The movies start at 8 p.m. at the Las Vegas Drive-In, and that’s what time it is now. The stream of cars stretches nearly out to Carey Avenue. There are two lines leading to a single dimly lit ticket booth. We creep along as the screens snap to life, splashing light across the vast parking lot. We are worried we will miss the vintage-styled previews so vital to the movie experience that is Grindhouse.
A woman with long black hair is manning both lines, slowly pivoting from one window to the other. Might she be a zombie? We lurch forward, and I notice there are no wooden posts topped with clunky metal speakers like those in the drive-ins of generations ago. The movie sounds are transmitted through FM settings on our car radios, and I wish I’d cleaned my windshield. The action is dark and not limited to the screen, which is showing a doctor examining the infected tongue of a likely zombie. He squeezes a brownish lump, and it squirts a wet red streak across his glasses.
At ground level we have a different sort of scene unfolding, with a man climbing out of a small two-door sedan and switching places with his date. His T-shirt is untucked and his jeans rumpled. We then hear the rumble of a helicopter passing behind the screen after taking off from nearby North Las Vegas Airport. I wonder, surveillance?
At the break we head for the snack compound for Skittles and a drink. The Skittles are sold in bags roughly the size of throw pillows and are stale and hard. I order a large Diet Coke, or Pepsi, whatever. They are out of large cups, and the kid who I think is the night manager disappears into a back room. Behind me kids are loudly playing air hockey, and chasing each other around the table and finally out the glass doors. Where are their parents? And where is my drink? The manager finally resurfaces with a single cup with the explanation that “our inventory is running low.”
Quentin Tarantino’s contribution to the double feature, Death Proof, roars by at 130 mph. I am left nauseated by the mix of gore, high-speed vehicular manslaughter and vintage Skittles. The credits roll and so do we, but first I need to fix my seat.
I reach down and feel something wet and sticky. My God—it’s blood! Oh. Wait. ... It is just spilled Coke. And like Kurt Russell’s Stuntman Mike, I hit the gas like real hard.