If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (35 page)

"You know, this is all just a stack of paper right now. Nothing is signed -- we don't have to go through with this."

"I understand how you feel," Cris explained, "but I think it's the right thing."

THE CAR GAG

An interesting event transpired during the course of filming
Lunatics
that lightened the heavy load of a broken home life. In preparation for the road trip from Los Angeles to Detroit, David Goodman bought himself a 1981 Renault. He was proud of the $500 he spent on this car, really proud -- smug actually. For days before the trip, he'd carry on about his great new car.

Finally, the day arrived to depart for the homeland. John Cameron, whom I enlisted/begged to line produce the film, rode in my car while Goodman, loaded down with his entire world, traveled solo.

Communication between cars was by way of a Radio Shack CB -- that way, we could keep each other informed about the need for food, gas, bad jokes, etc.

The trip was a smooth one until we got into the wilder portions of the West -- specifically, Green River, Wyoming, off the 1-80 freeway. As John and I rose over the crest of a hill, we passed Dave's car on the side of the road. Inside, Dave was barking into his CB radio that no longer had power to transmit.

"Fuckin' car. It just died on me."

John and I exchanged a knowing look.

"Gee, Dave, what a shock."

My cell phone wasn't getting any reception way out here, so John and I skipped into Green River to get AM in action. Within a short while, the driver, Dale, pulled up in his tow rig -- he was missing several teeth, and had hair in all the wrong places.

As he hooked up Dave's car, he regaled us with tales of shooting grizzly bears that wandered beyond the boundaries of Yellowstone Park, further to the north. He punctuated his story with the occasional spit through a gap in his remaining teeth.

At a Green River garage, the prognosis for Dave's car was iffy.

"Might be the battery," the mechanic said.

"Fine," said Dave confidently. "Pop in a new one."

Eighty dollars later, the car would still not start -- it wouldn't turn over, it wouldn't make a sound.

"This is gonna take some time to sort this shit out," the mechanic figured. "You boys ain't in a hurry, are you?"

Fortunately for us, the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area was just around the corner. History buffs will be excited to know that John Wesley Powell launched his famous Colorado River exploration from this area. We launched ourselves into the man-made reservoir created in the sixties and cooled off. It was a beautiful place and left a lasting impression -- which is important to note, as you will soon see.

Back in town, the news came back and it was not good -- the car's electrical system was completely on the fritz.

"Maybe I could get parts in a couple days, but there ain't no guarantee of success. Know what I mean?"

These are the times that try men's souls,
as the saying goes, and Goodman stood trial for about four seconds.

"No. You know what? Fuck it. Take the car," he said with a rare finality.

"Really?" the mechanic wondered. "You sure?"

"Yep."

In a historical context, I shouldn't have been surprised by Goodman's irrational behavior -- this is a man with bad car karma. His loyal Datsun pickup truck had been taken by the New York City police department because Dave simply refused to pay any parking tickets.

Dave: I was walking down the street where I lived in Manhattan and I saw the cops in front of it with a tow truck and they go, "Who's got this Michigan license?" I just turned around and walked the other way and then the car was gone and I figured, well I had it for five years and --

Bruce: And so you never tried to get your car back?

Dave: No, because the car wasn't worth what the tickets were going to be to pay.

Bruce: Which was how much?

Dave: Like eight grand.

Bruce: But why didn't you just pay your tickets?

Dave: Because I was busy -- I was fuckin' busy. I went, "Well the car's not worth it. Just let them take it."

Lest we forget, he's also the guy who delivered the death blow to my Opal Isuzu.

Dave and the mechanic negotiated a $150 sale. The only glitch was that Dave didn't have the title of his car. The mechanic wasn't worried and forked over the money.

There was no room for Dave in our car, and we could only take some of his stuff. Fortunately for him, Green River was a Greyhound stop and we bought him a oneway ticket to Detroit.

On the last leg to the Midwest, John and I chuckled about Goodman's dilemma. We enjoyed knowing that he was about to endure the longest ride of his life. Busses stop in every backwater town and the trip was bound to add at least a day to his travel schedule. Still, we plotted how we could rub his nose in it all -- automotive smugness must be punished at all costs.

