Johnny Hangtime (6 page)

“L
et's blow something up today!” Roland exclaimed as he walked around the set, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Anybody else in the mood to blow something up?”

Everybody agreed that blowing something up would be a terrific idea. The guys on movie crews always love blowing stuff up. This business must attract pyromaniacs. Personally, I think explosions are pretty cool, but I'd rather see them in the movies than in person.

My ankle had healed quickly. We were gathered at Buckeye Municipal Airport near Phoenix, Arizona. They had closed down part of the airport for the day so we could shoot this scene for
Great Adventure
. Roland had waited for a clear day with very little wind.

There were two planes on the ground, a new blue Cessna 150 and a red two-seater Jenny from the World War I era. The Jenny is a biplane, which means it has two sets of wings, one below the cockpit and the other above it. The cockpit is open to the wind.

Roland and the crew were going over camera angles, safety
precautions, and a million other details when Mom drove up in the old Ford Maverick she should have traded in years ago. Behind the Maverick was our horse trailer. As soon as I saw Squirt inside, I relaxed a little.

Squirt was a beautiful golden palomino that used to belong to my dad. I sort of grew up with him. When Dad died, Mom wanted to sell Squirt or give him away. It's expensive to feed and take care of a horse, and Mom told me we needed to save every penny we had.

I begged her not to get rid of Squirt, and she could see how much he meant to me. She agreed to let me keep him after one of the first stunts I did called for me to ride a horse. Squirt turned out to be a fine actor and stunt horse, so the studio paid Mom to use him in the film. He had been my stunt horse a number of times since then, so we could afford to keep him.

As she got out of the car, Mom had a worried expression on her face. It's the same expression she always has when I'm about to do a stunt. I said hi and backed Squirt out of the trailer. Roland came over to greet Mom with his usual enthusiasm.

“Meredith!” Roland bubbled. “How is it possible that you become more lovely with each passing day?”

“Roland, I need to talk to you,” Mom said, ignoring his compliment and waving the script before him. “This scene makes no sense at all. The story is about the relationship between the president's daughter and this kid. The horse and plane stunt has nothing to do with anything. It doesn't move the story forward at all. It's totally superfluous.”

“Superfluous” is one of Mom's favorite words. It means unnecessary. Mom reads all my scripts, and whenever she gets to one of my stunt scenes, she always says it's superfluous.

Roland took the script from Mom and looked it over for a few
seconds. Then he pinched the pages between both hands, tore the script in half, and threw the pages up in the air. They scattered down the runway.

“Meredith,” he said, wrapping an arm around Mom, “I'm perfectly aware that the horse and plane stunt doesn't move the story forward. I know that it's superfluous. And I don't give a flying fondue! The whole
movie
is superfluous!”

“So why do you have to shoot it?” Mom asked.

“Simple,” Roland explained. “Moviegoers don't care about the relationship between two kids. They want to see somebody fall out of a plane and land on a horse. They want to see the plane explode in a huge fireball.”

“That can't be true,” Mom protested. “People have more brains than that.”

“Sadly, it is true. You see, Meredith, people don't need to come to their local cineplex to see relationships. They can see relationships around their kitchen table every night. I want to give them something they
can't
see at home. Something they can't experience watching TV. Something they've never seen
anywhere
. I want to amaze people. I want to hear the audience say, ‘How in the world did they
do
that?'”

“Then why don't you just make a movie with no dialogue at all?” Mom blustered. “Just wall-to-wall stunts from start to finish.”

“That, Meredith, is my
dream
!” Roland's eyes were as big as golf balls. “All my life I have wanted to create a motion picture that has nothing but action from start to finish. No silly
dialogue
to get in the way and slow things down. Just continuous motion! That's why they call them
motion
pictures, don't you see? One of these days I'll make that film.”

Mom saw that she was getting nowhere with Roland, so she turned to me.

“Johnny, please don't do it,” she begged. “This gag is too dangerous.”

