The summer progressed long and shaggy like Marty’s hair, now that his new starship provided a wider range of activities. He and Mike often drove into Fairfax in the Stanger, the Apollo, or the entire star fleet, depending on the plans. Bart became an official Federation member, too, and hung around Boobers’ house and the Parkade with the rest of the gang. He was a tall, lanky kid with bangs always hanging in his eyes and a crooked grin. His sense of humor bordered on the outrageous, and he was a huge fan of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, which played every Saturday night on PBS. Whenever Bart was around, there was something to do… which was too often becoming a challenge. Marty had become tired of partying every day, and was looking for some new hobbies.
“Hey, I’ve got a movie camera and projector,” he announced one day, as they were all hanging out and doing nothing. Some of the things Good Ol’ Dad left behind when he forsook the family were actually fun! He had a Super 8mm wind-up Nikon movie camera, a Bell & Howell projector, and a folding screen in his closet. There was even an editing machine with celluloid glue in the box, along with prepaid envelopes for developing movie film! There were also a couple of old Charlie Chaplin films, some grainy home movies, and experimental animation footage from when he’d was trying to learn some basic stop-motion techniques with puppets on the front porch.
“Hey, let’s make our own movie!” Bart blurted out, taking the cue, and when his imagination was captured by something, he was as animated as the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. “We could do a horror film, or an action movie, or a romance… or all three!” He had an inspiration right there, and pitched an impromptu script, while jitterbugging across the parking lot and acting out all the roles. About an hour later, they wound up with a rough outline for an ambitious feature film they called: World of Hell. Loosely based on The Omega Man, it was a post-apocalyptic tale of a stoner dude (who else) and his girlfriend being attacked by mutants in hooded robes (an excellent low-budget gimmick, by the way), with chases, and shootouts, and of course a climactic ending (to be determined). Bart’s energy was radiant and infectious, and his fellow members all caught the bug, enthusiastically performing various production tasks. Bart appointed himself director, with Mike & Annie as the couple, and everyone else would be mutants. Marty would be the cameraman, which meant he wouldn’t actually be in the movie, but he did illustrate the opening credits. Dennis and his girlfriend, Melody, overheard their plans, and wanted to be in the movie too. Bart improvised, “Okay, you guys can be a couple in the beginning who get killed in bed with blood spurting everywhere, and then we show Mike & Annie getting attacked. This is going to be great!” He bounced up and down on tiptoes.
Bart wanted to open the film with action right away. Dennis and Melody were in bed, lighting up a joint in satisfaction after “doing it.” She had a sheet over her boobs, but Bart claimed all the guys their age (the target demographic) would be glued to the screen immediately, just in case the sheet might slip off. Suddenly, a mutant jumped through their window with a “machine gun” (a wooden stick covered in black tape), and made shooting gestures. “Cut!” yelled Bart. “Special effects!” Their friend Tom had some firecrackers, and he could install a car stereo, so he was appointed the special effects guy. He rigged up some plywood pieces under the sheets, and taped the firecrackers on them to protect Dennis and Melody. Then he taped Ziploc bags full of fake blood on top and lit the fuses, jumping out of the way as Bart yelled “Roll it!” Pop! Pop-pop!! Bursts of crimson exploded from the sheets, and they slumped over in shock. “Cut!” Bart said, “I think we got it!” Unfortunately, everyone had to wait two weeks to find out, because Marty had to mail the rolls of film to Kodak to be developed. The cast and crew couldn’t wait to see how it came out, and speculated excitedly whenever they partied together.
“Did you get the film back yet?”
“No, of course I would have called you.”
“What time did you check the mail?”
And so it went. When the reel finally appeared in his post office box, Marty went straight home and set up the projector, and he and Mike screened their first moments of glory. Then they phoned everyone, and drove over the hill to watch it again in Boobers’ garage with the entire crew. Some of the shots were actually good (the scene with Dennis and Melody was the best), and some were out of focus or botched altogether. Bart had planned wisely so they could finish the rest of the movie after seeing how the first two reels came out, in case he had to make adjustments. Marty had recorded the camera settings for each shot, so they used those to plan the rest of the movie. Car chases were staged liberally, knowing they could always edit them, and lots of footage of mutants in robes was shot (but the jeans and sneakers underneath were a dead giveaway). Tom came up with the ambitious idea of ending the movie with a fight between Mike and the “king of the mutants,” with the latter being thrown off a cliff. Bart had to make and use a dummy for the fatal fall, because he couldn’t find any volunteer stunt mutants.
