Midnight Movie: A Novel (31 page)

So, yeah. Houston sucks.

Here’s what I recall about Darren Allen: good kid, smart kid, popular kid, handsome kid. I remembered him to be a tagalong, but a tolerable one. Like some tagalongs can be colossal pains in the backside, but Darren, he was okay. If I would’ve made a prediction back then, I’d have guessed that Darren would be where Billy was: rich, successful, and happy.

Man, was I wrong.

It was nice to see Tobe. Reeeeeeeal nice.

Before we tracked Darren down, I’d never heard of the Houston goddamn Film Preservation Society. I didn’t even know what the hell a film preservation society did. Did they take the actual films and store them so they wouldn’t get tarnished? Did they take artifacts from films and display them under glass? Was it like Madame Tussaud’s fucking wax museum, with statues of all two of the big-time movie stars who were born in Houston, specifically Patrick Swayze and Shelley Duvall?

Turned out it was kind of all of the above.

Darren Allen was a creepy little man. I knew that he was the same age as Tobe, but he could’ve passed for thirty-nine. His skin was smooth and unlined, and he had a full head of black hair, and he was pasty white, the kind of pasty that you see on a guy who spends most of his waking hours watching movies.

I like movies. Lots.

He didn’t have much to say, though, and Tobe was either exhausted, or depressed, or thinking obsessively about his meeting with Warner Bros. the next day, so I ended up doing all the talking.

I gave Darren the spiel, then asked if he had any recollections that might shed some light on the subject.

He shook his head.

I said, “Do you remember anything weird that went down during
Destiny Express
?”

He shrugged.

I asked him, “Does the roadkill alligator sound familiar?”

He laughed.

I like alligators.

Finally, after fifteen useless minutes of trying to drag even a single drop of information out of the guy, I asked him, “So do you have any of Tobe’s stuff preserved?”

He smiled, and said, “Mmmmmmm-hmmmmm.”

And then—and I know this sounds corny and clichéd, but it’s the goddamn truth—he gave me a giggle that sent a chill down my spine.

I’ll say one thing about that little fucker Darren: He was as organized as hell.

I guess you could call the ground floor of Darren’s space a museum. There were statues, and vintage film posters, and artifacts, but, to be honest, it wasn’t all that impressive. You could tell it was done with love—the displays were subtle and classy, and the joint was pristine—but it was minor league at best. I mean, when your big coup is landing the box of chocolates from
Forrest Gump
, well, that ain’t the kind of place that’ll impress your average film nerd.

The basement, however, was a different story.

Only VIPs in the basement.
Only
VIPs. And only with the bracelet.

Before Darren let us in, he made us put on these weird silver bracelets. He didn’t tell us what they were about, and I didn’t ask. There wasn’t time, and it wasn’t important.

The basement was two floors down, pitch-black, and reeked like a badly kept used book store on a rainy day. Like you could almost taste the paper. We stood at the bottom of the stairs for a good thirty seconds before Darren turned on the light.

Based on the smell, I expected it to look like, well, a badly kept used book store, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of floor-to-ceiling metal storage lockers. Each locker had an identifying plaque on the door, and it was in perfect alphabetical order: F. Murray Abraham, David Attenborough, Joe Don Baker, Lucille Ball, Tallulah Bankhead, Kim Basinger, Kate Beckinsale, Fanny Brice, George Carlin. Lots of holes, to say the least, which was why I asked Darren, “How do you determine who gets a locker?”

He said, “We don’t determine.”

I waited for him to elaborate. Nothing. Finally I said, “Who
does
determine?”

Darren said, “If we get stuff, they get a locker.”

I knocked on Lucille Ball’s door and said, “What kind of Lucy
stuff
do you have?”

Without a word, he pulled a key from his pocket and opened Lucy’s front door. Inside this huge locker—which was, I don’t know, maybe thirty square feet—sat a single bottle. I said, “Um, so, Darren, what the heck is that?”