“Mom, I've jumped out of plenty of planes.”

“Not onto a horse!”

“It's perfectly safe, Mom. Roland wouldn't let me do it if it wasn't safe.”

“Meredith,” Roland interrupted, “I understand your concern. But I assure you, Johnny will be safer than he is when you tuck him into bed at night. May I suggest you and I discuss this over dinner this evening? I know this charming little bistro—”

“Sure,” Mom agreed, making Roland's eyes light up. “I'll have dinner with you tonight—if you cut the scene, Roland.”

“Oh, Meredith, why must you torture me so?”

Roland paced up and down the runway for a few minutes, his hands clasped behind his back. Everybody stood around waiting for him. Finally he came back and clapped his hands together.

“Okay, everybody, let's blow something up!”

Mom marched away angrily.

 

I adjusted my goggles and parachute and climbed aboard the red Jenny. The pilot, Sam Solomon, was also a stuntman. He climbed into the seat in front of mine.

Roland did a final check to see if the cameras mounted on the Cessna were working properly. When he was satisfied, he climbed in behind the pilot. The two planes taxied down the runway together.

“Meet you at Burger King!” I yelled to Roland.

As we took off I leaned out and waved to Mom. Sam brought our Jenny up to five thousand feet and leveled off at that altitude. The Cessna pulled alongside ours and got as close as it could without touching wings. Roland gave us the okay sign, which meant we
could start the scene whenever we were ready.

Sam put the Jenny on autopilot and climbed out of his seat onto the left wing. Carefully,
very
carefully, I followed.

Sitting inside the enclosed cabin of a jet plane doesn't really give you the true experience of flying. I say if you really want to fly, you have to stand out on the plane's wing while the plane is in midair, going a hundred miles an hour or more.
Feel
the wind shoot by you.
Hear
the roar of the engine.
Feel
the cold moisture of a cloud as it hits you in the face.
Realize
that if you slip, your life is over.

Now
that's
flying!

“Wing walking” is a movie tradition that goes back to the barnstorming pilots of the 1920s. The old biplanes are still used for these scenes because the struts and wires that connect the two wings give wing walkers lots of places to grab hold.

The cockpit of our Jenny had been moved back a few feet to compensate for the added weight Sam and I would be putting on the front of the plane. A 600-horsepower engine had been installed too, because it needed extra power.

The script called for Sam and me to fight with each other out on the wing. I had done fight scenes before, but always on the ground. In this scene, whoever lost the fight would get knocked out—out of the plane, that is.

Still, a fight is a fight. Sam and I had practiced on the ground with Roland until we knew the fight scene by heart. Each of us would be throwing five carefully choreographed punches. According to the script, my fifth punch would knock Sam off the wing.

Movie fights are nothing like real fights. You've got to telegraph your punches so the guy you're about to punch can see it coming. Actors are trained to throw long, looping punches with the widest possible arc. If you throw a punch like that in a
real
fight, you'll get
clobbered. That's why good boxers make terrible movie fighters.

Sam and I couldn't talk to each other. The noise of the engine and air whipping by us was too loud. We faced off against each other on the left wing. Being careful to keep my fist loose so it wouldn't hit with too much force, I punched Sam in the stomach. Immediately I got into position for Sam's return blow.

Sam doubled over, then straightened up and socked me with an uppercut to the jaw. It just missed me, but I fell backwards to make it look real, grabbing a strut as my back hit the wing.

I struggled to get up and Sam tried to kick me, but I grabbed his leg and pulled it, causing him to fall down too. As he held on to the wires with each hand, I leaped on top of him and punched him in the face with my left, then right, then left hand again. We rolled over and Sam did the same to me. My head was hanging over the wing and Sam put both hands around my neck, pretending to choke me.

As this was happening, I sneaked a peek at Roland in the Cessna. He was loving it.

