead serious. “We’re going to call it . . . Zonkey!”
“ZONKEY!?” MATT’S EYES scrunch up with skepticism.
“That’s right,” Coop says. “Some crazy zoo-doctor dude who’s in charge of making the zonkeys comes up with this whacked idea to crossbreed human DNA with chimpanzee DNA. But he doesn’t just make a human-monkey baby. No. He develops some kind of human-chimpanzee virus that he can infect people with, making them into these half-man, half-monkey drones that he can control.” The ideas are pouring out of Coop like he’s possessed or something while Matt and I just stare at him, mesmerized. “What this doctor doesn’t count on is the virus mutating and turning people into hairy uncontrollable zombie-monsters with a thirst for human blood. That way we hit all of the hot bases.” Coop counts off on his fingers. “We’ve got technology, we’ve got zombies, we’ve got a potential apocalypse, and we’ve got vampirism. It’s a beautiful thing.” He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, a smug self-satisfied smile on his face. “Tell me that’s not totally genius.”
“Are you kidding?” I say. “That’s like the least genius thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard you say some really ungenius things before.”
“Actually.” Matt taps his lip. “It’s not so bad. I mean . . . at least it’s kind of fun.”
“Seriously?” I grimace. “I don’t know. Half-man, half-monkey vampire-zombies?”
“Zombie-vampires,” Coop corrects me.
“I think we can make it work,” Matt says. “With a little tweaking.”
“Really?” I sit up in the beanbag chair, feeling the fog of anger and frustration starting to lift a little. “All right. Maybe it could be okay. If we do it right. But shouldn’t we call it Chuman? I mean, the guy’s not making zonkeys. He’s making chimpanzee humans.”
“Or what about Humanzee?” Matt pipes in. “That sounds even better.”
“No.” Coop shakes his head. “Those sound made-up. Besides, the dude gets the idea because he’s making zonkeys. And a zonkey is a real thing. What’s so scary about this idea is that it’s something that could actually happen.”
“No, it isn’t,” Matt says.
Coop shrugs. “Let’s Wiki it.” He spins around and types something into the computer. “Aha. Right there in black and white on the most trusted source on the Internet.” He reads, “‘It’s hypothetically possible that chimps and humans could produce a living offspring.’”
“That’s good, that’s good,” I say, getting to my feet. “That just adds to the credibility.” All of a sudden, I’ve got an excited thrumming in my chest.
“Ha!” Matt bellows, pointing at the screen. “And what’s the title of the article? ‘Humanzee.’ So, see? I didn’t make it up.”
“Which just proves you’re not an original thinker,” Coop says. “Anyway, Zonkey! is a way better title. It’s more mysterious.”
“Okay, okay.” I start to pace. “But I’m starting to worry that this might get really complicated with special effects. Maybe instead of turning them into zombie-vampires, the virus kills the people but also makes them ghosts. You don’t ever have to show a ghost. They just moves things around the room. We could do that by attaching invisible thread to stuff.”
“Booooring!” Coop says. “Ghosts are so three years ago.”
“Oh, really?” Matt smirks. “And vampires are cutting-edge?”
“These aren’t vampires, dude.” Coop reaches under my desk and grabs a can of Mountain Dew from my minifridge. “These are zombie-vampire hybrids that also happen to be human chimpanzee half-breeds. That’s what makes them so cool and different. It’s the whole package. Zonkeys are interesting. Humanzees are freaky. And zombie-vampire humanzees are the freakiest of all. Besides, we won’t have to show that much of them. A hairy hand here. A close-up of a monkey mouth biting a neck. It’s totally doable, dawg. The less you show, the scarier it is.”
“All right.” I nod. “I’m down with it. I vote for Zonkey! What do we do next?”
“We put the plan into action. And as the producer and director of Zonkey!, it’s up to me to start delegating.” Coop wheels the desk chair over to my bookcase. He snaps up my copy of Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide and tosses it to me. “Sean, you’re our screenwriter.”
“Wait a second.” I stare down at the book. “It’s my butt on the line here. I think maybe I should be the one to direct.”
“‘I think maybe’ ain’t gonna cut it when we’re out in the field trying to shoot this thing,” Coop says. “A director needs to be fast and decisive. Boom, boom, boom.” He slaps the back of his left hand repetitively into the palm of his right. “That’s me. Not you. No offense, but your talents lie elsewhere. You’re more . . . contemplative. Which is why you’ll be good at writing this thing.”
“I don’t know.” I blink hard. “I’ve never written anything longer than a three-page English essay.”
“You’re gonna be brill, trust me,” Coop assures. “Just find your favorite horror films and mark the pages. You’ll watch a whole whack of flicks and then you can jack the scariest scenes to use in your screenplay.” He rolls back to the desk and opens the laptop. “Matt, since you’re the most organized of the three of us, you get to be in charge of all the organizational shit.”
