Leon
haunted houses, birthdays, and brotherhood
Birthday card courtesy of
Imagine if you will, a gathering of mostly-grown men aged 22-40, assembled for the purposes of:
Attending a series of haunted houses - paying to have the heaven scared out of them.
Listening to the most diverse musical playlists - from Broadway music to the Steve Miller Band.
Consuming inexpensive breakfasts - early morning capstone visits to diners where large amounts of cheap food are ingested whilst regaling the adventures of the haunted houses.
“Holy shit!” - Leon C., screaming the forbidden swear words repeatedly as a chainsaw wielding human, dressed as some evil doer, sprints down a dusty hill towards us.
Celebration
Leon is one of a kind. Find me a man that can sing like a diva, punch cattle, build houses, is a cosmetologist, has adopted six children, hosts a successful podcast, and will take one of his dearest friends to a haunted house for a birthday celebration. You won’t.
It began well over two decades ago, a phone call from Mr. Leon, inviting me to a haunted house in celebration of my birthday.
A little background, I was born under a snare of gloom. This has followed me for quite some time. Manifest in my younger days by family who didn’t allow me to have western culture traditional birthdays, and as I aged, scant recognition from family in the way of texts, calls, and no presents.
It’s cool. I am accustomed to it, and back then, when someone offered well wishes or recognition, I blanched/feigned/dodged absent the training and experience necessary to embrace the celebration of my birth.
So, when Leon called, I didn’t know what to say - my poor social skills amplified 10x when he offered to pay my way.
“I found this place out in the desert that used to be a movie set for westerns and such. There’s like 5 different haunted houses. I will pick you up at 7.”
“PM?”
“PM. Dude, I am so stoked.”
Pick me up he did, Evita blasting on his car stereo, Leon singing at the top of his lungs, adrenalin pumping in our veins. No kids. Absent the guidance of our spouses, we arrived at the parking lot, anticipation in our eye sockets.
We boarded a van that stunk like halloween makeup, White Zombie flailing at our ear drums, lights out it careened down a narrow road, dust stirred up by witches on brooms.
As we disembarked, dust settled, and a cabin emerged in the distance, a man caressing a shotgun in a rocking chair, beckoning us forward. Pretty sure I heard banjo music from Deliverance in the background, freezing me in place.
Leon prodded me forward, and I reluctantly agreed, suggesting we avoid the cabin. He agreed, sealing our doom. As we rounded, widely, the cabin boundary, into the ink-black desert night, a rustling of feet in a sprint, the sound of a chainsaw being pulled, shrieking, and Leon’s curses sent my heart racing.
Arm in arm we lurched forward, heads on a swivel, toward a thicket of scrub oak; an archway that lured us into ninety minutes of school girl screams, dribbling urine in our pantaloons, raucous laughter, and breathless wild-eyed wonder.
Masked characters ran at us on stilts, vomited cans of mushroom soup in our path, emerged clothed in polka dot body suits from polka-dot walls brushing our clothing, and relentlessly chased us with chain-less chainsaws.
We returned to our cars, bathed in dust, hoarse, vowing to do it again next year.
Tradition
Our adventure morphed into an annual tradition that added a cast of characters (good friends committed to the cause), early morning breakfasts, and a pact that no one would make fun of how, and when, someone screamed.
Travis, Brigham, Brian, Scott, and even Ron, joined our escapades. Ron…I’ve mentioned him before…he was only invited once.
A bit of advice; if your going to include someone from a friend group, don’t bring the guy who is prone to analyze the design of the haunted house set, realism of the makeup/costume, and the engineering of the creepy-jumpy-thing mechanisms. It absolutely ruins everything.
I digress.
Back to the cool kids.
Our annual pilgrimage had us driving all over the Valley of the Sun, having researched the best bang for the buck haunted houses. Most were worth the forty five minutes in-between drives. Some weren’t, and we never returned, scorning the amateur attempts at scaring our team of adventurers.
Brian joined us a few months after he returned from his mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints/Mormons. Green at the gills he went forth into the bowels of the first haunted house.
As seasoned haunted housers, ours was a front row seat to his shrieks, spasms, sprints, and attempts to find us when we ditched him. Upon his exit from the first of our evening’s features, his brother in law, Brigham, tackled him to the ground as a chain saw-ed character gave chase.
My stomach muscles are still sore from laughing at that elbows-over-assholes tussle in the dirt.
The continual tick-tick-boom of the ensuing scare-fest brought us all to tears with laughter. Brian realized he was consigned to the fate of our sinister wills as we made sure he took the front of the line at every single haunting.
It’s a certainty that he entered the night at the ripe age of twenty-one, and by breakfast had advanced to his mid-thirties. Shake it, Brian. We got you. The cloud of doom and gloom was often dispersed by Brigham’s stories, my military-esque dirty jokes, and Leon’s narratives about his well known compendium of scary films.
Brotherhood
To say I was in a dark place when Leon invited me to the three-day excursion to the Universal Studios haunted houses - well let’s just illustrate my station in life by saying I didn’t need a scare fest. I was living in one, cast as the lead, wet two by fours striking my neck at every turn.
Leon knew.
Leon made sure I went. The trip bought be a few more years of semi-sanity.
Travis absconded with his family van, Brigham riding shot-gun. Joined this time by Scott, Brian (now a veteran adventurer), Leon, Rex (a haunted house virgin) and me.
Our plan was to hit the entirety of Universal Studios’ five venue tribute to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, then to a hotel, breakfast, Magic Mountain, then return to the doldrums of real life.
What an adventure.
TCM’s venues had the full blown five senses special effects that one would expect. Hanging carcasses, sweaty dungaree wearing axe wielding giants who played their parts a little too well. I think we left that experience grateful and exhausted by the resources those people poured into the night.
Our hotel room turned out to be more haunted than we wanted. Condoms littered the picture frames. Dirty towels rained…something…on the floor. A packed hotel, and a timid credit card holder kept us from seeking better accommodations. Fatigue helped us slip into a Leatherface landscape. Pretty sure Leon and I spooned one another all night.
On the drive to Magic Mountain, Rex revealed, by way of sing along, that he’d been taught that the chorus lyrics to Steve Miller Band’s Big ol’ Jet Airliner were big ol’ hairy vagina instead. After a prolonged silence from a van full of Mormons, silently wondering what was the appropriate reaction, I broke the stalemate by snort-laughing, prompting others to join the chorus. Travis laughed until he gagged.
I’ve never heard that song the same way. Thank you, Rex. Seriously. Thank you.
Era ended
It has been years since we’ve gathered, ventured forth, shrieked, laughed and gorged to our fill on stories and early morning bacon drenched in Dr. Pepper.
Travis moved to Texas. Rex begged off the next trip. Brian and Scott both got married. I got divorced. Leon probably got tired of pay for me to go with him, maybe not, probably not. We just all…grew up?
I cannot say. Leon is the sole member of our troop with whom I still communicate. Our celebrations continue, over the distance between us, encouraging one another, loving one another, and reminiscing about the times we went forth into the world of hauntings.
Leon, this one is for you, and because of you. I love you, dear brother.
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I've had crazy friends but no one like Leon. But then I grew up early and after the streets and alleys of Chicago, the frantic escapades in the army--I could never find a fun house to move me.
Oh mylanta bro that was perfect. That made my year! To read your words and how you explained it was perfect. I love you my brother and if you were still here I would be paying for you to still accompany me !! ❤️