I managed to get Sam's hands off me, and each of us threw another punch. After I threw mine, Sam went flying off the wing backward. He had to be careful not to get hit by the tail of the plane, or he would be knocked unconscious. Not a good idea when you're five thousand feet up.

Once he was out of camera range, Sam opened up the parachute that was hidden underneath his jacket. In the movie, it would look like he had fallen off the plane to his death.

The script called for my character to do a triumphant “end zone dance” on the wing, and then suddenly realize the pilot is gone and he doesn't know how to fly the plane. I did that, then rushed to the cockpit. As instructed, I flipped a switch on the dashboard to turn off
the engine. It sputtered and the propeller stopped. This plane was going down.

Quickly I reached under the pilot's seat, where a snowboard was hidden. I raced back out on the wing with it and attached the snowboard to my feet. When I was sure it was secure, I took a deep breath and jumped off the wing.

I know what you're thinking. Why was there a snowboard hidden in the plane? Why did my character put it on his feet? Why didn't he just try to land the plane instead?

The answer to these questions is simple: How should I know? Roland said it would look cool.

“Everybody has seen planes land,” he explained as we were going over the gag. “But how many people have seen a kid snowboard out of a plane?”

He was right, of course. I had done quite a bit of skydiving, but the snowboard made it more interesting. It slowed my descent, and the extra air resistance enabled me to do some cool tricks. By tilting my feet, I could make my body move left, right, and even flip around head over heels. It was awesome. I just hoped Roland's cameras were getting it all on film.

I was having such a good time that I nearly forgot to open my parachute. This can be dangerous, as you might imagine.

In any fall, you have to first know your altitude at the top, then calculate how many seconds until you would hit the ground, how long it will take your parachute to open fully, and how long you can wait before opening the parachute. Roland worked this all out ahead of time, so I knew to count to eight before pulling my ripcord.

I opened the chute and it yanked me hard when the cloth filled with air. It feels like you're moving upward at that moment, but
actually you're not. It's just that you're decelerating—slowing down—so quickly.

As soon as I opened my chute, Roland's Cessna headed down. Below me, I saw the red Jenny plummet earthward. It got smaller and smaller until it exploded in a fireball below.

As I floated down, I kicked the snowboard off my feet and looked around, searching for Squirt. After a few anxious seconds, I spotted him galloping a few hundred yards away.

I didn't want Squirt to see me in front of him because he might get spooked and change direction. I maneuvered my chute around so that I would come down behind him.

Roland had said that this gag would be a movie first. Nobody had ever fallen out of the sky and landed on a horse before. It was not the kind of gag I could rehearse over and over again. I had to get it right the first time.

A few hundred feet over Squirt, I estimated that I was a little higher than I wanted to be. If I kept going like that, I would touch down in front of Squirt and he might trip over me. I pulled the cord that gives the chute a little less forward lift. It worked. I came down smoothly and only had to make a few minor left and right adjustments.

I landed on Squirt's back with a gentle thud. Squirt didn't miss a stride. The parachute collapsed to the ground behind me.

“Good boy!” I yelled in Squirt's ear. I gave him a pat on the side of his head and pulled a carrot out of my pocket for him.

It took a few minutes for Roland's plane to land, and a few more for him to hop in a jeep and meet me.

“Awesome!” Roland shouted when he caught up with me. His face was flushed red. “Absolutely awesome!”

A
fter I finished doing the stunts for
Great Adventure
, I didn't hang around to watch Ricky Corvette and Augusta Wind shoot their usual lovey-dovey scenes. I was anxious to get back home, back to my old bed. Sleeping in hotels and motels gets old after a while. Mom and I packed up Squirt in the trailer and pointed the old Maverick toward California.

It was December, and I was looking forward to Christmas vacation. I wouldn't have to deal with Boris Bonner—or anything else—for three whole weeks. Walking home from school that day, I was feeling pretty good.

“Hey, Thyme!”

I turned around. It was Bonner. Nobody was around to bail me out, as usual.

