So, it’s summer and Jaws is playing nonstop on cable. I guarantee that if you’re bored and have
200+ channels, you will find Jaws playing RIGHT NOW somewhere in the vast world
of cable TV.
I’ll be honest with you:
Jaws is my all time favorite movie.
(Along with Jackie Brown. Oh, and
Galaxy Quest.) That was the first horror
movie I saw that I can remember. It’s
also where I came to the realization that parents lie. ALL PARENTS.
When I was 10 years old, my dad got it into his head that
he needed to see Jaws, and he needed to see it THAT day whether or not he and
my mom could find a babysitter. I can
only imagine – hope – that my mom said, ‘Oh, honey…I don’t think we should take
a 10 year old to see that movie…I mean, it’s about a killer shark that eats
EVERYTHING.’ Regardless, they decided to
go and to take me.
I remember vividly the walk from the house to the
car. I remember my dad saying, “Just
remember. It’s a fake shark. It’s just some guy driving around in a shark
machine. There’s nothing to be afraid
of.”
And I remember asking, “Why would he DO that?” I thought it was a plot point – and a stupid
one at that. Surely there were better,
more effective ways to kill people aside from building a shark suit and
cruising the beaches. It made no
sense! (This should have been the first indication to
my parents that I would be a writer.)
So we went. And when
we got to the theater, my mom said, “If you’re scared, we can go home. Just say when you get scared.”
That was about three minutes into the movie when poor
Chrissy took the last drunken skinny dip of her life. I hit mom with the high sign. I was ready to go, she had promised, and I
was calling in that marker.
Her response: “It’ll
be fine. Just close your eyes.”
And then she did what all moms do when something scary
happens on the screen. She plastered her
hand over my eyes.
Well, that’s not very effective, now is it? Short answer:
No.
I watched EVERY HORRIFIC MOMENT of that movie through the
mini-blinds of her fingers. I saw “that
poor Kintner kid” get it, also Boo-Boo
the dog, the poor sap who was rowing to the kids with his gawdawful New Yawk
accent – “Hey, fellas. Fellas! You guyse
okay ovah theyah?”, the Sunday roast, and
then ultimately poor Quint - “You all know me, you know how I make a living” –
and the Orca.
I was devastated, not only by the movie, but also by the fact
that my parents outright LIED to me.
They said we could go home. I
remember being really PUT OUT on that drive home. And, of course, that night I had nightmares that
there was a beach in my bedroom, right under my sister’s bed, and after waking
the whole house, my parents made her sleep with me to get me to shut up. Take THAT, Mom and Dad. HA! (Sorry, sis.)
But the most vivid memory was sharing every gruesome
detail of that scary movie with the kids in my neighborhood. I specifically remember telling Donna Boucher
and her older brother John about it, especially poor Ben Gardner. “His
head popped out of the bottom of the boat and his EYE GUTS WERE HANGING OUT!” It was
gross and scary and wonderful! And they
were wicked impressed that I was allowed to go see a movie that they could
not. (Little did they know it would scar
me for life.)
I don’t really know what the magic combination is that acid-etches
memories into the human brain, but I can only assume it’s a combination of
terror-once-removed, abject-glee, and the shock of parental betrayal.
In any case, Jaws is on right now.
I’m going to watch it for the hundredth time.