CHAPTER SEVEN - PAUL MORGAN - 1968 - The Jungle

“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you. He will never leave you or forsake you. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged.” Deu.31:8

It was still. Quiet. Unlike Louisiana, the humidity here had an airless quality, making it hard to breathe. Sgt. Paul Morgan kept his eyes focused on the black jungle. No green, no brown. It was totally black. It was amazing how dark the jungle could be without the lights of a city to reflect against the night clouds. Even the moon could not penetrate the thick foliage. 

Bryant had died a few hours ago. Gonzalez hadn’t said anything since sunset. Jersey lay under a blanket, moaning softly.

Paul’s eyes zeroed in on a movement in the dark. Dark moving on dark. It was a theme from art. A black painting. What was it that was moving out there? A leafy branch maybe? There was no breeze. A human hand had moved the branch. Paul’s finger tensed on the trigger of his M-16. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe. Could they have heard Jersey moaning? Even the dead bodies around him seemed to make sounds. Parley had been sawed in half by a Claymore. Just before dark, he thought he saw Parley waving his arms. Paul knew that his imagination was on over time, but he swore to himself that he heard the dead muttering… “Get out…get out while there’s still time.”

How did he end up here? How did he end up halfway around the world in a burned out village waiting to die? Vietnam was everything people said it was. When he was back in the states, he watched the Vietnam War on TV. CBS News reported fatalities, but they never mentioned the fire ants. They were tormenting him under his shirt and on his legs. Paul tried to pinch the ants through his fatigues. A big movement could give their position away. A slight movement could do just the same. Not that it mattered. The enemy was creeping up around the perimeter of the village. Their position was probably already known. The Cong were biding their time.

If the last info he had from the radio was correct, there were other Marine units in the area. Captain Davenport had a platoon just north of the village. Paul’s unit was about to meet up with them when the shooting started.

Paul shifted his eyes over to the five men still able to fight. They too, were suffering the fire ants silently. What was the old saying? There are no atheists in foxholes? Boy, was that ever true. Paul had shunned organized religion, and he had a hazy vision of who or what God was. But he knew there was something up there. And he sent up a clumsy prayer as a rustling nearby sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The ammunition was low. Sometime during the night, he’d taken Jersey and Bryant’s packs and grenades. Just before the firefight, when their radio still worked, they heard the frantic cries of the Eagle Company lieutenant.

“They’re over running us! We cannot hold our position! Repeat! We cannot hold our position!”

After that, there was a loud shriek from the radio. Then, silence. Their own radio had been knocked out along with the corpsman and Lt. Walls when Paul’s platoon crossed the ridge near the village. There was lots of noise and panic as they dug in and gave back what they were getting. Happy Tet, thought Paul. We should be back at base camp, sipping beer and feasting on barbecued water buffalo. He hoped they weren’t the only survivors. Surely there were pieces of the Marine unit scattered about.

The rustling leaves were getting louder, but Paul couldn’t see anything worth shooting at. Besides, he would give away his position. And he had to save ammunition. He’d give his soul for one more belt of ammo. A belt of ammo seemed like a king’s ransom. His mind made an inventory of the decimated platoon’s arsenal. That was a laugh. There was no arsenal. And who was there to use their limited ammunition? Slovinski, Brown, Bobby, Cline and me. It’s just us now. Jersey was no help. Earlier, about twenty feet to his left, he’d heard crying in the trench. Was that Watson? Maybe Daniels. It didn’t matter. The crying had stopped some time ago. He wondered if Watson/Daniels or whoever it was, still had a rifle? Was it worth a leap towards the trench?

According to his calculations, and from what he could remember from the last radio transmission, they were caught between two large NVA units. If that were true, their chances of survival were slim to none.

Paul had seen six firefights since he arrived in country nine months before. Nine months. He’d done a lot of growing up, both mentally and personally.

After eight weeks of basic training and nine months of jungle survival, his body had filled out and hardened. Paul gave another mental laugh. He thought he’d had a tough life before this. After joining up, he didn’t think it could get worse. How did I get here? He thought hopelessly. His life back home was a different world entirely. He remembered his roommate Allan, giving him a fond farewell in the school parking lot. It seemed like twenty years ago.

Allan shook his hand as Paul put his lone suitcase in the beat up Volkswagen Bug.

