Midnight Movie: A Novel (5 page)

When I started getting busy directing, and he started getting busier acting, we lost touch, and I have to foot a larger part of the blame for that one. I’d get so wrapped up in a movie—“obsessed” is a better word, I suppose—that I wouldn’t meet him for lunch,
or grab a drink, or even return a damn phone call. When we managed to connect, I told him he shouldn’t take any of it personally, because I didn’t return
anybody’s
phone calls or meet
anybody
for lunch. But after a while, how can you
not
take it personally? I couldn’t blame Gary when he stopped reaching out. After all, I’d stopped years before.

We’d run into each other around town—if you’ve been in the industry for a while, you eventually run into
everybody
at some point or another—and it was always pleasant. He’d talk about his many acting gigs, and I’d talk about my too-few directing gigs, and we’d make promises to get together, and, of course, it never happened. I felt so guilty about the whole thing that I started avoiding him at parties and premieres, so when he stepped out of that limo at the Cove, well, that was the first time I’d seen him in almost a decade. My initial reaction was,
Man, I’m a dick for blowing this guy off
. But when I got a gander at his smiling face, all the regret, all the guilt, and all the self-flagellation fell by the wayside, and I ran over and gave him a big-ass bear hug.

Tobe and his friend yipped and jumped around like little kids, and it was the sweetest thing. If you talked to Tobe for a minute or two, you might think he was kind of a crusty fellow and blow him off. But if you saw him hugging his pal like that, you’d give him a second chance.

Tobe held Gary by his shoulders at arm’s length and said, “As I live and breathe, it’s Gary Church. My God, brother, you look amazing.” And I have to admit, Gary did look pretty good … and pretty familiar. I guessed that since he rolled up in a limo, and since he was buddies with a fancy director like Tobe Hooper, that he was a
somebody
. I made a mental note to look up Gary Church on IMDb when I got home.

Gary took a playful swipe at Tobe’s scraggly old beard and said, “I wish I could say the same for you. Manscape much?”

Tobe smacked Gary’s hand away, then laughed and said, “Nobody gives a rat’s ass about how we working stiffs behind the camera look. You pretty boys, you’re the ones who have to do the … what did you call it?”

Gary said, “Manscaping.”

Tobe laughed. “Right. Yeah. Manscaping. Maybe that’s what I’ll call my next flick. The pitch: Yuppie dude gets attacked by a haunted lawn mower. You can play the lawn mower.”

Gary said, “It would be my honor. And it’d be nice to work together again.”

Tobe said, “Yeah, right. Again. Say, do you remember what the fuck this movie was about?”

He shrugged and said, “Meh.”

I’ve met who-knows-how-many celebrity types, and aside from the time when I interviewed Jessica Alba at a photo shoot that she spent most of wearing only a thong and what could best be described as pasties, I’ve never once gotten tongue-tied. Stick me in a room with George Clooney or Meryl Streep, and I’m fine. Stick me in a room—or a parking lot—with Tobe Hooper, and that’s another story.

I pulled my bike into the Cove lot, and there he was, the man himself, a big, fat smile on his mug, chatting with a short, balding guy. I didn’t want to bother them, so when I saw Janine Daltrey sitting on the trunk of her car a few feet away from Tobe, I wandered on over.

Janine, who, as usual, was looking beautiful, gave me a kiss on the cheek, then patted the trunk and said, “Pull up a chair. How’s it going? How’s the band?” I knew her only a little bit—she was more friendly with my drummer, Theo—but I always liked her, partly because when she asked you a question, she actually listened to the answer, which is something that isn’t always common in my circle of friends. Another reason I liked her: She was fucking
hot
.

I told her, “Okay, I guess. Actually, not really okay. Our last gig was pretty sucky. Our bassist, Jamal, canceled at the last minute, so Theo and I had to do a White Stripes guitar/drums duo thing. It didn’t suck as badly as it could’ve, I guess, but it still did suck.” Then I went on and on about a couple movies I’d recently screened, but I’m certain I didn’t say anything noteworthy, because by that point, I was trying to listen to Tobe’s conversation.