“Gimme a dollar, Thyme.”

I stopped and faced him.

“No,” I said.

“All I find I keep, Thyme.”

I was sick of Bonner. I didn't care about the rules anymore. I didn't care about my contract. I didn't care about doing stunts. As Bonner slid his hands into my front pockets, I reached my elbow back and slammed it against the side of his head with all the force I could generate.

I don't think anything ever felt so good in my whole life.

It took him completely by surprise, knocking Bonner sideways and off his feet. He lay on the ground and rubbed his jaw for a moment before looking up at me.

“Big mistake,” Bonner said, getting to his feet slowly. “I might not see you over the holidays, so I'm going to have to give you a beating that will last you until New Year's.”

Bonner advanced on me, churning his fist in front of him like a bag full of rocks. There was some blood on his right cheek.

I backed up a few steps so I would be able to plant my foot and get a good shot at him. Bonner must not have been much of a boxer, because instead of hitting me, he grabbed me in a bear hug and wrestled me on the ground.

We rolled around like that, trying to punch and choke each other. I got in a few shots, and so did he.

Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt next to us. I didn't stop. I didn't care. I wanted to do as much damage to Bonner as I could before anybody stopped the fight.

“Break it up, boys!” a familiar voice shouted, “Knock it off!”

Hopping out of the car was Roland Rivers.

He was much bigger and stronger than both Bonner and me, so he was able to separate us by force.

“You're dead, Thyme!” Bonner shouted, as Roland pulled us apart. “Dead!”

I replied by saying some words I'm not ever supposed to say, but words you've probably heard around the schoolyard. I think you know what I mean.

Neither of us won the fight. I'd call it a tie. But Bonner strode away, swinging his shoulders as though he had whipped me good. I couldn't help but laugh.

“Are you crazy, Johnny?” Roland asked as he straightened out my shirt. “If word about this ever got back to Ricky Corvette's people, you'd never work in movies again! Your contract strictly forbids fight—”

“I quit, Roland,” I interrupted. “I don't want to work in movies anymore. I've had it.”

Roland's face turned pale. He leaned against his car heavily, like
he
had just been in a fight.

“It's no big deal,” I told him, “You can get somebody else to do stunts for Ricky Corvette. Plenty of kids can do what I do.”

“No,” Roland insisted. “Somebody as good as you comes along only once every generation. First came your dad, then you. No other kid can do what I have in mind.”

“What do you mean, have in mind?”

“That's what I came to talk to you about,” Roland explained. “Remember I told you about my dream of making a film with just stunts from start to finish?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it's going to come true.”

Roland told me that the last few Ricky Corvette/Augusta Wind films had been huge hits for Spectra Films, the small company that gave Ricky his start. Now, Paramount—a major motion picture company—had decided to do a big-budget movie starring Ricky and Augusta. They wanted Roland to write and direct it, and he had
complete creative freedom. Paramount was giving him $200 million to play with. That's much more than Roland usually gets.

“Two hundred million, Johnny!” he exclaimed. “Do you know how much stuff we can blow up with two hundred million dollars?”

“I can imagine,” I replied.

“I wrote this script,” he said, reaching into his car. “Ricky plays this secret agent, sort of a teenage James Bond. You get to ski off a mountain, Johnny! There will be some underwater work. Car crashes. Lots of high falls. A chase scene on Jet Skis.”

It sounded like it would be a blast to shoot.

“A horse scene, a fire scene, some fistfights,” Roland continued. “The story makes no sense at all, Johnny, but it's great! I'm going to shoot it on location, so you'll get to travel all over the world. This will be the ultimate action movie, Johnny! Wall-to-wall stunts! This is the film I've dreamed about all my life!”

The intensity in his eyes told me he meant every word he was saying. I knew that if I turned him down, Roland would be crushed.

“What's it called?” I asked.

