They both laugh.
Mr. Snake hands me his copy of the script.
“First we read, Rubs. First we read. Thou should know better, right? Polly told me about your experiences in the filmmaking community. You’ve even directed a little, no?”
“Yessm.”
“Good times, Yessm?”
“No.” I rub my eyes. “Well, sometimes yessm. When no one asks questions.”
Mr. Snake stands up and gives out a Santa-like laugh: “Hohoho! Tell me about it. I won’t interrupt.”
“This one time I was filming in a friend’s bathroom and – ”
“Sorry to interrupt, but we should really get to work.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s read though this magnificent piece of literature together. Polly, thou can begin.”
“Yessm. Very good…” She stands up next to Mr. Snake and puts on her 1950-ish glasses and squints at the first page. She nibbles on a pen. I raise my hand.
“About 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens each year. Careful.”
She just smiles at me and scratches my head. I blush.
Polly cleans her throat, then reads.
“My Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina Hwerty” FADE IN. Bathroom. Day. A young woman in wheelchair ENTERS. She is naked. She readies herself to sit on toilet. This is Gina Hwerty. There is a knock on the door. Open door. Man walks in dressed as priest. (changed to naked man) She loves him. He tells her secrets of the church. Church mafia charges in. They kill them. Gina is chopped into little pieces and is flushed down the toilet while gay mobsters rub tongues. The End. Roll credits.”
Mr. Snake claps.
“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
I flip through the rest of the screenplay.
“So what’s all this other stuff?”
“The sex scenes that go into the story. Everything takes place in the bathroom. It’s arty. Unlike all the other pornographic films I have directed, “My Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina Hwerty” will be filmed exactly as written!”
I thumb a random page that describes – in amazing detail – a sex scene that involves the two main characters in strange, sexual positions while sitting on the toilet. Every detail is noted: French kissing, where hands go, how the feet are seen, eyes open or closed, moans, no moans, and so on and so on.
Mr. Snake reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cheeseburger.
“I have a cheeseburger in my back pocket.”
He then reaches back and produces a bottle of water with a picture of an angry snake on it. He takes a mighty sip and yells out:
“Everyone to the set!”
He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet.
“This shouldn’t take long, my son. Excited? I know I am. Now excuse me while I kiss the sky.”
He makes to walk away, but I have an important question.
“Can I see the camera?”
“Sure, it’s over there in that stained box.”
“Thank you. Oh! And about the shots…”
“One long take, my son. I want the DePalma-effect to be in full…er…effect!”
“Ah, yessm. Very good.”
I walk over and open the box. There is the stench of day-old Chinese noodles. I reach into the white beads of Styrofoam and pull out the camera. It is a Sony PD100. The same camera I used to film my horror movie, The Nundead.
The camera is in perfect working condition, except for the missing lens-cap.
Feet can be heard charging down the hallway. A group of five people run into the room, breathless. Mr. Snake walks up to them and gives them a few words which I cannot hear. Soon after, three of them, all women in their mid-30s, walk up to me and introduce themselves. These will be my gofers (go-for-this, go-for-that) for the night: There’s Dina, a chronic smoker with fiery red hair and a heavy Irish accent and thick bags under her eyes; Sharon, Japanese but speaks with a Canadian accent with a left leg that can’t stop twitching; and Bethany, a skinny, pasty girl that only speaks when spoken to. Her mouth is always open.
Mr. Snake calls everyone’s attention and directs all to set the scene.
As I check the settings on the camera, making sure the color balance and focus are set, I spy on the other two people: These are the main actors, Joann and Tim. They stand before Mr. Snake, dressed in kimonos. The director points at the script then points at them, and the actors nod their heads Yessm Yessm Yessm.
A second later, an elderly woman zooms in on a motorized wheelchair and parades around the room while everyone cheers. She looks to be 80-sh. Mr. Snake yells out: “Welcome, Lady Rainbow!”
This is apparently the old woman’s name. She parks and hops out from the chair, responding in kind.
