Tales of Sin and Madness
Page 28
The moment the meeting ended, I headed straight for the food and drink table. Though I wasn’t hungry for the assortment of biscuits and donuts, my stomach was grumbling, so I reluctantly grabbed an Anzac biscuit. As I took a bite, a crowd started forming around me. A low muttering buzzed around my head as the motley group of strangers indulged in banal small-talk, most seeming to welcome the change of pace after an hour of bearing their souls to their fellow addicts.
A figure sidled up beside me and snatched a Styrofoam cup from the stack next to the large tin of instant coffee. “First time, huh?”
I had swallowed the tasteless bit of biscuit and grudgingly taken another bite before I realised the figure was talking to me. Half-turning, I looked at the man standing next to me. He was taller than me, but younger, by about ten years. The young man was thin to the point of deathly – it looked like someone had stuck a Hoover in his mouth, pressed the ‘on’ button and proceeded to suck all the air from his body. His cheekbones were shockingly straight and pronounced, like two chiselled L shapes. A junkie for sure.
“Yeah,” I muttered through a mouthful of biscuit. I swallowed. Fought hard not to gag.
“So you’re an eater,” the junkie continued, tipping a couple of spoonfuls of dark brown granules into the cup. He then filled the cup with hot water and without adding any sugar or milk, took a thirsty slug of the instant coffee. “I was friends with an eater. Nasty habit. Are you still seeing movies?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. Wearing a jumper in this heat, I figured you were still exhibiting signs of the addiction. What movie’s currently playing?”
“An old black and white foreign film,” I said, scratching my arms – the woollen fabric was making my skin itch like crazy. “I think it’s Kurosawa, Seven Samurai by the looks of it.”
Frustrated, I tossed back the half-eaten Anzac and tried my luck with a donut. I tasted first the sugar, then the fried dough, and lastly the jam that oozed out like a cut and bleeding heart. It should’ve been delectable, but instead the concoction made my stomach lurch. After months of eating nothing but my peculiar diet, proper food, including sweets, now tasted like damp, mouldy cardboard. I looked for a bin to toss away the foul donut.
“Can’t stomach the real stuff, hey?”
The junkie had followed me.
I groaned internally. I didn’t feel like talking – I had done enough of that tonight. I simply wanted to try and appease my hunger with the free food and drink and then be on my way, back to my apartment and the cravings that’ll inevitably turn up as I lay in bed, trying desperately to sleep.
“I guess not,” I said, turning, trying to smile, but knowing it would’ve come out as a twisted grimace.
The junkie now held two Styrofoam cups. He handed one of them to me. It was full of steaming black liquid.
“My friend, the eater, she used to like coffee. It was the only real bit of nourishment she could stomach.”
“Used to? You mean she was finally able to kick the habit?”
The junkie shook his head. “’Fraid not,” he said. “She died almost six months ago. Binged on Hitchcock DVDs. She had a thing for Hitchcock.”
“They are tasty,” I said, swallowing back some coffee, hoping to drown out the memories of nights dining on Hitch’s lush late 50s period (they tasted like veal and roasted potatoes), and afternoons munching on his early British films (a more hearty taste, like stew and stout).
“Yeah, Sara certainly liked the older films. She reckoned they had a more refined taste – Casablanca was her favourite. Christ, she must’ve eaten at least thirty Casablanca DVDs in the time I knew her. She used to keep a stash of them in the back room of the MovieTime she worked at – she was the night manager at the Bentleigh store for years, and used to host after hour parties most weekends, which is where I met her – because she was afraid her boyfriend would find out about her eating addiction. Me, I never could get into the eating side of things. I’m more of a...well, I guess you could say I’m not afraid of needles.”
I nodded, drank some more coffee. This guy was right – coffee didn’t make me want to retch.
“I’ve been sober for close to a month now. Hardest fucking month of my life. I still miss it. Christ how I miss it. The black inky film running through my veins...” The junkie sighed, chugged back some coffee. “Tape was my drug of choice, especially the horror and action movies of the 80s. They had a real charge to them; they gave me a buzz like you wouldn’t believe.” Junkie smiled, and I was worried his cheekbones would tear open his skin.
“Did you ever try film? I hear that’s the ultimate rush.”
Junkie nodded. “A couple of times. I couldn’t afford film, so it was only on those rare occasions when I managed to score an invite to one of those exclusive parties given by some movie producer that I got to sample some golden glow.”
I had heard about those parties. I had never been to one, but apparently the guests were treated to the finest of films, the cleanest, most pristine prints of Fellini, Bunuel, Scorsese; expensive DVD imports from Japan and Italy; rare laserdiscs and hard-to-find video tapes –both VHS and Beta. Yes, those exclusive parties were supposed to be a cinema junkie’s dream, and just the thought of scoffing down one of those expensive Japanese DVD box sets of Grindhouse made my heart beat faster and my head swirl.
“I tell ya, film beats all. I mean, tape is fine. It’s the working man’s drug of choice; but film...man, once it’s been boiled down it looks like velvety chocolate – none of the grittiness of tape. But, I’ve given all that up. It was taking over my life. I had to stop. It would’ve killed me otherwise.”
I knew how this junkie felt.
Eating nothing but video tape and DVDs for the past four months, night and day, breakfast, lunch and dinner, had taken its toll on me. I had gained a considerable amount of weight (tape and discs contain a surprising amount of calories), and my toilet habits were irregular at best – and what I pushed out was startling; a weird combination of metallic sludge and lumpy spools.
But, I couldn’t stop.
