In the South, especially the rural South, the Drive-In was frequently the only entertainment venue available to both families and teenagers, who were each seeking widely divergent methods of being entertained. Families, especially those with small children, were happy to have an entertainment option that allowed them to get out of the house, save the cost of a babysitter, and enjoy a movie or two in the comfort of their automobiles.

    In the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, however, in small towns across the Southern United States, Friday and Saturday nights were date nights for teenagers. Young men, with disposable income in their pockets and car keys in hand, were eager to take their best girls out for a good time—but where could they go, and what could they do? There weren’t many venues that were designed for teens; at least, not in small towns.

    There might be a diner, or a soda shop, and of course, even the smallest towns could boast of a theater, and each could be a fun, enjoyable choice for a first or second date. But there was almost always one location within an easy drive that offered all those choices—food you couldn’t find anywhere else in town, pizzas, tacos, burritos; ice cream, sodas, shakes; and movies that were made with teenagers in mind. It also had one advantage that the other date night favorites lacked—privacy. Away from adults. Away from friends. In the privacy of your front—or back—seat. Just you and your date.

    The Drive-Ins offered all of that. But more importantly, they offered the one thing that teenagers, then and now, crave the most. Freedom, independence, the ability to make choices for one’s own self. Things that were difficult to come by when adults were involved. In many towns, it was the only place that teens could go that allowed them that freedom.

    My older sister craved that freedom, and made full use of it at every opportunity. About once a month, our mom would give Wanda $10 to take myself, my younger brother, and usually our cousin, to the Drive-In. I’ve written before of the ritual this entailed, of the back-and-forth negotiations—how much she would spend on us, what movies we would see, whether we would enter the Drive-In inside the car, or packed in the trunk. We didn’t mind the 7/11 snacks, instead of burgers, pizza, and fries at the concession stand, or riding in the trunk of our parent’s 1971 Chevy Bel Air. That was part of our ritual, part of the negotiations. We tolerated those inconveniences so that Wanda could keep most of the money Mom gave her. In exchange, she would take us to virtually any movie we asked to see—without our mother’s knowledge, of course.

    On one fateful Friday morning, in response to a newspaper advertisement, the request we made was to attend an all-night Horrorthon, four movies, back-to-back, from dusk til dawn. We knew it would be a hard sell; Wanda wasn’t fond of sticking around for a double-feature, much less a night long event. And even should Wanda agree to take us, we knew our mother would have to sign off on us being out overnight. An unlikely occurrence should she see the titles of the movies we planned to see—Blood Feast, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things, Night of the Living Dead, and the movie we were all eager to see, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

    By 1975, our mother was hardly ignorant of the love her 11-year-old son held for all things Horror related. However, she associated that love with the movies I would watch on the weekends—the Universal Horrors of the ‘30s and ‘40s, the giant bugs and alien invaders of the 1950s, the Godzilla movies and Hammer films of the 1960s. She would have been shocked, and not a little angry, had she known of some of the movies that her younger children had seen under the supervision of her oldest daughter. The Vampire Lovers, Horror Rises from the Tomb, The Student Nurses—all had been seen by us, and we weren’t above using it to sway Wanda to our way of thinking.

    Though it took some effort, we convinced Wanda of our need to attend the Horrorthon, and with her assistance we were able to win over our mother. While we knew that Wanda would exact a penalty for keeping her out all night, we didn’t care—we were going to see four Horror movies, three of which were on my personal must-see list (I must admit that, prior to seeing the aforementioned newspaper ad, I hadn’t heard of Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things). In fact, we had recently seen the poster for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre outside the Regency Square theater, as we stood in line for the weekly Kiddee Show, a summer tradition that is now, unfortunately, as dead as the dodo.

    We started preparations for our night out early, as soon as we had our mother’s okay. Pillows and blankets, and a paper grocery bag full of freshly popped popcorn, and we were ready to go. A quick stop to pick-up our cousin Andy and his mother, who liked to hang out with Wanda, then to 7/11 for potato chips and Cokes, and we were off to the University Drive-In, and the four-movie Horrorthon.