That’s how a hooded mannequin (found behind Sears) got thrown off a modest cliff in Fairfax next to the main road, and plunged to its death in a cloud of dust and a bloody white sheet. Marty turned to smile at the astonished faces of the drivers who happened to be going by at the time. Then Bart yelled, “That’s a wrap!” and everyone slapped high fives and headed out to the Rusty Bucket Ranch for the after-party. The crew could hardly wait until all the film came back from the lab, and Marty stopped answering his phone. He appointed Susie his secretary so she could inform his cohorts he was in a meeting. When the precious reels finally arrived, he ran them through the projector, and they came out surprisingly good! It probably wasn’t going to be a big studio release, but Marty felt the little film might be good enough to show late at night between the Night Stalker and Dark Shadows reruns. Painstakingly, he began to cut and splice the irreplaceable footage with his primitive splicer/viewer. There were a few scenes where the technology was too clumsy to achieve the desired effect, but when it finally came together, he had 12 and a half minutes of an epic sci-fi adventure that was worthy of an Oscar for something – although no one could say exactly what. Perhaps they needed a new category, like Best Special Effects smoked during production, or Best Editing without proper equipment, or some such.
The Rusty Bucket Studio’s world premiere of A World of Hell garnered little attention in the press, and was panned by local critics like Lobo and Keno, who were only interested in the barbecue. By contrast, it was enthusiastically received by the only audience that mattered – the friends who made and starred in it – and the celebration played on an endless loop all night long.
The Federation was getting tired of the same old constituents, and decided it was time for a road trip. On the July 4 weekend, Marty, Mike, Boobers, and Bart drove up to Lake Berryessa about 2 hours to the north. That was officially called a “camping trip” because they had brought a tent, but the objective was to get wasted, as usual. The tent was just a prop so the rangers wouldn’t hassle them too much, and doubled as a place to crash when the beer ran out. Marty remembered camping with his family when he was a boy, following a strictly regimented protocol dictated by G.O.D., but this turgid trip was not like that at all. With no parents or girlfriends around, they ate what they wanted, pissed where they wanted, changed their clothes if they felt like it, and occasionally washed their hands. By the last day, their noble Federation more closely resembled the Neanderthal Glee Club.
Despite the debauchery, Marty was naturally drawn to the forest growing among the steep hills surrounding the man-made lake. There were lots of trails near the campsite, and on the last morning he wanted to get as far away from other people as possible. He began to wonder why he should spoil a nice camping trip by being wasted all the time, and reflected that he’d been feeling that way a lot lately. He honestly thought he’d cut back a little already, but could abstain even more. It was hard to be around others who were partying exuberantly, and conceal the fact that you were just sipping the same beer, or not really inhaling from the joint. The others really didn’t care – it just meant there would be more beer and pot for them to abuse. But the claws of their sarcasm were quick to pounce on any sign of weakness. For Marty’s friends, mind-altering substances were necessary for life itself, on a level with food, oxygen, or cigarettes. He enjoyed having them as companions, but didn’t necessarily share their philosophy of excessive consumption. Marty was frugal by nature, using as little of everything as possible, knowing that everyone shares this earth and should take no more than they need.
Driving back to the Rusty Bucket Ranch, Marty reminisced about the little one-day backpacking trip his family took in the Trinity Alps when he was about 11. It was a rough hike, but such a beautiful alpine lake, and now that he was older, he fantasized about maybe going back up there with some friends. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. Mike, Bart, and Boobers had to listen to his sales pitch for “Bear Lake” all the way home. Everyone had to work, so they couldn’t go the next weekend… but Marty was yearning to go right away. In reality, none of them sounded too enthusiastic about the idea. They could get wasted anywhere, so why hike up the side of a goddamn mountain to do it? Of course they were stoned and hungover at the time, and weren’t going to get very excited about anything except a shower and a clean bed.