“Call me if you need anything brother.”

“Thanks Bigfoot. I’ll write.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 Paul gave him a wry smile. “Don’t have much of a choice. Mom accumulated a lot of bills.  Selling the property took care of most of that.”

Allan shook his head sadly. He had hoped that God was providing a way for Paul to stay in school. Through the tragedy of his mother’s death, Paul inherited the property and the old shack on the bayou. At least he could sell it and have enough money to stay in school. Paul had thought the same thing until he met with the lawyer.

“Mr. Morgan, I realize you have been financially strapped for some time. I have some papers here that you need to sign. Maybe it will help.”

“What papers, Mr. Johnson?”

 The old lawyer handed over a short stack of documents. “Your property on the bayou covers two acres. It won’t bring much, but according to your father’s will, it’s all yours upon the death of your mother.”

Paul looked over the deed. Over the years, he and his mother had just enough to eat. It never occurred to him that his father had put any money he had into buying the land.

“I never really paid attention to family business,” said Paul. “This was something I did not expect.”

 Mr. Johnson folded his hands and squinted at him through thick bifocals. “The sale of this property will take care of my expenses and perhaps buy you the rest of your schooling. You’re a senior, right?”

“Yes sir,” Paul said quietly.

He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A senior. He could start his senior year in the fall. Then he was brought back to earth sharply.

“Of course your mother owes a lot of money for medical bills,” said Johnson. “And there’s money she owes the Arcadian Loan Company.”

Paul looked out the window and saw his battered blue Volkswagen. It had been a Christmas present that his mother surprised him with two years before. He wondered how she’d been able to pay for it. Now he knew. The Arcadian Loan Company.

“How much does she owe, Mr. Johnson?”

It was a long list of medications, hospital stays and of course, the payments on the car. When all was said and done, Paul had a little over five hundred dollars in the bank. That was all. He’d hit a financial dead end. As soon as the business was taken care of, he walked over to West Street where the Marine recruiter was.

He drove back to Sparta to spend a week with Allan and the guys. Allan, who had half a semester before earning a Bible degree, had a pending mission assignment in Taiwan.

“If you go to Vietnam, we’ll almost be neighbors,” he joked. Paul stamped the cigarette out at Allan’s shoe. “Hey! These loafers cost me ten bucks at Shop-Mart.”

“Yeah, we’ll be neighbors, Bigfoot. Maybe we can switch places. My rifle for your Bible.”

“You’d make a good missionary Paul. You’re likable, you have a working knowledge of the Bible despite your agnosticism, and you have clean fingernails.” 

Paul chucked his pudgy friend on the arm. “Maybe I’ll get some R&R and visit you. Have Theresa set up an extra cot for me.”

Allan’s fiancée, Theresa, had applied for mission studies too. Paul thought they were an unbeatable team. Allan was peppy, energetic, full of optimism. Theresa was practical, smart and had a true love for God. She was a natural teacher and Paul knew that Allan was in good hands.

When Paul said his good-byes, Allan stopped him before he got to his Volkswagen. “Here’s the dollar I owe you.” Allan handed him a crisp, new bill.

“What’s this for?”

“You paid for Theresa’s burger and fries that time I was short.”

“Burgers don’t cost that much, even with a large drink and fries.”

“Interest,” explained Allan.

“Interest,” Paul laughed softly. Then he looked at Allan. “You’re so scared of going to hell, you wouldn’t lie about anything.”

“See ya, brother,” said Allan as he turned and trotted back towards the dorm. He didn’t want Paul to see his tears.

During basic training, Paul was buying cigarettes at the PX. He found the crisp dollar bill Allan had given him and was about to hand it to the lady at the counter. Then he saw the message written in blue ink across the “ONE” on the bill. “KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU” was scribbled under the heading, “IN GOD WE TRUST”. He stuffed the bill in his boot. He planned on paying that dollar back to Allan in person after his tour of duty.

Now, in the night with an unseen enemy slowly creeping towards him, Paul thought about that dollar bill and the message on it. It was still stuffed in his boot. Keep Christ Near You, he thought. With all of the Bible courses he’d been forced to take, with all the mandatory chapel services he’d endured, Paul Morgan still couldn’t accept Jesus as his savior. To him, God existed, but in what form? Exactly how did God work through His human creations?