“Greetings, King Popx!”
Sexually charged images of geriatric love thunders into my mind and I let loose a shudder. Bethany, untangling some electrical wires, asks if I’m okay. I tell her, “I’m just cold, on the inside.”
Lady Rainbow goes to leave, but Mr. Snake encourages her to stay and “Enjoy the show”. Joann takes off her kimono and sits on the wheelchair, naked. Tim disrobes as well and gets behind the wheelchair, braiding her hair as Mr. Snake explains the scene.
My heart quickens. I try not to look at her nakedness. This is a working environment. Surprisingly, the sight of her does not excite me – although she is extremely gorgeous. It’s because of all the people here, I know it. And thank God. I must focus on the task at hand!
I feel professional, and smile.
Adult film stars are amazing. I have nothing but total respect for them. They have mastered their insecurities. How hard it would be to shut down that part of our mind that judges us and makes our lives a living dread?
Joann examines the chair.
“I’ve always hated people in wheelchairs. They look so irritating – thinking that they’re so special in their little go-carts. I wonder how these things work? Magic, maybe?”
Joann fools around with the chair’s controls and bolts forward with a horrifying shriek. “Waaaaaaaaaa!” She stops suddenly, and then inches forward in tiny jerks before stopping completely.
She hops out of the chair and Tim hugs her.
“Why! Why! Why, Tim! I almost died! Oh, sweet Jesus! He’s so sweet!”
“Shhh! You’re safe now, baby.”
He kicks the chair.
“Take that, fucker!”
She kicks it, too.
“I hate you so much right now!”
She happens to make eye contact with me and I look away immediately, setting the camera onto the cheap, plastic tripod. Does she find me attractive? If we got together, would we be a happy couple? And how would our kids turn out, I wonder.
Would they be retarded?
Mr. Snake walks up to me and explains that we’ll be shooting the whole movie in order, because that’s how Kurosawa did his movies. Then he walks off and consoles his actress, who is crying in a maniacal way.
“That chair is the devil! Linda Blair’s in that motorized wheelchair! Sweet Jesus, you’re so sweet!”
“Calm door, my love, please calm down. Linda Blair isn’t even in the house today. And she’s a wonderful actress. Remember Repossessed?”
“Uh huh…”
“She did so well in that film. Do you think Linda Blair would be acting the way you’re acting now?”
“I guess you're right.” She sniffles and smiles. “There’s no evil presence in this wheelchair, is there?”
Mr. Snake brushes her hair. “Of course not.”
They hug, and Joann sits in the chair in a merry fashion. She giggles and begins clapping and hopping up and down.
“Clapping! Clapping!”
I hide behind the camera’s flip-out monitor and say under my breath:
“Good Lord, it’s worse than that time I tried to name my penis.”
Bathroom.
I sat on the bare, cold floor, in the nude, my legs crossed with a towel wrapped around my head, crossing names off a notepad.
<
br /> “…Sassafras. Er, naw, sounds too close to Sissy. Let’s see now… The Corrupter? No, too Asian… Scary Pillow? What? Too religious. Male Vagina? I don’t remember writing that…or do I? Hmm… Anyway, what’s this here? Dongalinger… Hrmm, NOW we’re on to something. Yessm, I christen thee penis DONGALINGER.”
I pressed play on a tape recorder of people clapping and cheering. I closed the notepad, and kissed it.
“Love like I love, feel like I feel.”
And then I ate the notepad.
After I finish with the camera and all the monitors have been set up, I walk over to the director and tell him we’re all ready to go. He says that I’ve done a good job, and tickles me under my chin and gives me a candy, and then tells everyone to get in their "Places, friends".
Joann readies herself in the wheelchair.
Mr. Snake sits in his director’s chair, which is not labeled DIRECTOR, but SNAKE. He brings his hands to his mouth.
“Roll camera! And…ACTION!”
