Even ardent slasher fans may not know about Joyride (1983)—and that’s because it’s not a movie. It was during the golden era of both slashers and “paperbacks from hell” when Pinnacle Books, a Kensington Publishing imprint, first published this novel. It claimed to be “more horrifying than Halloween, more grisly than Friday the 13th”…
Based on its blurb—“Nine teenagers enter an abandoned cemetery […] Before the night is over, most of them will die“—it was pretty clear what Joyride was emulating, not to mention cashing in on. Keep in mind, though, not a lot of publishers back then were as quick to follow the lead (not counting novelizations of slasher movies, of course). So, at the very least, this was a unique literary venture for its time.
Even better, it rivals some of the best one-and-done slasher movies from that same time period.
Joyride was originally released under Ronald Francis Patrick’s nom de plume of Stephen Crye. Before the author introduced the world to that bloodthirsty, cemetery-lurking killer named Cleats, Patrick wrote about another disturbed individual who worked around corpses. Patrick’s previous novel, Beyond the Threshold (1978), centered on the macabre proceedings, as well as sexual fluidity, of a mortician. Indeed, this is a sleazy and repugnant story, but at the same time, the way Patrick considered queer sexuality is still worth reading. Of particular interest is the novel’s sympathetic portrayal of its gay side character:
“Cleats stood back and watched without expression as the multiple wounds in her throat began to spurt in giant pulsating arcs…”
Meanwhile, Joyride has a less complex narrative. It also trades complicated characters for more cursory ones; in lieu of some interesting roles, there’s now a whole cast of paper-thin players who practically walked in off the sets of the most straightforward ‘80s slasher movies. All the requisite archetypes are in attendance here: the jock, the brain, the mean girl, the virgin, the loose girl, the loser, and the younger sibling (really a cousin) who tagged along on the wrong night.
Patrick did his homework with Joyride; the novel never feels like it was written by someone who had never seen a slasher, much less hated them. If he did object, that sentiment didn’t come across in the writing. There is, though, that proclivity to explain the killer, as opposed to keeping him or her an enigma. Some movies do the bare minimum for backstories, such as only sharing a campfire tale in the beginning. This book, on the other hand, goes that extra mile by devoting half of itself to the antagonist’s origins.
Upon first read, it seems as if Joyride lacks a compelling villain. After all, Cleats—whose nickname comes from his choice of footwear—is yet another slasher killer born from abuse, hardship, and humiliation. By now that kind of origin story has been exhausted in the genre. However, all those extensive flashbacks to Cleats’ past make this novel somewhat different from the average ‘80s slasher.
Immediately setting Joyride apart from the likes of Halloween and Friday the 13th is its opening scene. Teens caught in mid-coitus are a popular choice for first victims, whereas this novel opted for a less probable target. Wandering into the story’s dreaded destination, ahead of the human targets, is a plump dachshund who, unfortunately, doesn’t stand a chance against Cleats. One’s own tolerance for animal cruelty in fiction will be tested here, as the novel doesn’t relent when it comes to describing that poor pup’s demise. This early display of Cleats’ ferocity is possibly too much for the average slasher fan; even the human deaths aren’t as meticulously told. So, skipping the prologue would be understandable if someone wants to be spared the gory details.
Joyride forgoes further appetizers and serves up the main course with readiness. Several unsuspecting high schoolers soon roll up to the deadest part of town, searching for fun in the least likely of places. Their choice of hangout spot makes zero sense, but Cleats is like any other territorial murderer; he can’t kill if they don’t come. In this case, they come of their own accord—two cars worth of hormonal, adolescent quarries enter the beast’s lair without even an old-timer around to warn them. With the gate now suddenly closed, leaving proves difficult.
Patrick dishes out the death almost instantly, before then tapering off until the third act. In a bit of a twist, though, Joyride subverts expectations by disposing of the ostensible final girl ahead of everyone else; a goody-goody gets the first taste of Cleats’ fury after she hightails it for the cemetery’s entrance/exit. From there it’s anyone’s guess as to who’s next on the kill list—is it the amorous couple who disappeared for a quickie, or is it that slovenly glutton who goes by the nickname of “Twinkie”? Surely Patrick wouldn’t allow any harm to befall the youngest of the bunch.
“Priscilla’s jaws flapped uncontrollably but emitted no sound as she watched her boyfriend’s skin sizzle and pop like frying bacon.”
Reading horror, versus watching horror, forces one to sit with certain imagery and thoughts. This is very true of Cleats’ murders. Patrick, like other authors, is enthusiastic about the ways in which these characters perish. What would have been over in mere seconds on screen is now prolonged on paper. “Agonizing” is a good way of summing up the kills here. As one would expect from a tawdry ‘80s horror paperback, the sexual parts range from titillating to plain uncomfortable.
While there isn’t a lot of substantial food for thought in Joyride, it does offer the theory that monsters aren’t born—they’re made. Robert, before he became known as Cleats, was once a teenager who grew up around death. And having been raised in the mortuary business, Robert would have naturally developed a different outlook on life. He knew of the inevitability of death, the fleetingness of everything, better than anyone his age. So when Robert was adamant about giving his classmate a love letter, because he was afraid of never seeing her again after graduation, it stood to reason that his fear was based on firsthand knowledge that people can’t wait around for life to happen. In his point of view, lives often ended without warning and without closure.
“His trembling fingers slid across the wet pulp of shredded flesh that dangled from his exposed jaw…”
Cleats’ backstory is nothing unprecedented. Boy wants girl, girl doesn’t want him. Boy is bullied, bullies take things too far. Internal loathing is then manifested as a horrific disfigurement. It’s a formula still in use today. In Joyride, though, that process of going from outcast teen to madman is laid out more hurriedly. The inclusion of Robert’s specific home life, which includes his being a caregiver to a cruel, disabled father, does at least add more grounds for his dramatic transformation. However, this isn’t the sort of novel where everything will, or has to, make sense all the time. Most likely, readers are going to be more invested in Cleats’ story rather than Robert’s.
The abrupt jumps to the past are perhaps unnecessary, and they can make it hard to stay focused on the current events. Then again, Joyride has barely a plot to begin with. Its strong suits are really those scenes of violence and luridness, all of which are written with gusto.
Most slasher fiends will prefer to watch, not read, stories of stalking killers, dead teenagers and growing body counts. Yet if they ever want to switch things up, especially with a novel that feels and acts like a classic slasher, then Joyride is absolutely a trip worth taking.
Fathom Press resurrects Joyride on August 20, featuring a new introduction by Will Errickson.