The answers did not come. He could only sit there in the dark little village, waiting for the onslaught.

Even though it wasn’t unexpected, Paul’s heart was in his throat when the flare lit up the night.

“In coming!” screamed a voice to his right. It was Slovinksi. There were bursts of gunfire coming from the dense jungle. I can hear them, he thought, but I’ll never see it coming. As the flare lit up the sky, Slovinski screamed, “Over there!”

Straight ahead were about twenty of the enemy charging their position. Paul held in the panic and carefully aimed at a black clad figure. Make every shot count.

With each recoil of his M-16, he tried to breathe and stay in a cadence. One down, two down, they were coming fast!

“I’m out!” cried Bobby. A chill ran down Paul’s back. Bobby was out of ammo.

“Me too!” echoed Cline.

Just as the flare died, Paul thought he spotted two dead bodies on the other side of the crumbling wall that protected him. They were from his platoon and had ammo on them. Paul tossed his ammo belt to Bobby. “Cover me!” Without waiting, Bobby sprayed the area while Paul scrambled over the wall.

Now that he was exposed, Paul worked quickly, grabbing bandoleers and grenades off the dead. He heard a couple of bullets thump into the body he was working on.

“Heads up!”  Brown and Slovinsky yelled simultaneously. Paul looked up and saw a figure rushing up to him. He frantically reached for a grenade and pivoted to the right. The Viet Cong soldier stumbled and Paul whacked him on the back of the neck with the grenade. A knife slashed back at him, catching him on the brow. The Asian’s face was young and full of hatred as he jabbed the crude knife at Paul’s stomach. Then the enemy combatant’s head exploded.

“Got him!” yelled Bobby. 

Paul skittered back to the wall. He couldn’t feel the cut on his brow, but blood was blinding his right eye. He tossed a pack to Cline.

“We’ve got to hold them off!” 

Another flare went up. Paul felt like he was in a fish bowl. Another torrent of chills ran down his back when he saw about a hundred VC charging towards the wall.

There was a bone-shattering roar. A bullet knocked Paul on his back. He felt a hot poker jabbing deep into his shoulder. He looked up at the moon. He felt he could reach up and touch it.

Everything went white and Paul felt two iron spikes behind his eyeballs, stabbing to get out.

The medical unit was a disaster scene. Every able-bodied man was moving gurneys in and out, depending on the state of the victim. Among the screaming and moaning, nurses and other personnel tried to cope with the onslaught of the wounded and dying. The smell of blood was everywhere.

Over in the corner was a young Marine with blood coming out of his ear. A grenade had exploded near him, sending his body into a tree. The brain damage had regressed him to another time and place as he cried out, “Momma!”

Paul Morgan lay on a cot, his body riddled with shrapnel. A shard of wood from a Banyan tree protruded out of his stomach. A bullet was buried in his shoulder. His uniform was soaked in blood. His skin was seared and blackened by a large dose of napalm.

The medics had not gotten to him yet. They were working double time to stop the blood spurting out of a soldier’s chest. On a cot next to him, a priest stood over Bobby, administering last rites.

“We need more morphine over here!” someone shouted.

“I’ve got a chest wound, I need a hand here!” shouted someone else.

The Captain with his arm in a sling entered the tent, shaking his head. “What a mess. This is insanity.” 

A lieutenant followed him into the tent. “We have heavy casualties sir.”

“Any word on who gave the order?”

“No sir. When they called it in, they didn’t know we had friendlies in the area.” 

The Captain gave a bitter laugh. “Probably saved some lives in the bargain. They should probably give the stupid fool a medal.” He gave the lieutenant a look between humor and anguish. “Full of irony in a lot of napalm.” The lieutenant nodded, not taking his eyes off the chaos in the tent. The Captain motioned with his good arm.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Let the doctors do their job.” They left.

Phen Ho was an intern in Long Binh. His own heart problems had kept him out of the South Vietnamese Army, but as a patriot, he wanted to serve. He was glad he didn’t have to kill men, and working in the field to save lives was “right up his alley” as the American doctor told him.

The short, pudgy Phen walked up to the cot that held Sgt. Paul Morgan. The soldier had deep punctures through his body. A bullet wound seeped from his shoulder. Half his face had been burnt to a crisp.  Paul’s’eyelids were trying to flutter open.