Joann flicks on the wheelchair’s motor. It hummmmmmms and she is obviously disturbed, looking to Mr. Snake, who smiles at her brightly and signals her to sally forth. She smiles back, wearily, and jerks forward with her medium-sized breasts jiggling. Even from where I am, I can hear her beg under her breath, in a shaky voice, “…Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, hey, Jesus…”
She comes to the bathroom door and opens it with her foot. She flicks on the light, with her foot.
“I want to urinate.”
She says it depressingly.
My face crinkles. Something inside me says Acting=Not good. I look over to see if Mr. Snake shares my feelings. But he just sits there, all smiles. I get back to the job at hand and plant my eyes onto the monitor.
Joann’s chair zooms toward the toilet. Stops suddenly. She lifts the lid and makes to elevate herself off the chair.
Tim raps his knuckles against a wall and I’m surprised that there has been a naked man standing behind me the whole time.
Joann looks up, large-eyed.
“Who is there?”
I don’t recall any dialogue in the script. They’re ad-libbing. Are these words actually coming out? Did Snake coach them on their ad-libs? Every director does; deep down they’re all wanna-be actors.
Tim stands in the doorway.
“Ye has caressed my surgically-implanted cow heart. Thank you for being with me that scary day. I was scared. I look at you now and I miss you so much and I want to touch you in a sexy way. Maybe even that part of you which is paralyzed.”
“Understood. Oh, lover, please exit! When I see you my eyes hurt, on the inside. Ye words have fallen on blind ears.”
Tim raises a finger into the air and says as his buttocks jiggle, “Try and stop thee!”
I actually gasp a little as he takes three quick steps toward her and lifts her off the chair, the two of them groaning in passion. He sits on the chair and places her on his lap and then they kiss in a kind of mad dash.
Their bodies move in an irritated way as Tim locks lips and fumbles for the control stick. He finds it and backs out of the bathroom as the chair goes BEEP BEEP BEEP.
I can hear Mr. Snake say, “Yessm, good, excellent – excellent cinema, glorious cinema.”
Tim and Joann slobber over each other – it’s a pecking contest, more like – and make crazy love sounds. The wheelchair reverses slowly then makes a silly BURP and speeds up. A horrified look crosses the actors’ faces and now they’re screaming for help as the chair rear-ends a table, knocking over a giant Chinese vase. There is nothing inside. The crew looks at each other with “O” mouths. Tim and Joann squeal at the crew as the chair bolts toward us.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Mr. Snake stands up in a panic.
“Run away! Run away!”
Everyone scatters as the wheelchair zooms past us and runs into the bed and bounces off. The chair spins around and around like a merry-go-round as Tim and Joann scream for help from God. Mr. Snake points an accusing finger at the old woman.
“You are to blame, toad!”
She cries and holds out her hands, pathetically.
“Please, kind sir, I don’t mean to be old!”
He pushes her away.
The old lady complains, but he doesn’t hear it.
“Get away from me, toad. I don’t like you anymore.”
Actors trapped on the wheelchair whine.
Tim throws his hands in the air as he bawls bloody murder.
“Blahhhhhhhh!
Joann cries in a wrong way.
“Waaaaaah!”
Mr. Snake runs up to me.
“Never stop rolling! Oh, God!”
I nod, afraid that he’s going to hit me.
He shakes me by the shoulders and says, “Stop nodding!” and then points to the actors who are still spiraling in place.
“This must be handheld to make it more hectic and therefore dramatic! I went to film school!”
“Yessm! Good!”
I carry the camera – tripod and all – and run to the wheelchair.
I zoom in on their confused faces. I want to help them, but I know Mr. Snake is standing behind me because he’s cheering the wheelchair on.
“Now make-out!”
The actors immediately begin kissing and shrieking at the same time.
The director steeples his fingers.
“Splendid…”
Tim pounds on the controls to no desired effect. He yells out curses…
“Curses!”
…and gives it one final POUND.
The chair farts and smoke begins bellowing out from its bottom. The crew watches – men & women crying, striking curious poses.
