If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (59 page)

"No big deal. They surgically implanted a steel bar which has threading for the spikes, so you can screw them on and off."

And he did, just to illustrate the point. Sure, I thought,
you'll want that for easy cleanup.
In all my years on the road, he was the only Manbot I ever met.

In Tampa, a local fan approached the book table and shared a unique way to watch one of my films.

"Dude, you know what my favorite thing to do is?" he asked in a tone that was unsettling.

"Why no," I responded. "Do tell."

"My favorite thing in the whole world is to drop acid and watch
Evil Dead II."

I had heard just about everything from fans, or so I thought, but this was a good one. "Yeah, but the movie seems kind of like an acid trip already," I reasoned. "Wouldn't that make it seem normal?"

"No, dude," he emphasized. "It bruises your brain."

I must take a moment to remark that most people at these signings, while odd on occasion, were incredibly patient. Patrons traveled from great distances, only to stand in a long line for a handshake, photograph, and a signed book. Some even had to get back to East Nowhere that same night in order to work a twelve-hour shift first thing the next morning. To all of you, I thank you -- and
pity
you!

A gentleman at a signing in Pasadena, who seemed somewhat "unsteady" in nature, confessed that he had driven for two and a half hours to get there.

"Wow, that's a long way to go," I said, sincerely.

"It's not that," he explained through a sheepish grin. "I only live five miles away. I have a neurological disorder, and I'm not supposed to drive at all, but I wanted to drop by and say hello."

Just before a swing through the western states (sub-tour #26), I got an e-mail from a guy named Nick who wanted help proposing to his fiancée, Michelle, at an upcoming signing in Salt Lake City.

The plan was for Nick to give the "hi" sigh when they got near the table. I would then write the following note in their book:
Gee, Michelle, Nick would make a great husband, don't you think?

Presumably, Michelle would then look at her fiancé in wonder, only to see him on his knees with ring in hand, and the proposal would follow. I remember e-mailing Nick back something to the effect of:
I'm happy to help, pal -- as long as you're sure she'll say "yes."

Amazingly, it happened exactly like that. Through eyes welling with tears, Nick offered the ring to his astonished fiancée.

"Michelle, will you marry me?"

Nick's family, who had formed nearby, immediately burst into tears.

"I will, Nick," Michelle said, with a conviction that caused her surrounding family to cry.

I couldn't help but bless the event, so I stood up and shared the news with the rest of the crowd and we cheered the hopeful couple. Godspeed, Nick and Michelle -- may you stay married forever.

Because I was in the business of selling books, there was an effort to discourage the signing of memorabilia but it was, and still is, a tough road to walk. It was important to support the bookstore, yet it was also important to acknowledge folks who came to the store
because
of the memorabilia.

As a result, I signed my share of not only
Evil Dead
memorabilia, both obscure and "official," but plenty of homemade props, drawings, photos from conventions past,
Brisco, Hercules
and
Xena
pictures, games, DVDs, special editions, and figurines.

In Buffalo, I signed something truly unique. A lanky fellow walked up to the table at a leisurely pace. As I reached out my hand in greeting, he plunked the lower half of his right leg on the table -- his green prosthetic leg, that is.

As I signed it, I couldn't help but tell the only leg joke I know.

"Hey, do you know why actors always say 'Break a leg?' "

"No, why?"

"Because then they'll be in the cast!"

The gentleman gave me a weak smile, reattached his signed leg and walked away.

YOU CAN'T GET THERE FROM HERE

It's a vast understatement to say that domestic travel changed on September 11, 2001. My book tour fell into two distinct halves: pre-9/11 and post-9/11. September tenth, I drove from southern Oregon to Portland for a signing. After weeks of almost nonstop air travel, it was a treat to travel by car once again.

When my wife's cell phone rang the morning of the eleventh, she hesitated to answer it. She has nothing against cell phones, but we happened to be making love at the time. Every so often, my wife and I make exceptions during sex to answer phones, doors, or e-mail and did this time because the call was abnormally early.

Ida's sister Mary was on the line. As I listened to Ida's side of the conversation, a terrible story unfolded:

"Hi, Mary, how are you? Yeah, we're fine. We're up here in Portland for a signing. No... we drove. Well, why wouldn't we be okay?

Ida shot me a look like her sister was crazy. "What do you mean with everything going on?"

Then, Ida's face darkened. "What!? Oh my
God."

With that, Ida leapt to her feet and turned on the TV. You know the rest.

The next day, unlike so many unfortunate travelers stranded in distant cities, we simply drove home. From there, I attempted to keep the book tour on track. More angry than afraid, I wasn't going to alter my routine because of this invasion -- I wanted to press on, full speed ahead.

The events happened on a Tuesday, and I was due in Florida, as part of a southern swing, that Friday. My local airport, not nearly able to comply with the new security measures, shut down for an indeterminable period. San Francisco was the next logical choice. Much as I hated the thought, and that bloody airport, I knew the only way to catch a flight was to drive there.

Flight information for Thursday was iffy -- it wasn't clear what flights were operating and to where -- so I decided to roll the dice, rent a one-way car, and head down to the city of flight delays.

By the time I got to San Francisco that night, the flight was canceled. Fortunately, the next morning, it looked like a flight was going out, so I gave it a shot. I rolled my bag up to the curbside at 6:00 A.M. that Friday morning, but it didn't look anything like the San Francisco International Airport -- Bangladesh was more like it.

Curbside check-in, the great staple of business travel, had been discontinued, so
everything
had to be processed at one place -- the ticket counters.

Good God,
I muttered as I stepped inside the terminal, trying to orient myself. Three or four seemingly endless lines intersected each other in ways that didn't make any sense.

The first challenge of deciphering the newly heightened security system was determining which massively long line to stand in. Asking an airline employee how things worked didn't help much, and I'm not just being snide -- a lot of them really didn't know because information was being updated all the time.

By chance, I had been able to redeem enough air miles for a Business Class upgrade and I was extremely glad I did. My wait, although long and tedious, was nothing like coach, where the line curved away until you couldn't see the end.

Once I passed through security, the airport was quiet as a tomb. The incessant announcements about flight status that usually boom from every direction were now short and sporadic.

The airport may have been open, but nothing else was. All of the pre-boarding rituals I took for granted were suddenly gone: the breakfast at Wolfgang Puck's, the Chai steamer at Starbucks, the
USA Today,
the bottle of water for the flight.

As I rifled through my bag, in search of a stashed power bar, I came across a nail file, one of the many new carry-on taboos. We were all flying so soon after September eleventh that even the heightened security was still working itself out.

The flight itself was somber, with passengers exchanging slow, lingering looks. Food service arrived just in the nick of time. Between flight cancellations, and several delays, I was starving. As I unrolled my cloth napkin, the silverware tumbled out -- a metal fork, a metal spoon, and a plastic knife; a sure sign of the new times we lived in.

The flight was otherwise uneventful and we applauded when the plane landed. I can't remember the last time that happened. At the gate, we were greeted by a handful of applauding American Airlines employees who were hoisting an enormous American flag and passing out roses to each of us as we passed. Considering everything that had been happening, it was a very welcome lighter moment.

THE MISADVENTURES OF "CARLA"

A book tour is like a road trip without the fun. I came within a half hour of the most beautiful landmarks this country has to offer, but I never had time to visit them.

A number of the book tour legs were accomplished by flying to a given city, traveling by car through the surrounding region, then returning home. Each stop along the tour brought with it a new list of addresses to locate -- the bookstore itself, my hotel, radio and TV stations, book warehouses, etc.