Benny Jay: Scaredy Cat

Man, this is dumb. I’m watching “Candyman,” the scary movie from the early 1990s.

Usually, I don’t watch scary movies cause I’m a scaredy cat. But I’ve heard so much about “Candyman.” It takes place in Chicago. Plus, I’ve got this great strategy for watching it. I have the sound off and the subtitles on. That way I know what’s going on, but I don’t hear the eerie soundtrack. Now that’s how you watch a scary movie!

Only my wife shows up. She’s sitting on the couch and I’m sitting on the rocking chair. And she says: “Turn up the sound — you can’t watch a movie without the sound.”

Easy for her to say. Movies don’t scare her, even scary ones. The time we saw “Silence of the Lambs,” she was eating a big tub of buttered popcorn. They had this girl trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well and I decided: That’s it — I’m outta here. So I stand up to leave and my wife looks up — a big scoop of greasy popcorn in her hand — and says: “Where ya’ going?”

Did I mention that she was about seven months pregnant at the time?

Anyway, I won’t lie to you: “Candyman” is scaring the shit out of me. It’s all about this monster — Candyman — who comes out of the walls to kill people by ripping them up with this rusty hook he has instead of a hand.

I leave my rocking chair and flop on the couch. I’m practically in my wife’s lap. I close my eyes whenever I think Candyman’s about to pop out of the walls. For the really, really scary parts, I start humming to myself — you know, hmmmm. So I can’t hear or see.

Candyman winds up hacking — oh, I don’t know — a half a dozen people. It’s really hard to keep track. Then he turns this woman into his wife. I’m not exactly sure how he pulled that off — it must have happened when I had my eyes and ears closed. But by the end of the movie, she’s hacking up people. “If they make a sequel,” I tell my wife, “they’ll call it Candychick.”

She actually laughs at that one.

When it’s over, I’m too scared to move. Except I have to walk the dog. What the hell — she’s got to crap. It’s not her fault I watched “Candyman.”

Did I mention it’s nighttime? Well, it is. Almost midnight, in fact.

My wife comes with me. Usually, she stays at home when I walk the dog. But she’s too scared to stay home alone. Not after watching “Candyman.” Turns out that 26 years of marriage to me has made her a scaredy cat too. Who knew?

We head out the door and up the block. Ever notice how many wackos and psycho jobs you get on the street after dark? Well, we’ve got tons around where I live. There’s this guy who stands on his porch — even in the winter — smoking cigarettes. Never says nothing. All you can see of him is his cigarette glowing in the dark. As you walk down the street, the glow moves in your direction, like he’s watching you pass.

Then there’s the guy with the gimpy leg and the cheesy Hungarian accent. Sounds like Bela Lugosi. As we pass him, he says: “Nice dog.”

Yeah, you probably want to slice her up — you sick fuck.

We walk for about three blocks. The dog does her thing. I scoop it up in a plastic bag, and look for a garbage bin. None to be found.

“Hold the leash,” I tell my wife.

“Where you going?” she asks.

“I gotta throw this out….”

“Don’t leave….”

“What? I’m supposed to stick this in my pocket?”

I walk up a dark side street and cut down an alley. Really dumb move. I don’t see a whole lot of scary movies, but from the few I have seen this I know: You never, ever go into a dark alley. It’s like teenagers going to the cabin out by the lake.

I creep up the alley, open a dumpster and toss in the plastic bag. It lands with a thump. I let go of the dumpster top — it shuts with a crash. I turn around. There’s a man standing right behind me, a bloody knife raised in the air.

“No,” I scream.

Too late. The knife plunges down….

Actually, none of that really happened. Instead, I scurry back to my wife and we hurry home. The cigarette smoker’s got a friend up on his porch. The guy’s holding a banjo — probably keeps an ax in the case. Remind me never to watch another scary movie….