En route, we talked about Dale, the oily mechanic, and how memorable Flaming Gorge was. Eventually a gag evolved -- what if we concocted a false scenario whereby the mechanic and Dale stripped his car, set it on fire and dumped it into the gorge? It sounded great, but how would we pull that off? We'd have to create an airtight chain of events and some convincing paperwork.

Unpacking one of Goodman's boxes in Detroit several days later, we found the first piece of the puzzle -- the title to his car. This was an omen that the gag had to proceed.

During the production of
Lunatics,
I had several dealings with the Pontiac police department. Casually, I asked a representative if they had paperwork for things like theft, etc. Naturally, they did -- it was called an Incident Report, and they gave one to me.

After laborious days of filming, John and I (who were office mates) wound down by working on "the gag." A little bit of white-out removed the Pontiac police logo and an old typewriter provided just the right font. To get that "official" look, we stamped a "received" date on it and copied the whole affair several times over in order to blend the rough edges.

One thing we lacked was imposing stationary upon which to write a nasty letter outlining the "irreversible" damage Goodman had done. This came by way of John's girlfriend, Maureen, who worked at a law firm in Detroit. She got her hands on stationery from the Office of the Inspector General, U.S. Treasury Department -- it wasn't ideal, but it was close enough for Goodman.

By the time the shoot ended, our package was ready to go. I had a long drive back to California, and I routed my trip through Cheyenne, Wyoming, so that even the postmark would look authentic. The letter was addressed to David, c/o my brother Don's address in Michigan, which Goodman still claimed as his official address. One quick call to Don put him on alert for the letter and everything was in motion.

Upon returning to Los Angeles, I was promptly kicked out of the house. All seriousness aside, this provided me with the perfect vantage point to watch the car gag unfold -- from Goodman's couch.

A few days later, Goodman got the letter in question, but he tossed the heap of mail on his desk and ignored them for another day. I casually suggested that he get organized, and that meant
answering his mail.

Early the next morning, while cradling a cup of coffee and sucking on a Marlboro Light, Goodman opened the fateful envelope. He's one of these guys who moves his lips when he reads, so it was easy to tell where he was in the text. His expression darkened with each paragraph.

"Flaming Gorge? What the fu...?" he mumbled incredulously. "Those bastards. Those goddamn, redneck bastards!"

"What's the matter?" I asked, playing dumb.

This set Goodman off into a tirade about those rat bastard hicks and how they screwed him over with the car and how he was wanted in the state of Wyoming and that a warrant was issued for his arrest.

"Wow," I said, nonplussed. "Sounds like a mess..."

Knowing that Goodman relied on a close circle of friends, John and I had alerted them all that this gag was in the works and not to offer any advice, other than the fact that he was screwed. Sure enough, each person he called was someone we had already contacted. The color in Dave's face drained as he heard, call after call, that he was screwed.

A wedding was scheduled that weekend in San Diego. Dave's good lawyer friend, Vic, was going to be there.

"I'll take the letter there," Dave said confidently. "Vic will know what to do."

Vic
did
know what to do all right -- we had already called him and urged him to repeat the same response to Dave: "You're screwed."

Dave returned from San Diego a broken man. He began to rub his fingers together -- something he only did when he was tormented. I related this information to John and we were left with only one option -- turn up the heat.

Mike Ditz's photography partner in Detroit, Paul Price, had a menacing voice. We enlisted Paul to leave a series of messages for Dave regarding the best time for U.S. marshals to come and arrest him.

The timing of each call was easily coordinated since, as his new roommate, I knew when Dave was home or away.

The secret of a successful gag is to match the right gag for the right person. With Goodman, panic was the key element -- if you got him to panic, all reason would be thrown to the wind. This particular joke would not have worked with any of the other boys, since logic would have prevailed. With one or two calls to law enforcement agencies in Wyoming, the whole thing could have been excused as a hoax.

Dave endured another anguished day or two, circling his apartment, smoking and rubbing his fingers together. As much as it bothered Dave, I was getting tired of watching him act like an insane person, so I suggested to John that we throw in the towel.

We arranged a final call from Paul Price, this time while Goodman was home. After a final legal scare, Paul explained to Goodman that this was all just a gag. Goodman got the color back in his face, but this time it was red and he slammed down the phone.

"You guys are assholes, you know that?"

"Look, I'm sorry Dave," I explained through laughter. "It was just a
gag..."