Back at the ranch, Marty couldn’t stop thinking about the backpacking trip to the dreamlike lake he remembered from his youth. He looked it up at the library, and learned it was called Big Bear Lake, up in the Shasta-Trinity National Forest. He bought a topo map at Marin Surplus, where they had lots of cool stuff like Army uniforms, C-rations, survival gear, and a growing assortment of aluminum-framed backpacks, sleeping bags, and lightweight tents. The old Boy Scout pack he used as a kid was dragged out from the shed, and the moldy spots scrubbed out. He first wanted to try a practice trip to see how it would feel to carry a loaded backpack, and the fire road up to Bolinas Ridge was a perfect venue. He convinced Mike and Bobby Brew to throw a few things in some borrowed backpacks, and the unlikely expedition trudged up to the ridge top on a Saturday afternoon.
After a few switchbacks, Bobby started to turn pale yellow and couldn’t catch his breath. The trail was less than two miles, but gained over 800 feet. His standard diet of beer and cigarettes was not conducive to athletic pursuits, and he dragged his legs as if wading through muddy water. The shoulder straps of his pack hung down to his elbows, and he strained to keep it on his back. The contents shifted and clinked with the effort.
“You have beer in there?” Marty asked incredulously.
“Yeah, I got a case of Miller, did ya think I’m gonna miss out on the party?”
“But those are bottles!”
“They taste the best,” he managed to croak with a wink, “And they’re all mine – I carried ‘em.”
He made it to the top of the ridge, carefully put down his fragile load, and collapsed in the grass. Mike was strong and fared the best of all, and overall Marty felt pretty good, although his knees were a little weak from disuse. They watched the sun go down, and partied the night away. Nobody brought sleeping bags so they crashed right there in the warm grass like deer. Marty woke before dawn and the sky was gray and silent. Slowly, the ridge across the canyon to the east started to glow and the sun peeked behind it. At that very moment, a soft breeze caressed his face, and all the grasses nodded in appreciation of the new day. Birds appeared out of nowhere, singing their songs to greet the sun. Mike and Bobby slept through it all, but Marty got to witness a New Day on the Earth – one that had never been seen before in the history of the universe!
Now his taste for the wilderness was really whetted. Mike and Boobers got tired of him talking about hiking up to Big Bear Lake, and made it clear they didn’t want to voluntarily walk that far. A few days later, when hanging out at the Parkade with some friends (waiting for someone to buy them some beer, what else), Rob, Dave, and Terry got real excited when Marty appealed to them as if the trip was an epic challenge. They were all football teammates, and Rob never lost that explosive competitiveness that made him such a fearsome opponent on the field. All three agreed enthusiastically to the adventure, but Mike and Boobers couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come along, so it would just be the Gridiron Gang… minus one, as it turned out, because Terry couldn’t get any time off work.
And so Marty, Rob, and Dave tossed some old gear in the back of the Apollo, and blasted up to the Trinity Alps on a hot August weekend, as the heat waves danced on Highway 5. Naturally the crew celebrated the successful first leg of their journey by partying heartily when they got to the campground near the trailhead. That was the first bad decision resulting from their inexperience. That steep trail kicked their asses the next day, but with youthful vigor they made it all the way past Big Bear Lake, and up to Little Bear Lake; so-named because it was, um… smaller? Marty’s crazy football friends actually packed bottles of beer and canned food! They weren’t exactly model boy scouts, or expert backpackers, but they were 16, invincible, and ready for anything! They conquered that hot bitch of a trail and were the only ones at the lake, until their turf was invaded by a troop of itty bitty cub scouts. After discussing various creative (but technically illegal) ways of repelling the invaders, the gang retreated in resentful consternation that their solitude had been ruined. Suddenly the cherubim retreated, and the victorious Gridiron Gang partied in celebration, until they realized why they left – because it started raining. The brave and victorious warriors didn’t want to get wet (since nobody had bothered to bring a tent), so the foolhardy trio decided to take a short cut down some cliffs, where the outlet trickle from the small lake meandered down to a bigger stream far below. That was the second bad decision. All they could think of was Marty’s truck, parked next to that very same creek, where it joined the Trinity River down by the highway. Soon the water from the mountain showers turned the trickle into a gushing cascade of waterfalls, and they nearly got killed when Rob slid into the rest of them, on the edge of a sheer drop, and the whole clinging cluster of would-be adventurers screamed, but didn’t fall. They all got thoroughly soaked, however, and their sodden packs weighed two hundred pounds, and of course it stopped raining as soon as they reached the trail. It was a quest made memorable from their brush with death, but it wasn’t exactly the magical sojourn in the wilderness Marty had envisioned. He vowed to come back someday, and do it right.