“
Two Birds, One Stone
. See, this madman has to kill Ricky and Augusta together so he can take over the world. And here's the best part. Guess how many lines of dialogue Ricky will have?”

“I give up.”

“Seven!” Roland exclaimed gleefully.

“That's
all
?”

“That's all! Paramount knows Ricky can't act for beans. They said it's fine with them if I just use him for the close-ups. The rest of the movie is just you. This is
your
movie, Johnny! I'm telling you, it will be endorphin city! I was hoping to start shooting during your winter vacation. Are you with me?”

Roland looked at me with those big puppy-dog eyes of his. He
looked like he was about to cry. One more movie couldn't hurt, I guessed.

“Okay, I'll do it,” I said, and Roland wrapped his big arms around me in a bone-crunching bear hug.

“There's one thing you should know, Johnny.” Roland suddenly sounded serious.

“What is it?”

“There's a Niagara Falls scene.”

That froze me. I hadn't thought about Niagara Falls in a long time. I hadn't been back to the Falls since my dad died. It had been three years.

There was no cemetery I could visit. No tombstone I could stand in front of and imagine my father lying beneath. Going back to Niagara Falls would be the closest thing to visiting my father's grave. It would be a way to honor his memory.

“It's an awesome scene, Johnny,” Roland said, “but I'll cut it if you want me to.”

“Don't cut it, Roland.”

“Johnny, you don't have to do it.”

“I
want
to do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“You'd better talk it over with your mother first,” he said, handing me the script. “She might not feel the same way you do.”

 

I didn't tell Mom about the fight with Bonner or about Roland's visit. I wanted to look over the script for
Two Birds, One Stone
first.

Roland wasn't exaggerating. There was hardly any story to the movie at all. It was just one action scene after another. It looked great.

The Niagara Falls gag would have me in a canoe going down the Niagara River. Just as the canoe is about to go over the Falls, a rescue helicopter would swoop down and carry me to safety. It was the last scene in the script. It would be dangerous, of course. But not as dangerous as going down the river in a boat that was supposed to sprout wings.

When Mom came home from work that day, I didn't tell her about the script. There was no way she was going to let me do a Niagara Falls gag. Not after what happened to Dad.

There wasn't much to say over dinner. All I could think about was
Two Birds, One Stone
.

I had a few options before me. I could be honest with Mom. I could tell her what Roland told me, show her the script, and plead my case. If she said doing the movie was out of the question, I could simply defy her, claiming I'm old enough to make my own decisions. Or, I could make Mom happy and quit doing stunts for good. Mom would probably be so thrilled, she'd go out to dinner with Roland.

Then another option occurred to me. Examining the script, I saw that the final scene of
Two Birds, One Stone—
the Niagara Falls scene—filled chapter 19 and chapter 20 completely. The previous action scene ended.

I took chapter 19 and chapter 20 threw them in the trash.

Then I went out to the garage and got Mom's old typewriter. I rolled chapter 19 into the typewriter until it was at the bottom of the page. There, I typed the words THE END.

Anybody reading the script would get to the bottom of chapter 19 and think the movie was over. There was no way to tell an entire scene had been cut out.

I felt bad about what I did, but I didn't know what else to do. I really wanted to do the movie, and I knew Mom would never let me.
I knew I'd have to tell her eventually, but I figured I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

The next night, when Mom came home, I told her about
Two Birds, One Stone
and gave her the script. As she read it, I pretended to be watching TV but actually watched her out the corner of my eye. I tried not to let on that I was nervous. I hoped she wouldn't notice that the typewriting at the bottom of chapter 19 didn't exactly match the rest of the script.

“Superfluous…superfluous…superfluous,” was all she said as she flipped the pages.

Finally, Mom reached the last page. She sighed, closed the script, and looked at me.

“I don't like it,” she said, making my heart sink. “It's the same old junk, just more of it. But I don't see anything in here that's worse than the other gags you've done.”

“So I can do it?”

“If you want to.”

“You're the best mom in the whole world!”