If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (23 page)

We attempted to adjust back to civilian life, with uneven success. For some reason, I refused to shave until the film was done. This absurdity became self-evident once we did reshoots and I
had
to shave. During this period, I slept on the floor of my room, insisting that it had been good enough for me during "the Shoot."

We half-heartedly attempted to reestablish contact with some of the cast and crew. Our relationship with the actors was strained at best. Theresa (her real name) invited us to see her new routine at the local Komedy Kastle. I barely recognized her with all of her appendages. After the show, we exchanged sheepish hellos, like two friends who had gotten drunk the night before and revealed some
awfully
personal things.

Bruce: Hey, Theresa -- funny show. How's it going?

Theresa: Fine, now that I'm away from that hellhole in Tennessee...

Bruce: Yeah, that was a tough shoot, wasn't it?

Theresa: It was the worst experience of my life.

Bruce: Well, if it's any consolation, you don't know the half of it...

ANATOMY OF A LEMON

Going into
Evil Dead,
I had what could be considered a reasonable car -- a 1976 Opal Isuzu (the "pseudo Foreign Sub-Classic" according to Sam). The seeds of destruction were sewn when Goodman, the belligerent cook, borrowed my Opal during the shoot.

"Bruce, I gotta pick up more film stock. Can I take your car to Atlanta?"

"Sure, Dave, go for it..."

Upon returning, Goody wouldn't look me in the eyes.

"The good news is... I got the film stock," he said, avoiding my gaze.

"Yeah... what's the bad news?"

"I ran over a cinderblock."

Nothing seemed
specifically
wrong with the car, but upon returning to Detroit, my Opal began to spew steam from the exhaust pipe. I'm not a graduate of Mr. Goodwrench, but I knew it couldn't be a good thing.

"Sorry, bud, you got a cracked block," the mechanic said.

"That's, like, tragically bad, right?"

"Nothin' worse. But, hey, what can ya say? These goddamn
foreign
cars suck."

He just had to slip that in. If I were a true Detroiter, he was intimating, I would have purchased an
American
car and I wouldn't be having this problem -- cinderblock notwithstanding.

The next day, I dropped off my Opal's title and loan termination papers to the neighborhood junkyard and walked away with a fifty-dollar "scrap bonus." Typically, the month before, I had paid off my car loan.

It was time to bite the bullet and get a new set of wheels. Well, not a
new
set,
any
set -- the Motor City wasn't big on mass transit.

Buddy John Cameron worked as a bartender at the local bowling alley, the Strike and Spare -- known affectionately as the Sit and Stare for its high-class clientele. A waitress there had a "great" car for sale -- only 150 bucks.

The odyssey began on a cold January day. I met Kathy outside her house to inspect her car -- a 1973 Chevy Bel Air. It could have been a 1943 Nash for all I knew, because the car was covered by two feet of ice and snow. Between the two of us, it took so long to uncover the thing that the issue of whether it was a good car or a bad car became quite moot.

"Look, uh, Kathy, tell you what. I'm sure the car is fine. Let me get the money together and I'll call you."

Several weeks later, on another bone-numbing day, I returned with the cash.

"I just need to put a teeny bit of radiator fluid in it and she'll be ready to go," Kathy assured me, as she produced two jugs of generic antifreeze.

Since my last visit, the snow had melted off somewhat, revealing a very black car. Upon closer inspection, I saw what appeared to be a paintbrush bristle, stuck in the coarse layer of paint.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Kathy looked up from her refilling duties. "Oh, yeah, the car was painted with house paint."

"... with a
brush,"
I added.

"Isn't that weird?" she smiled, almost done.

Walking around the car, I noticed a rotted, bashed-in rocker panel. "How's the radio?"

"Well, I'm not much for the radio..."

I squinted at her. That was a very White-House-damage-control kind of answer. "Does the heater work?"

Kathy nodded vigorously, as if to make up for the last answer. "Boy,
does
it!"

Yeah, that's just what I thought... Does
it?