Janine saw right through me. She said, “Erick, go talk to the guy. He’s perfectly nice. He won’t bite you.” I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. Finally, she jumped off the car, grabbed me by my elbow, pulled me up from the trunk, hauled me over, and said, “Tobe Hooper, Erick Laughlin. Erick Laughlin, Tobe Hooper.
Tobe, Erick here is a film reviewer and a musician. You two should have plenty to talk about.”

Tobe stuck out his hand and said, “Music and flicks. A man right after my own heart. Pleasure to meet you. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but could we jaw after the movie? I’m catching up with my old pal Gary here.”

I shook his hand and said, “Are we talking Gary as in Gary Church?”

Gary said, “My man, if you know my name, you must really be a
serious
film nerd.”

I said, “Well, I am. But that’s not it. I saw
Destiny Express
yesterday. You were
the guy.
”

Gary nodded and said, “I was
the guy.
” Then he laughed, looked at Tobe, and said, “Thing is, I don’t know what guy that was, exactly.”

Tobe laughed. “Me neither. How about that, Erick: You know more about this piece-of-shit movie than either the star or the director.” He paused, then asked,
“Is
it a piece of shit?”

Talk about a loaded question. If I said,
No, it’s not a piece of shit, it’s an interesting little film
, they’d think I was a moron after they saw it, because, for the most part, it
was
a piece of shit. But if I said,
Yes, it
is
a piece of shit
, I’d totally offend one of my favorite directors.

Tobe said, “Well, I guess I have my answer.”

I said, “I didn’t say anything.”

Tobe said, “The answer lies in your silence, my new friend. After the flick, I’ll buy you a beer, and you can tell me what you thought the smelliest part of that turd was.” Then he clapped me on the shoulder and went back to chatting with Gary.

Just then, Dave Cranford, the meathead who manages the Cove—who, for some unexplainable reason, Janine dated for several months—called out to Janine, “Hey, blondie, get your ass in here! It’s time!”

She called back, “There’s nobody here, David! Relax!”

He said, “Just get in here!”

She whispered to me, “Diiiiick,” then yelled to him, “On my way, muffin!” She took my hand and dragged me along with her. “I’m not facing this shit by myself. I’m hiring you to be my escort for the night.”

I said, “Yeah? What am I getting paid?”

She said, “My undying gratitude. And that’s priceless.”

So Erick and I are on our way into the club, and, shock of shocks, my little sister Andrea rolls up, rocking a low-cut top and some low-hanging jean shorts. I gave her a wolf whistle and said, “Somebody’s on the prowl tonight.”

She gave me a hug and said, “This is the crappiest place in the known universe. I’m not prowling.”

Now, Andrea was a girl who needed to prowl. If you saw her walking down the street, you’d totally think,
Sexpot
. She had a Barbie doll figure, you know, huge boobs, and a tiny waist, and a big butt … and that butt swayed like a pendulum. Andi got gawked at all the time, but she was so oblivious about that kind of thing that she didn’t even realize it. Me, I can tell in a heartbeat when some guy is checking me out.

Here’s the thing: Andi was a virgin. She’d had boyfriends, and I know for a fact that she’d been to second base, and I have a hunch that she went to third, even though she’d never confirmed it. She gave her high school squeeze a hand job, but apparently that traumatized her so badly that she hadn’t touched a cock since. Most every other girl in Texas who wasn’t a Catholic was fucking by the age of fourteen—myself included—but Andi was different. She was either saving herself, or she wasn’t into sex. She just
looked
like she was into sex.

Ever since we were kids, like from when I was sixteen and she was fourteen, I told her that she could talk to me about
anything
, and if she had any questions, she should ask, no matter how stupid or embarrassing she thought it might be. She took me up on it exactly once, and it was her first day at college. We were in her crappy little dorm room, and I was helping her unpack all her clothes, then, out of nowhere, she asked me, “How do I know if I’ve had an orgasm?”