“Ah, this one’s still alive,” he said to no one in particular. It’s not likely that anyone who heard him would have understood him. The young intern’s French was far superior to his English. In flowing Vietnamese, he ordered a medic over for an IV set up. When the Asian medic saw Paul, he shook his head. In equal fluid Vietnamese, he spoke to Phen.

“We’ll waste precious drugs on this one. He’ll die soon.”

“He’s waking up. I need morphine now. He’s going to be in great pain.” The medic reluctantly handed Phen some morphine and started setting up an IV unit. “We must relieve all of the suffering that we can.” A corporal was brought in with a bullet next to his spine. He was screaming God’s name, but it was lost among the frantic voices of medics and victims alike in the noisy tent.

Phen touched Paul’s forehead. He continued to speak in Vietnamese. “Be still my friend. Be at peace.” There was a low hum in the darkness. Paul could hear voices that seemed far away. Where was he?

A cool hand was touching his brow. While he knew a few words in Vietnamese, Paul couldn’t speak it or understand it. Yet, the words came to him as clear as water.

“Be at peace.”

Like a train coming out of a tunnel toward the light, Paul opened his eyes. There was movement in his blurred vision.

Phen stood over the dying soldier. He continued to speak to him softly in Vietnamese.

“I’ve administered morphine. You will feel no pain.” As Phen spoke, Paul was hearing a different voice, speaking to him in English. “Don’t be afraid, Paul. I am near.” Paul’s eyes focused on the figure standing over him as the blur melted away. The face he saw wasn’t Phen Ho. It was…

“Save me,” Paul whispered. 

Phen motioned to the medic with the IV. He put a stethoscope on Paul’s chest and listened.

“I can save him,” said Phen.

Paul was not aware of the medical attention he was getting. He didn’t feel the IV or the fire balm being applied. He didn’t realize that skillful hands now used a scalpel to cut the shrapnel embedded in his body. All he saw was the face of Jesus. All he heard was the voice that seemed to come from a deep well in the sky.

“Be at peace, Paul. I am here. I am always with you.”

Instantly, the face of Christ disappeared and the low hum exploded into the wailing in the tent and the doctor standing over him, shouting instructions in Vietnamese to the nurse.

“He’s going to live! Yes, we’re going to save a life today! Phen was jubilant. As he worked quietly on the soldier on the cot, part of him was speaking to God…Thank you Lord, for giving me the skills and working through my hands to save this life.

Phen, a former Buddhist, had accepted Jesus two years before when his sister took him to her missionary friends. Phen’s sister taught Sunday school at a church in Saigon and he was grateful that she had led him to God. This was one of those defining moments for him. He felt a connection to this bleeding Marine. It was like a voice was somewhere behind him saying, “Save him, save him.” And Phen’s skillful hands were doing just that.

CHAPTER SIX - JOSH SMYTHE 1970

Juan Ramone Garcia ran a hand through his short, salt and pepper hair. His eyes were dark and intense as he relayed the story to Josh. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to throw the baby to the firemen below and go back in for the mother. That building was going to collapse at any moment.”

“What about a net?” Josh asked quietly.

“There was no time for a net. And I was going on instinct when I went back into the smoke.”

Juan leaned back in the canvass chair, his mind’s eye seeing the apartment fire twenty years before.

“I found her huddled in the kitchen with their dog. The smoke had overcome the dog. Although the fire hadn’t reached her, the heat had burned her upper arm.” Juan gave Josh a warning look. “Don’t believe what you see in the movies, when the guy runs through the burning building to save the heroine. The heat and smoke is enough to kill you before the flames hit.” 

 Josh shook his head in awe. “What did you do?” 

Juan was deep in thought. It was like he was choosing his words carefully. “I immediately picked her up. She was in shock.” Suddenly Juan laughed. “She wouldn’t let go of that dog, so I carried them both to the open window.”

“That must have been real scary.” 

Juan furrowed his brow, remembering what had happened. “I prayed to God to give me strength. A fireman does a lot of praying. I think sometimes, that firemen are closer to God than preachers.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Josh as he scribbled that last line on a piece of paper. “I can use that in the scene where I comfort the little girl.” Josh looked up from his notes. “So you saved the woman and the dog?” 