“Oh, lucky me.” Matt laughs.
“It’s vital, dawg. We don’t have someone who can coordinate things, we don’t have a movie. You’re going to have to figure out where we can get the equipment, special effects, and music and everything. Grab some paper and make a list of all the things we’re going to need. Video camera, makeup, lights —”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on.” Matt scrambles around, looking for a pad and pen.
“Here,” I say, leaning over and snagging my backpack. I unzip the bag, reach inside, and blindly grab a still-moist hairball. “Goddamn it. Not again.” I fling the soggy globule of cat hair into my trash can and wipe my palm on the rug.
“Dude, little advice,” Coop says. “If you want to land the luscious ladies, keep the kittens from yurking in your backpack.”
“It’s just Buttons.” I glance over at the white-and-gray cat curled up on my bed. “She throws up if she eats too fast. Air bubbles get trapped in her esophagus. I’m the same way, actually. The problem is that she gets embarrassed when she’s sick and then hides in m
y bag. I probably should just get another backpack.”
“No,” Coop says. “What you should get is a bigger pair of balls. It’s a cat, dude. It doesn’t have feelings. Just ban the puking puss from your room.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do it. I feel bad for her. And she does too have feelings.” I reach into my backpack again and find the notebook and pen I was looking for. I hold them out to Matt. “Here you go.”
He looks at me warily.
“Go on. They’re cat puke–free. Don’t worry.”
“They better be.” Matt reaches out and takes them cautiously. “All right. Give me all that again, Coop.” Matt starts writing. “Video camera? What else?”
Coop rattles off the items, adding costumes, lights, actors, and editing software to the list.
“Uhhh . . .” Matt looks up from the paper. “I don’t want to be the one who craps on the cupcake here, but how are we going to afford all of this?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Most of the stuff we can cobble together for next to nothing.” Coop scrolls down what looks like a horror movie–themed Web page on my laptop. “But there are three things we absolutely need some casheesh for. One is a supreme camera, because it’s got to look professional. Two is special effects, for the same reason as one. And three is”— he smiles and clicks on something —“our entry fee.”
“Entry fee?” I ask. “For what?”
“For this.” He spins the laptop around for me to read.
I squint, trying to read the title. “What the heck is . . . TerrorFest?”
“It’s a film festival in NYC, baby. It’s where Psychopathic Anxiety was discovered. They have an amateur filmmaking contest. Anyone can enter a flick to be screened for two hundred bills. The top three films win fifty grand each. And Zonkey!,” Coop says, making a marquee in the air with his hands, “is going to be one of those films. But we’ve only got two months to get this puppy filmed, cut, and ready to show. So, who do you know who you can beg some coin off of?”
I laugh. “If I knew who we could get money from, we wouldn’t have to make this movie.”
“It doesn’t have to be a lot. Five grand would do. Don’t you have a college fund you can raid?”
“Pfff, right.” I snort. “As if my parents would ever let me touch that money.”
“Desperate times, dawg,” Coop says.
“I thought we were going to get someone to sponsor us. Like B&M Deli,” Matt says.
Coop shakes his head. “We don’t have time to canvas the neighborhood for suckers. If we want to get this bad boy up and running, then we need some scratch and we need it fast.”
“Okay, let me think.” I put down the Movie Guide and scrub at my eyes with the palms of my hands, like if I rub hard enough my brain will pop out an idea.
And then it comes to me. It’s not the best solution, for sure, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I open my eyes to see Coop and Matt staring at me hopefully.
“All right,” I say. “I guess there is someone I could ask.”
“OKAY, SO, JUST TO WARN YOU,” I say to Matt and Coop, “my uncle’s a little weird.”
Matt’s eyes narrow. “Weird, how?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “He’s just kind of odd. You’ll see.” I lift my fist to knock on Uncle Doug’s door when Coop grabs my wrist.
“Whoa, hold the phone,” he says, looking at me sideways. “We’re not going to black out and wake up tomorrow morning feeling like we’ve been bull-riding all night, are we?”
“Nice.” I shake my head. “Leap right in with the sickest thing imaginable.”
“What?” he says, feigning total innocence. “Someone tells you they’ve got a weird uncle, what are you supposed to think?”
“He’s just reclusive, is all. He’s not a perv.” I raise my fist again and rap on the door. “He happens to be a really chill guy. Just sometimes he comes across as a little . . . perma-fried.”
I wiggle my numb toes inside my frozen boots as we wait for Uncle Doug to answer the door. I have to admit, I’m a little on edge here. I have no idea what his reaction will be when I ask him for the money. Either he could be totally sympathetic to my plight — I mean, he does know Cathy, after all — or he could go ballistic, ranting about how he’s not the local bank.