From the moment I tasted my first DVD (accidentally, while trying to clean some smudges off my copy of The Godfather using my finger), I was hooked. Rather than a nothing taste, or a vaguely metallic tang, the DVD had tasted like succulent rib eye with a red wine and mushroom sauce. And by snapping off a shard and munching on it, the disc had tasted even better. Soon I was raiding my DVD collection, devouring my John Waters box set in two days (cheap but tasty, like a cheeseburger or pizza); my Chaplin films in a day’s binge (like warm apple pie), and sneaking in midnight snacks of my collection of John Hughes DVDs (surprisingly Italian in flavour).
I also began taking apart my dozens of old videos and munching on the rolls of tape. While they weren’t quite as satisfying as DVDs – they didn’t have the purity of taste and could occasionally taste a little stale – they did last a lot longer and had a flavour all of their own: earthy, robust, like homemade pea soup or meat pie. Some even tasted like popcorn (mostly the 80s action flicks like Running Man and Cobra).
I couldn’t get enough, couldn’t consume enough movies.
I found an online group of other movie addicts, and discovered the addiction didn’t stop at just eating. There were people who injected film and tape; smoked tape; snorted crushed DVDs and laserdiscs; drank copious amounts of liquefied tape, sometimes following the mug of beer-tape up with shots of film; and wilder party animals who popped pills made from a combination of everything (they were mostly people who only watched big budget Hollywood fare at the cinema – not true film connoisseurs). Across the country video store managers hosted clandestine movie parties so addicts could get together and amid a room full of drug paraphernalia, watch movies and indulge their vices. They were the grungier version of the parties hosted by the studio executives.
It was a popular, if at times intense, underground scene, but it finally got too much for me when, starting a few weeks ago, I noticed my skin was beginning to take on a mud
dy tinge, like my body had been rubbed with dirt, and the texture started feeling odd, like plastic, but still flexible – much like video tape. And then the images started playing behind my eyes, like my brain was plugged into a movie projector – a constant flow of images that appeared suspended in space and made it difficult to differentiate between what was really happening in the world and what was in my head. But most frightening of all was the chest pain I had felt yesterday. I had gained almost forty kilograms since I started eating DVDs and tape, and it seemed my body had finally had enough. Tucking into Cool Hand Luke for lunch, the taste of eggs and beer on my lips, I started feeling short of breath. My heart had done somersaults, and I felt an ache pulse through my chest.
Panicking, I had dumped the remaining slice of DVD into the bin and vowed to quit consuming movies. I searched online for a support group; found one near my home. Tonight had been my first meeting for recovering movie-holics, and as I stood there finishing off my coffee, I suspected it wouldn’t be my last.
I threw the empty cup into the bin, sighing at the thought of the job that awaited me when I got home. I had started throwing away my monstrous DVD and video collection today, but there was still well over half left, which amounted to close to five hundred discs and tapes.
My mouth started watering at the thought of all that food.
“I best be getting home,” I said to the junkie. “Gotta throw away the rest of my stash.”
The junkie smiled, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. “I know that pain. I still haven’t fully recovered from getting rid of my junk. Don’t, ah, suppose you want any help?”
My first instinct was to say no; that I hardly knew this guy, and besides, I didn’t want anyone to see me cry as I threw my precious cargo into the bin.
“Make the job a lot quicker. And easier, too. I’ve been there. I know how hard it is.”
I considered his offer and decided that it would be good to have someone helping who understood this addiction. “Sure, why not?” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. You live far away?”
“Only a ten minute drive.”
“Great. I’ll follow you.”
As we headed for the door, I looked around and noticed the hall was close to empty. Most of the other over eaters, junkies, alcoholics and smokers had left, leaving the scout hall a vacant, echoey shell.
We stepped out into the warm night air. Samurais rode past on horses through a fierce sheet of rain.
“Don’t suppose you have Wild at Heart on video?” Junkie asked, slipping out a lighter and flicking on a flame.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I love that movie. Really gets the blood pumping.”
I nodded. “It is a good one. Although I prefer Blue Velvet. Has a more...unusual flavour to it. Almost French.”
Junkie turned to me and grinned.
I grinned back.
Yes, it was good having another movie buff by my side.
NOTES:
It’ll come as no surprise to many people, but I’m a massive film-nerd. So when I was asked to contribute a story to the wonderful website the Horror Drive-In, I knew I wanted to write something that dealt with movies. After all, the site is primarily a place where other movie-buffs get together and chat about everything from Fellini to John Waters (we talk about other things besides movies, such as books and music, but movies – especially those of the horror and exploitation variety – is the main topic of discussion). I soon hit upon the idea of movie obsession; people, like me, who not only love to watch movies, but love to collect movies as well. I knew the folks at the Horror Drive-In would dig a story about movie obsession (as a lot of them are as obsessed about movies and collecting as I am), and so I took the notion of movies as a drug and ran with it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brett McBean was born and raised in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. A child of the '80s, he grew up on a steady diet of He-Man cartoons, Steven Spielberg movies and audio tapes such as Summer Hits '88. And yet, somehow he managed to turn out normal (well kinda...). He started playing drums at age ten and after high school, studied music at Box Hill College, one of Victoria's most renowned music schools, where he earned an Advanced Diploma. Shortly after completing the music degree, he turned his attention towards writing, and he now prefers to pound the keyboard rather than the drums.
His books have been published in Australia, the US, and Germany, and he's been nominated for the Aurealis, Ditmar, and Ned Kelly awards. He is a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association, where he has been a member of the judging panel for the Australian Shadows Award (2008), the AHWA Flash & Short Story competition (2010) and a mentor in their mentor program. He still lives in the wilds of Melbourne with his wife and German shepherd. Visit him on the web at:brettmcbean.com.
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