He said, “Vitameatavegamin.”

I said, “Say
what
?”

Tobe finally piped up and said, “Yeah, man, I remember that. From
I Love Lucy
. Best episode ever, probably.”

For the first time since we got there, Darren perked up. He said,
“Best! Episode! Ever!
”

I asked Darren, “Where’d you get it?”

He said, “Stole it. From Desilu Studios. Or what used to be Desilu Studios. Nobody missed it.”

I said, “Yeah? How’d you steal it?”

Darren giggled again and said, “Ancient Chinese secret!”

Tobe rolled his eyes, then said, “I take it there’s a Tobe Hooper locker down here?” Man, did he sound exasperated.

Darren said, “Right this way.”

Not enough in the Tobe Hooper locker. Not enough. That makes me sad.

My locker was between Darla Hood’s and Harry Houdini’s. Talk about Murderer’s Row: a Little Rascal, Leatherface’s daddy, and an escape artist. What the fuck?

Making matters weirder, there was exactly one thing in the locker. A folder. A red folder. And it looked as familiar as all hell.

I said, “What in the name of Jesus is this?”

And then I walked in.

And then I was on my ass.

And the pain was indescribable.

Nobody goes in the lockers but me. Nobody, nobody, nobody.
Nobody!

I screamed, “
Tobe?! What the fuck? Talk to me!
”

I took my cell from my pocket to call 911. Opened it up. No signal.

I grabbed Darren by the shoulders and yelled, “Is
there a landline down here?!
”

Darren said, “No. There isn’t. No cell reception in the whole building. Can’t have interruptions.”

I said, “
Get … me … to … a … landline … now … motherfucker!
’

Darren said, “No need.”

Three minutes. That’s all. Three minutes.

Before I kicked the little weirdo in the balls, he tapped the bracelet he’d made me wear and said, “Electrical perimeter. The shock will wear off in three minutes. Give or take.”

My knees gave out, and I sat hard on the floor. Actually, “sat” probably isn’t the right word. “Collapsed” would be more accurate, really. The last two days had finally caught up to me. Man, did I miss Janine.

I leaned over to shake Tobe awake, and when I was an inch or two away from touching his shoulder, Darren kicked my hand. I
said, “What the fuck, dude?” Again, I’m a shitty fighter, but I’d be willing to get into it for Tobe.

He said, “He’s electrical. He’s dangerous.”

My electrical perimeter is … is … is
awesome
. One of only seven in the United States. Worth every bit of my inheritance money. Mommy’s death was worth something.

Sure enough, Tobe came to two minutes later, only slightly worse for wear. He sat up, then shook his head back and forth and back and forth as if he were a cat, and then he asked me, “Do you smell salami?”

I said, “I smell old books and BO. You okay?”

He said, “Yeah, I’m cool, I’m cool.” Then he turned to Darren and said, “Electrical perimeter, right?”

Darren nodded.

Tobe said, “This SFX dude told me about it. I didn’t believe it existed, but there it is. Now, that is some good shit, brother, good shit indeed. I should get one of those for my crib. You’ll have to give me your guy’s number.” He peered into the locker, then said, “Now, what’s in that little red folder that’s so important that you have to guard it with this high-tech crap?”

Darren said, “A script.
The
script.”

For the first time since we started our little journey, Tobe smiled. “Man, you have an original
Chainsaw
script. How ’bout that happy crappy? Far as I know, there’re only three in existence. If that.” His Texas accent had become more pronounced. Maybe because he was happy.

Darren said, “Not that script.
The
script.”

And then it dawned on me. I asked him, “That’s what I think it is, isn’t it?”

All aboard, all aboard! It’s time to ride the
Destiny Express
! Yay!

I asked Darren, “That’s the script?”

Darren nodded.

I said,
“The
script?”

He nodded again, then said,
“Theeeeee
script.”

I asked him, “How the fuck did you get it?”

He said, “I always had it. I never didn’t have it. And it’s preserved really good.”