The mechanical monster growls and bolts toward the crew again, its front wheels in the air. All screech with their hands to their faces as the possessed chair runs into a wall, throwing the actors so many feet into the air. They ricochet off the ceiling, mind you, and land in dull thuds, limbs flailing about like rubber. Their bodies wiggle on the carpet as they moan for Jesus.
Mr. Snake slaps my buttocks and takes me by my terrified arm and we both kneel before the actors.
“Sexy time! Have sex now! We’re still rolling!”
The actors hastily squirm over each other and hug, rolling around in pain in front of the dying, overturned chair – its wheels smoking & coughing.
The director makes a rectangle with his hands and looks through it as if it were a camera.
“Now make sexy sounds with your mouths,” he says, calmly.
The actors try, but what comes out sounds like a hyena.
All I recall is: Moaning, pain, smoke, people crying behind me, hyenas, and an awkward cat smell.
The place is full of smoke now – so much that Mr. Snake jumps to his feet and exclaims, “Fire, fire!”
Over my shoulder Polly yells, “Clear the set!”
NOW everyone exits, screaming indescribable words. Someone, a female human, runs out screaming, “Blood!”
I help Mr. Snake and Polly as they carry the naked actors out of the room. The injured actors cry in sync, “Why me, why me?”
The two obese men I saw earlier kissing, now dressed as sumo wrestlers, run past us, carrying fire extinguishers, and charge into the smoke. I can hear them stomping about and throwing directions at each other as they put out the threat.
I run past a fat white cat.
We nod to each other.
“Fearing Hell”
WE BRING THE ACTORS into the kitchen and clear the table of empty Budlight bottles that smash onto the hard floor like glass bombs. We lay the actors down. They convulse and cry like they have splinters in their hair.
Polly instructs the spectators to beat it and give us some room to console. They don’t listen due to shock and intrigue, so Mr. Snake grabs a nearby, giant-sized, wooden spoon and chases them away. He screams “Gahhhhhhhhh!” but it does no good. They stand about in the living room. Some watch in concern with their hands over their mouths.
Mr. Snake and Polly give Joann a backrub. Tim is unconscious. There is some discussion about whether to call the police or not, but that idea is quickly thrown out the window.
Mr. Snake talks about someone who might be able to help – someone Polly isn’t familiar with, judging by the frown on her face. Apparently, this mystery person is a therapist. Or at least was – he was let go years ago due to insatiable reasons yet unknown. Eventually, they both nod in trust of the choice and leave to use the phone. They tell me to stay by Joann and make sure she doesn’t do anything weird.
I pull up a chair and sit in front of Joann.
She stares into the air with a blank expression on her face. Only now do I notice that she’s still in the nude, so I asked around for a towel, and drape it over her trembling torso. Fearing Hell, due to my Catholic upbringing, I try as hard as I can to keep my eyes off of her breasts, hoping that she’ll cover herself up.
She doesn’t…eyes forward, staring dead into mine.
I stare back…afraid that if I look away she may take it as an insult.
This goes on for a whole minute.
Then, she brushes her hair back and asks for a cigarette.
I light up.
So we sit there, smoking, staring at each other. It takes all I gots to keep my eyes on her eyes and not on her baby-feeders.
She ashes her cig onto the front of her neck.
Cigarette: “Sizzle…”
“I do that to show how much I hate my body. I’m so insecure. And fat.”
When consoling someone, there’s only one rule to follow:
Listen.
You’re only allowed to talk if you sense they’re ready to listen to what you have to say. Which is rare. People love to listen to themselves yack.
The hard part is looking for an opening to push in a few words.
Pause.
I make my move.
“I think you’re pretty.”
She blushes and smiles.
“Thanks.”
I inhale a puff of thick refreshing smoke and blow out an “O”. She’s impressed.
“I’m impressed. How do you do that?”
“You make your O-Face and click your jaw.”
She tries it and creates one. She laughs out in a proud way.
I nod.
Get Zombie: 8-Book Set Page 53
