David and Greg are squirming pretty badly by this point. I ask her some follow up questions because I couldn’t believe she was telling us this. “When did all this happen?” She thought about it for a minute, “I guess, it was three weeks ago.” I was about to ask her when she had hooked up with Red, When Greg turned to David, and said he thought they should find a K-Mart, to get some supplies. Nick comes out of Red’s bedroom, but goes directly into the bathroom. Greg and David leave to find a K-Mart. I sit there watching the TV with Red’s Old Lady two of her surviving children continuing to crawl over my lap and under my legs.
After what seemed like an eternity of small talk, a scrawny little bearded guy knocks on the front door. This is Dog, our location scout. I begin to wonder what’s up with all these damn ZZ Top beards, and why hasn’t Nick started growing his yet? Nick and Red come out of the bedroom, greet Dog and begin to reminisce about some bike rally they had last weekend. Finally Dave and Greg come back from the K-Mart, we usher Nick and Dog, into the van, bid farewell to Red (he still won't look at us) and his old lady. Finally we set off to find the location. We drive east out of Fontana, after about an hour Dog points to a burned out
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Chevy, and whispers to Nick. “Turn left,” Nick tells us. There is no road, just sections upon sections of scrub brush, so Greg turns left into the desert, and we begin to jolt and rock. Dave is trying to make a production map, so we can find this location in daylight. He looks at me and says, “This is bad.” Fucking producers. We drive for miles, Dog is squinting, trying to make out the next marker. Dave looks at his watch, and turns to me and says, “This is bad, and it’s after 4 in the morning.” I look at him like, ‘Yeah, I know it’s fucking bad, but what am I supposed to do about it?”
Dog’s squinting, it’s pitch black out here, we drive on and on into the desert. Finally we see another rusted out Chevy. Again he whispers to Nick. “Turn right here,” Nick tells us. We land upon a clearing in the desert… it’s pitch black. We all look at each other, “Um yeah, this will work fine. Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”
On the ride back, Dave lets his anxiety show. “So, uh Dog, are there like bandits out here in the desert? Do we have to worry about anybody coming along, and fucking with us tomorrow, stealing our equipment?” “Nope.” Silence. Again, Dave asks, “So, we really don’t have anything to worry about, like bandits or anything?” Dog leans over and whispers something to Nick. “Look, Dog
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don’t like to be asked the same question twice, it makes him real uncomfortable.” We drop Dog and Nick back off in Fontana, and hightail it to our shitty motel in L.A. We arrive at 6:30 AM, exhausted.
The next morning the band wakes us up, “Fuck, I wanna sleep more.” 5 towering Scandinavian metal heads are ready to rock. I finally meet the King. He is the shortest, and without makeup he looks a little like Snidely Whiplash from the old Dudley Do-Right cartoons. Dave and a Production Assistant, we have hired here in L.A., drive the production van, filled with lights, and grip equipment. Greg and I drive out in a little truck we have rented. We caravan out past Fontana to the location. Luckily Dave’s map is good, and we arrive there shortly before 5:00 PM.
Nick is there already; he has brought a trailer/generator for the lights, and makeup. I notice Nick is a little wild eyed and paces back and forth. Oh fuck, he’s been doing crank already. Then I notice a hip holster with a .45. “Nick, what the fuck are you doing with the gun?” He snorts back some phlegm, licks his lips, and just mutters, “Snakes, man.” “Nick, please put the gun away.” “He gives me a bewildered stare, ”Okay, but don’t come crying to me when you see them,” and then hobbles into his trailer to put the gun away. I may be a pussy, but |