Erick said, “Can we see it, please?”

Darren said, “Oh. No. No. No way. No way, no sir, no how.”

I said, “Darren, that’s my property.”

And then Darren lost his shit. He stomped his feet and said, “It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine, you gave it to me, and I kept it, and if you wanted it back, you should’ve asked for it back, and now you come in out of nowhere, and you want it now, and that’s not fair, it’s not fair, first the print of the movie disappeared—”

I said. “Wait, what do you mean the print of the movie disappeared?”

He ignored my ass, which pissed me off, because A) that’s just fucking rude, and B) it would’ve been nice to know some details of how the movie ended up with Dude McGee. But I got nothing, because Darren kept right on yelling: “—and now I’m supposed to give you the script? Well, I don’t think so, Tobe Hooper. That’s not going to work one little bit, not at all. No way, no sir, no how.”

After he finished, I said, “Don’t hold back, brother. Tell us what’s really on your mind.”

We were all silent for a bit. Really, what the hell was there to say? Finally, I said to Darren, “Here’s the thing. We’re going to remake this movie. And we’re going to try to do it shot by shot,
exactly
the way you guys did it. We’d be able to cobble together a screenplay, but if we had the original one, that’d be so much better. And you know what? You’d be doing your part to preserve film. Isn’t that what you’re about? Preservation?”

His eyes widened, and he gave us a huge smile and said, “Exactly shot by shot?”

I said, “Yep. Exactly.”

He said, “That means you need me to shoot it. If you want to be exact.”

Tobe said, “That’s kind of why we’re here.”

The thought of spending any extra time with Darren Allen was, at best, unappealing, but I had to suck it up for the greater good. I said, “Hey, Tobe, here’s a thought: No matter what,
Redux
won’t be exactly the same. Gary’s gone.”

Darren said, “Good.”

I never liked that Gary Church.
Never
. Glad he was dead.

I said to Erick, “I
know
we can’t do an
exact
remake. You can’t do an
exact
remake unless all the principals are in the flick, and Gary ain’t gonna be in the flick. And I thought about that. And I have an idea.”

Erick said, “What?”

I said, “You. If there’s even the tiniest chance that us doing this thing is going to clean up some shit, somebody’s got to get dirty. And it’s you.”

He said, “
What?!
” He sounded pissed.

I said, “You were at the Cove, and you’re here, so you’re in the shit, whether you like it or not. And you have to see it through.”

He said, “Thanks, man, but no thanks. I’ll stay behind the camera.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed, and said, “Erick, my brother, you have no fucking choice.”

I told Tobe, “I’m not the guy. Me and Gary have nothing in common.”

Tobe said, “You’re both from Austin.”

I said, “Nope. No way. Not interested.”

Tobe gritted his teeth—yes, that’s right, gritted his teeth—and said, “Then you
get
interested, motherfucker, or I swear to God on my life that after all this is done, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you dead. I killed one of my oldest friends two days ago, so killing you would be easy.
So
easy.”

I believed him. But I still wasn’t going to be in the flick.

No way I would’ve offed Erick. He was a good kid. If he didn’t want to do it, we’d figure something out.

But it’s good to know that I still had a few acting chops, because when we got to Dick Gregson’s office, I was going to have to act my ass off.

They asked me to film the movie. I said okey-dokey. They asked me to borrow the script. I said okey-dokey. They told me they’d call when they had a shooting schedule. I said okey-dokey.

Everything was okey-dokey. Every. Little. Thing.

Now, even though I’m such a film dork, and even though I’ve interviewed a good number of celebrities, and even though I’ve been on a movie set or two, I’d never been to a studio—hell, I hadn’t even been to California until Tobe dragged me out there. I had my preconceptions, but the Warner Bros. lot wasn’t what I thought it was going to be. Let me rephrase that: The Warner Bros. lot
looked
exactly like what I thought it was going to be, but it didn’t
feel
like a place where dreams were made real.