Just then, the inside door swings open and there’s Uncle Doug. All six foot, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, wearing an XXL tomato-sauce-stained Buffalo Sabres hockey jersey and smoking a carrot-size joint. His hunormous bushy black beard hangs from his chin like a giant hairy lobster bib.
He’s got a big grin on his face and a happy twinkle in his eyes, like us coming to visit him is a welcome surprise. Which only heightens the guilt I’m already feeling.
“Good-morrow,” Uncle Doug says, raising his joint in a sort of smoky salute. “Your mom send you over here to shovel my driveway?”
“No.” I look over my shoulder at the foot of snow that blanketed all of Lower Rockville this morning. “But we’ll do it for you if you need to get your car out.”
He shrugs. “Only traveling I’m doing today is on my magic broomstick.” He smiles and takes a deep drag on his mega-joint. “These your buds?”
“Coop and Matt,” I say, “this is my uncle Doug.”
“A pleasure and a privilege,” Uncle Doug says, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Come in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” He takes another toke, turns, and tromps down the hall.
Coop and Matt arch their eyebrows, looking a little worried as we enter the house.
“Take off your boots,” Uncle Doug calls from the other room. “And shut that fucking door. You think I’m made of money?” He cackles like this is the best joke ever.
We make our way down the hallway and step into the messy kitchen. Uncle Doug is already planted at the table, a cigarette-butt-and-roach-mounded ashtray on one side of him, a Diet Coke on the other, and a ratty old barely breathing laptop — with a game of Texas Hold’em up on the screen — directly in front of him.
“So, to what do I owe this impromptu sojourn? You come to pay me back for my amplifier you totaled?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a glug of his soda.
“Uh, no,” I say. Crap, I forgot all about the amp we wasted during the Battle of the Bands. I take a furtive whiff of my palm. “We just thought . . . we’d stop by. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Is that so?” Uncle Doug gently places his joint down in the ashtray, then lunges out and grabs me in a headlock. “Come by to visit your crazy uncle Doug?” He cackles loudly as he gives me a hair-tearing noogie.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Damn it! I should have known this was coming. I just didn’t expect his standard reception with my friends around. I struggle to get free, but he’s way stronger than me. I can see Matt and Coop — upside-down — pointing and laughing hysterically.
“Say ‘uncle,’” Uncle Doug says.
“Uncle!” I shout.
“Say ‘Uncle Doug.’” He grinds his knuckle into my scalp.
“Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug!”
Finally he lets me go and I stumble backward, trying to catch my breath.
Uncle Doug laughs maniacally. He snatches up his joint and takes a deep hit. “It’s good to see you, Seanie. You always were my favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew,” I say, rubbing my sore head.
“That too.” He chuckles. “You boys want a drink? Diet Coke? Beer? Whiskey?”
“No, thank you,” Matt says.
“A sniff of this?” Doug waves the smoldering joint in the air.
Coop holds up his hand. “That’s okay. Thanks, though.”
“Good man,” Uncle Doug says. “Say no to drugs. I approve.” He takes another puff. “If I could go back and do it all again, well . . . ahh, who the hell am I kidding? I’d do it exactly the same way.” A giant plume of smoke escapes from his lips as he chuckles. “I mean, look at me. Successful businessman at fifty. Not a care in the world. Livi
ng the life of Riley.”
My gaze slides over to the stacks of takeout containers on the kitchen counter, the dirty dishes and empty soda cans piled in the sink, the towers of magazines and newspapers in the corner, and I can’t help but think he’s not being completely objective about things.
“Still,” Doug continues, “I respect your decision. Even if I don’t hold myself up to the same lofty standards as you kids. Although, Seanie my boy, I’m afraid you will not be getting off completely scot-free where drugs are concerned.”
I look from Matt to Coop, like maybe I’ve missed something. “I’m sorry, what?”
“When I meet my maker,” Doug says. “It’s in the will. I’m to be cremated and then the ashes are to be rolled up, passed around, and smoked by the whole family. No exceptions. If you want your inheritance, you take a toke. I’ve got so much THC in my bones, everyone should get a pretty heady buzz.” He howls with laughter before licking his fingertips and carefully squeezing out the glowing tip of the joint. “Would you guys take a seat? You’re making me nervous.”
Coop leaps in first, spinning one of the empty chairs around and sitting on it backward.
“So, what kind of business are you in, Mr. Burrows?” Coop asks.
Matt and me pull out the other two chairs and take our seats.
“Uncle Doug, please,” he says. “If I’m Uncle Doug to the ladies at the bank, and to the guys at the 7-Eleven, and to my dope dealer, then I’m definitely Uncle Doug to Sean’s pals.”
“Okay. Uncle Doug.” Coop suppresses a smile, like the words don’t feel natural on his lips. “So, are you, like, a stockbroker or something?”
“Rugs,” Uncle Doug says. “You’ve seen the Doug’s Rugs commercials on TV?”