    Mark, Andy, and I went in the trunk at the 7/11, which was just down the road from the Drive-In’s gate. As I look back at the summer of 1975, fifty years ago, it amazes me that no one ever said the least word about a gaggle of pre-teen boys climbing into a four-year-old Chevy’s trunk, spacious as it no doubt was. Now, police would be called, my sister arrested, and my unfortunate parents investigated. Once in the trunk, Wanda had to time our arrival carefully—too early, and we would risk being seen by the management. Too late, and we would find ourselves surrounded by cars, the occupants of one of which might feel compelled to turn us in. We were experienced veterans of the trunk ride by this point, so as soon as Wanda opened it, we hopped out, staying low as we went to the rear doors of the car, getting in as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

    As smoothly as we managed the transition, our time in the back seat was limited. Our deals with Wanda seldom included remaining in the interior of the car. There was a good reason our preparations included blankets and pillows—we watched our movies lying on the ground in front of the car. We settled down, after waiting for the ads to start while enjoying the playground beneath the screen, as the trailers for upcoming movies began playing. I loved watching these trailers, and frequently used them to determine the movies we would try to see next. Very quickly, the trailers were done, as the first movie, Blood Feast, began.

    I would love to say that the 11-year-old Unimonster found the prototypical “Gore” film to be as interesting, if amateurish, as does the 61-year-old Unimonster. To be honest, aside from a few notable moments, neither Blood Feast nor Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things struck me as exceptionally gory or frightening. By that point in my life, I was no stranger to gore, and neither movie could match what I had already seen. While I enjoyed both movies, especially Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things, they were still run of the mill Horror films. They were good, but they were not better than movies like the Hammer classics, or some of the Italian films that were beginning to filter onto my local Drive-In screen. Then, movie #3 came on the screen, and no matter what else it might be, Night of the Living Dead is not, nor has it ever been, a ‘run of the mill’ Horror film. That movie gave me nightmares for weeks afterward, and this was just a month or so after I had seen Jaws, the most personally affecting, and effective, Horror film I have ever seen. That was true in 1975, and it is still true. And Night of the Living Dead came close to dethroning it.

    As Night of the Living Dead drew to its shocking conclusion, I was left stunned and amazed. It was unlike anything I had seen before in a Horror movie; it took me back to the battleground footage from Vietnam. Some of my earliest memories involved Walter Cronkite on the evening news, reporting on the fighting in Southeast Asia, often combat footage from Vietnamese battlefields. Night of the Living Dead evoked the same emotions, the same sense of discomfort and loss. It was a masterpiece, a film that would change what Horror films could be. Of course, my 11-year-old self was ignorant of all that. All I knew was that it was the most frightening movie I had ever seen … that didn’t involve a shark.

    Which brings us to the final movie of the night, and the one that I was most eager to see, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. By this time Mark and Andy were both asleep on their blankets, and to be truthful, I myself was fighting sleepiness. But I had wanted to see this movie for some time, and I was determined not to squander my opportunity. I had no concept, in 1975, of own day being able to watch a movie like this whenever I wanted, as often as I wanted, much less being able to own a physical copy of it—in three different formats, as well as an online, digital copy. In 1975, if you missed seeing a movie when it was at your local theater or Drive-In, you might not get another chance for years, if ever. I certainly didn’t plan to miss it by falling asleep in front of the Drive-In screen.

    The opening sequence of events had me mesmerized, with the sharp sound of a capacitor discharging and the corresponding flare of a camera’s flashbulb, revealing images of decaying human remains. From then on, I was engrossed in the movie, from the encounter with the crazed hitchhiker, to Franklin, the single most annoying individual I had ever seen. But when Leatherface slid the door open and struck down Kirk with one powerful blow, I knew this was everything that I had heard it was. I want to say that the remainder of the film was even more memorably frightening. I want to, but unfortunately, I can’t. You see, I fell asleep sometime after that scene. Of course in the years since that night, I’ve renewed my acquaintance with Leatherface many times, and I can definitely say that that statement is true.