8/27/23
Newsletter #440
The Crack of Dawn
Within the past year, Bruce Campbell and I hung for a day out in San Francisco. I came up with a project for both of us – let’s take photos of defunct businesses’ signs, which are poking out all over the city. Bruce takes photography more seriously than I do, and has a better photographic eye than me, and all of his photos came out better than mine. I have one of his pictures framed on my bedroom wall. What’s slightly distressing to me is that I too shot photos of the same old neon sign, but I didn’t take a good photo. As I explained later, I’m pretty good at setting up a decently composed shot in a movie that may well move to yet another decently composed shot, but I don’t spend much time composing either end of the shot, and really leave it to the camera operator.
Anyway, Bruce and I were both staying in Marin County, just north of SF, at the time; he was living there (though no longer), and I was staying at a hotel. Bruce, being a thoughtful sport, arranged for a Cadillac Uber car to take us on the hour ride to San Francisco. The Latino Uber drove spoke no English. After a few minutes of riding along in silence (except for our chatter), I asked the driver, “Can we hear some music?” The driver knew enough English to flatly state, “No music.” Pleasantly, I tried again, “You can play it really quiet.” With increased authority and severity, he stated, “No music!” Bruce and I were both slightly taken aback, but let it go. We gabbed for the remainder of the hour. The car stopped at the dragon-entwined gates leading into Chinatown. Bruce got out of the car. As I was getting out, without the slightest forethought, I said to the driver, “Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit. I’m the customer, and I if I want music, I get music, get it. The customer is always right, you dumb motherfucker.” And I got out of the car.
I found Bruce standing on the corner, staring down at the sidewalk, really pissed off. I innocently said, “What?” He looked up at me with a serious expression, shook his head in deep disappointment, and said, “You’re worse than when we met.” I couldn’t help but grin and said, “Really? I’m worse than when we were twelve?” He said, “You know what I mean,” then turned and marched off into Chinatown in a huff. Hey! Don’t leave in a huff, leave in a minute in a huff. In spite of my indignant outburst to the Uber driver, we still managed to have a nice day.
Bruce and I met the first day of 7th grade. The lockers were in alphabetical order. Campbell was about six lockers away from Becker. The locker directly next to mine belonged to Nancy Bennett, who would in the course of time become my good friend. Nancy in 7th grade had ugly glasses, a mouthful of braces, and painful-looking chapped, cracked lips due to the braces, and was the smartest person in our grade. I spent 3-4 months reading James Michener’s enormous book, Hawaii, which was the biggest book I’d ever read, and I was a great achievement for me. I gave Nancy regular updates on the story as we encountered each other at our lockers. When I finally finished the book, I leant it to her. She gave it back to me three days later, remarking offhandedly, “Yes, it was very good.” At the end of 10th grade, entirely independent of each other, we both took the GED test and graduated high school. I started community college here in Detroit and Nancy started community college in Lansing. The next thing I heard Nancy killed herself. 20 years after that I used Nancy as the basis for my lead character in Lunatics: A Love Story, which was produced by Bruce Campbell.
The locker next to Bruce’s was a particularly attractive redheaded girl named Heather Campbell. Bruce attempting to get Heather to go out with him and failing was the comic relief for that section of lockers for three years. Bruce had such fabulous come-on lines as, “If you marry me you won’t have to change your name.” Heather always turned him down. I saw her years later with a gaggle of children and she still looked good.
Bruce and I weren’t friends at that time, although we both did find ourselves in the drama club, then in a play together. The class was taught by a wonderful teacher named Miss Cutler. Bruce took over that class from the first day we met, with the blessings of all of us, including Miss Cutler. My lazy reaction was, if Bruce wants to do all of the acting, fine, I’ll just sit here and laugh. Here’s a snapshot – Miss Cutler, whom I thought was old, but was probably about 28, fifteen insecure 14-year-old wannabe thespians sitting on the floor, trying to remember our lines, or whatever the assignment was, and Bruce Campbell, who was like a 14-year-old Jim Carrey or Robin Williams, basically bouncing off the walls and as funny as hell all the time. He wore two-tone shoes, baggy suits with suspenders, and thick nerd glasses. None of the rest of us had a chance in that class, not even the teacher. It was the Bruce Campbell Comedy Hour.
So, that’s back when we met, when I was even worse of an asshole than I am now. Don’t worry, he and I are fine and there isn’t a problem. He just thinks that I’m slightly crazy. He always has, so I can live with that.
I pull the shade. At 5:32 it’s still dark.
I am put in mind of Hold Back the Dawn (1941), a particularly good film, with Charles Boyer, Olivia de Havilland, and co-written by Billy Wilder.