Juan shook his head. “I held them at the open window. By now, they had the net out. Just as I jumped, a gas line exploded. I was knocked off the window and hit the ledge that was two stories down. It broke my arm and punctured a lung.

“That’s terrible,” Josh sympathized.

“The mother was not so lucky. She hit her head on the ledge and was killed instantly.” Josh kept his eyes on his notepad. Juan ran a hand through his hair again. “We did revive the dog.”

“That was some story Mr. Garcia.”

“Just one of many,” Juan said quietly.

They were on the set of “Motor City Fireman”. It was Juan Garcia’s story of his years with the Detroit Fire Department. Josh’s long, black hair was now a short crew cut like Juan’s. He looked trim and fit in the khaki fireman’s uniform. He was playing the role of Juan and had spent the last three weeks with the retired fire captain.

In the last four years, Josh’s movie career had been a skyrocket. Nominated for two Oscars, he’d gained the reputation as a solid character actor, not just a pretty face. For the role of Juan, he had the make up person duplicate on his cheek and above his eyes, the ugly scars that were on Juan’s face.

His lack of vanity had earned respect in the Hollywood acting community. When he played a real life supreme court justice in the film, “Halls of Justice”, he gained forty pounds and had age makeup add jowls under his well sculptured cheeks and bags under his eyes. He adopted the deep, gravely voice of the judge.

When he was cast as Juan Garcia in “Motor City Fireman”, Josh started lifting weights and added five more miles to his jogging regimen. He laid off the cocaine and watched his diet. Scouring old pictures of Juan, he had his hair cut to the short crew cut and studied the scars on his face.

Josh enrolled in a training program with rookie firemen. He insisted that there would be no star treatment, and he learned a lot about fire fighting techniques and the equipment they used.

The only experience he couldn’t participate in was fighting a real fire. Josh argued this point with Lyle Cox, the producer. They were having lunch at a trendy eatery on Wilshire.

“Come on, Lyle. I’m in better shape than half of those old geezers on the ladder truck. And in my tests, I scored as high as most of the rookies.”

 Lyle munched thoughtfully on his chicken salad. “No Josh. We couldn’t get insurance on you for such a stunt. I don’t want you near any real fires.”

 Josh folded his arms and gave the pouty look of a child. “I’ve worked very hard for this Lyle.”

“For what? To burn into a crisp, because you have this macho thing going?” 

It was true. Spending time with the firemen, Josh had developed a lot of confidence and the tough mindset of a fire fighter. These men were like military. They were proud, hard headed, had big egos, didn’t compromise on arguments and had a healthy dose of self-sacrifice. They were solid men. Men people could depend on. All of this was absorbed into Josh’s acting psyche.

“I really think it would add a touch of realism if I went into a building and met the fire face to face,” argued Josh.

“You would die, Josh,” Lyle replied. “Don’t pull this hero stuff on me.”  Lyle held up his glass at a waiter, who dutifully strode over and re-filled it.

“Could I talk to Solomon about it?”

“Sure. Solomon will tell you the same thing. His job is to keep you alive. You get burned and put into the hospital, the studio loses millions. That’s what Solomon knows. But you can talk to him.”

Josh scooped up some caviar and stuffed it in his mouth. Lyle was right. Solomon Branch, the stunt coordinator, wouldn’t help him. His assistant, Judd Wagner wouldn’t help either. Maybe he could offer Simon, who was his stunt double twenty-five thousand dollars to trade places when they shoot the climatic warehouse fire. Who knew the difference between Josh Smythe and an anonymous stuntman once you put on all of that gear and gas masks? Of course Josh would somehow get his face seen so people would know it was him.

“And Judd, C.J., Simon and all the others will tell you the same thing as Solomon,” said Lyle, reading Josh’s thoughts. “Safety first.”

 Josh held up his hands. “Okay, okay, but think of the millions of dollars of publicity the studio would get if people knew I’d fought a real fire.”

The men ate in silence. Josh had stretched the role of Juan Garcia as far as he could. He was already committed to his next picture, “Rodeo Clown”. Maybe the producer on that one would let him actually distract a charging bull, threatening a fallen rider?

When he got to his Malibu beach house, all Josh wanted was a hot soak in the spa. “Motor City Fireman” had been grueling, but he was proud of the work. There was just two scenes left to shoot and before “Rodeo Clown”, he was going to take six weeks off.

