3/22/24
Newsletter #575
The Crack of Dawn
When I was about to shoot my film, Warpath, in 2019, I was looking for a building that was big enough and sufficiently open so I could build interior sets. Let’s see . . . my dad’s second wife’s sister’s son Randy had a vacant building a half mile from where I live that he wanted to sell, reasonably cheap. It had been a successful car parts store for 30 years, which had gone and built a much bigger building 100 yards away, right on the main road, then promptly went out of business. Randy had purchased the older building — which had a big power box — with the idea of growing weed. However, when he and his wife looked into the realities of what it seriously takes to grow weed, they never even tried. But they’d already bought the building. Randy, by the way, is a big, hulking galoot—about 250 lbs.— and he thinks he’s a tough guy. A wise guy. A big fat loudmouthed Jewish wise guy.
The building wasn’t perfect for use as a soundstage, but it would work. And since he really wanted to get rid of it, we made a deal, and I bought the building from him. I wrote him a check for the full amount, and I said these exact words, “Do not cash this check for two days. The funds won’t be there. Wait two days.” Right, right, no problem. Dude, we’ll party. Yeah, yeah, great, bye.
This was back in 2019 when I drank. A lot. So, the day after this transaction, I was, as usual, sitting on my couch polishing off a quart of vodka, minding my own business, listening to music. As I recall, it was a warm spring night, and everything seemed reasonably OK with the world.
Suddenly a white pickup truck came tearing up my driveway, screeching to a halt. Randy came bolting out of the truck at top speed. He smashed my kitchen door open, stormed into my house, entered the living room, saw me and yelled, “You’re check bounced, you motherfucker!” As the words, “I told you to wait two days,” were leaving my mouth, this big asshole stomped right over to me on the couch, grabbed me by my t-shirt with both his hands, pulled me across the room, then slammed me up against some French doors, luckily not breaking the glass.
This is where I must thank the universe for the combination of alcohol — AKA “liquid courage” — and adrenaline. Instinctively, and with all my might, I brought my knee squarely up into Randy’s balls. I then hit him with one solid uppercut directly in his fat belly, and down he went. Then, with one hand mind you, I grabbed ahold of his white t-shirt, dragged him across the living room, his t-shirt ripping to shreds, through the kitchen, and out of my house. With one hand. His t-shirt held out long enough for me to toss him down on his back on the lawn. Then, in a blind, adrenalized, alcoholic fury, I looked around for something, anything, that might possibly be deadly. My gaze fell upon an ancient, rusted, wood and iron, push-lawnmower that had been sitting beside the garage for at least 20 years. Perfect. I grabbed it with one hand, walked over to Randy, who was still on his back. I lowered the rusty, twisting lawnmower blades right down into Randy’s face, letting the blades actually sit on his face, smushing his nose. I asked him very sincerely, “Would you like to die?” He managed to croak, “No.” Since I believed him, I tossed the lawnmower away like a toy and said, “Then get the fuck outta here! I’ll go the bank tomorrow you stupid fucking asshole!”
With his t-shirt hanging from him in tatters, Randy scampered into his pickup truck and hastily drove away. I went inside and returned to drinking. The next day when I went outside, I found the old lawnmower on the lawn. I reached down with one hand to pick it up and it was too heavy to lift. I needed two hands and some strength; it was heavy.
The check cleared the next day, like it was supposed to. I shot interior sets for Warpath in that building. Soon after we were done shooting, I sold the building for basically what it cost. No, I took a loss. But I hated that place and never liked going there.
I haven’t seen Randy since.
Meanwhile, it’s snowing like hell here in Detroit. But, I swear, this is winter’s last hurrah. There are buds on my Black Walnut trees, I saw them. Spring has sprung and there’s no stopping it now.