Eventually, the paperwork was exchanged and I was out of there. The radio didn't work and the heater was either off or on full blast -- there was no in-between for this excellent,
American
car.

My first stop was the gas station. After filling up, I turned the ignition key and nothing happened -- no click, no whirr, no moan --
nothing.
Since I was at a full-service gas station, I enlisted the help of an attendant. As he popped open the hood, a wave of heat engulfed him.

"Whooh, she's pretty hot. Let me check the fluids..."

"Fluids? I just saw her add some," I mumbled to no one in particular.

Using a rag to protect his hand from the glowing radiator, he peered inside.

"Looks empty to me. Let me dump some more in."

As he did this, a three-foot stream of coral blue antifreeze shot back at him with a
fooommp!
The radiator was so hot it had rejected every drop of fluid. Apparently, it was so riddled with holes that Kathy's antifreeze had passed right on through. As it coagulated in her driveway, I'm sure she knew exactly where that frozen blue puddle came from.

A replacement, "slightly used," radiator would cost me eighty dollars. In retrospect, this was the point where any rational human would have paid for a tow truck, dumped the car on Kathy's lawn, and insisted on their money back, but I managed to convince myself that this was just a fluke. Aside from a little old radiator, what could possibly go wrong?

This was a Saturday afternoon -- by Saturday evening, the transmission was a thing of the past -- another testament to the craftsmanship of mid-seventies
American
cars. I remember thinking,
How odd, here I am pressing on the gas pedal more and more, and the car is moving less and less.

I abandoned the piece of crap in a snowdrift on the side of the road. The next day, far too cold for any rational person to be rescuing cars, I let it sit. The following Monday morning, I forged out to retrieve it, but alas, there was no car to be found -- it had been towed.

A hundred dollars later, between the towing charge and the impounding/storage fees, the car made its way to AAMCO for inspection. There, I had a lovely chat with the serviceman.

"Well, I can fix her for three hundred and fifty dollars."

"Junk the car," I said, without a moment's hesitation.

"What?"

"Yep, junk it. Do whatever you'd like. You don't really expect me to pay twice the amount of the car just to have it fixed, do you?"

"Well, now wait a minute, that was for a full warranty," he backpedaled. "I can do a
limited
warranty repair job for two hundred and fifty."

"Junk the car," I repeated emotionlessly. I wasn't acting, mind you, I was dead serious.

"Are you shittin' me? Really?"

"Absolutely. It's not worth it to me. C'mon, If I was made of money, do you think I'd be driving a car that was painted with
house paint?"

"Okay, okay. Tell you what -- I'll fix the car for two hundred bucks, but there won't be any warranty or guarantee whatsoever."

"It's a deal..."

Little did I know that this was just the beginning of an epic journey of repair. Witness the embarrassing journal entries over the remainder of that year:

In addition to the maladies listed above, I bought new tie rods and a drive shaft, and endured a particularly wet year with a rear window that leaked like a sieve every time it rained.

Other than that, it was a fine car...

There is somewhat of a silver lining to this tale of woe. Later in the year, when I could afford to buy a real car, I donated the beast to Will, a member of my church. A list of disclaimers preceded the transaction.

"Now, Will, you can have the car. Just take it -- I don't want a penny, but I gotta warn you. This thing could fly off the freeway at any time, or blow up or, or...
anything
..."

I saw Will at a church function about a year later and avoided any contact with him. When he cornered me at the punch bowl, I knew I was gonna get it.

"Bruce!"

"Hi, Will, hey long time," I said, not daring to ask about the car.

"Bruce, I gotta tell you something."

"I know, I know, look I warned you... how long did it last? A week?"

"The car is great!"

"... Is great?"

"I still have it -- it's in the parking lot! I haven't had a single problem with it and I just wanted to thank you for such a trouble-free car."

20

THE QUEST FOR MOOLAH -- PART II

Having sold as much personal stake in the film as the three of us could justify, we proceeded to the next option: loans. This word soon became a permanent part of our vocabulary and it manifested itself in every form: personal loans, corporate loans, temporary loans, emergency loans -- even
bank
loans.