Before he could get to his spa, Josh noticed the pungent smell of marijuana coming from the bedroom. Cynthia had gotten into his stash.

“Cynthia!”

At the top of the staircase, a door opened. “You’re home early,” came a groggy voice from the bedroom. Josh trotted up the stairs. Cynthia’s haggard face peeked at him through the crack in the bedroom door. How could he ever have thought she was pretty?

“What’s going on? You’re not supposed to smoke my stuff, Cynthia.” Her eyes had the drugged glaze he had seen so many times before.

“I just needed a little hit.” She walked away from the door and Josh entered the room. Cynthia flopped on the bed and pulled the covers over her. At the foot of the bed was a short table. On the table was a razor blade and a couple of lines of cocaine.

“You got into my coke?” Josh felt his temper rise. Cocaine wasn’t just expensive; this had been the best stuff he’d ever snorted. “What are you doing?! You know you’re not supposed to touch my supply.” 

She lazily gestured to the master bathroom. “It’s not yours. I got it from Johnny.”

A young man came out of the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. He looked like he was high. Johnny gave Josh a bright smile.

“Hey man, I’ve seen you in the movies. You’re a famous dude.” Johnny staggered over to Cynthia. “Hey baby, you didn’t tell me you were shacking up with a movie star. That is far out.”

 Josh’s eyes were burning holes through Cynthia. “Where did you get the money?”

 Johnny backed up against the bathroom door. “Hey man, it’s cool. I brought the stuff over.”

Unconscious of the “Juan” gesture he’d fostered, Josh ran a hand over his crew cut. He glared at Cynthia. “Get out Cynthia. And take Juicy Fruit with you.”

Josh stalked out of the room. He wasn’t surprised about Cynthia. She was just like the others. He had played this scene before with Monique, Carmen and Amy.

The hot tub was forgotten. Josh pulled on some trunks and jumped into the pool. He swam five, vigorous laps, working off the anger. It seemed like all those gorgeous women in his life wanted to use him. They were all so selfish.

He had a successful career. He was admired all around the world. Why did he have so much trouble with women? They were shallow for one thing. And they didn’t understand him.

He hoisted himself out of the pool and dripped over to the cabana bar. Having sworn off drugs and drinking for the duration of the film, he poured an orange juice. Then he added some vodka. Why not? The filming of “Motor City Fireman” was almost over.

Josh plopped down on the lounge chair and watched the sun sink into the west, over the Pacific. He heard Johnny leave and waited for Cynthia. After a half-hour, he went back upstairs to check on her. Johnny had scooped up the cocaine off the table. Josh looked at the lump under the covers with disgust.

“Okay Cynthia, let’s go.” The lump didn’t move. He pulled the covers back. “Out Cynthia!  Now!” Her eyes were closed and she was in a fetal position. Josh felt her pulse. It was weak. He cursed. This was all he needed. 

“Thanks a lot,” he said to the comatose girl. 

He wearily ambled over to the telephone to call an ambulance. It was too bad she was still breathing. He could have used the CPR technique he’d learned at the fire academy.

                                         CHAPTER FIVE-JUDD WAGNER                                                     

                  “The fool says in his heart there is no God…”

        Psalms 14:1

The Pacifica Building-1971. The black man paced frantically on the roof of the old red brick building. Flames were licking over the edge, threatening to consume him within the next minute. He looked panicked as he dropped the bag full of money. Bills of twenties, fifties, and hundreds blew everywhere, littering the roof and the street below.

On the roof were some building supplies. In a long, cardboard box he found fiberglass poles about nine feet in length. He grabbed one of the poles and gripped it tightly. This was his only chance.

Taking one end of the pole, he dashed towards the building’s ledge. Would the pole break, or would it bend enough to vault him over the alley to the other building? It was a twenty-foot gap and a fifteen-story drop.

When the pole caught on the concrete ledge, the man flew into the air just as the burning building exploded. Bricks and glass shot out after him as he let go of the pole. He landed roughly on the roof of the other building and rolled to lessen the impact. He lay there for a moment until he heard the command from the bullhorn.

“Cut!” yelled the director.

Everyone in the helicopter who had witnessed the stunt applauded. The man on the roof got up and took a long, theatrical bow as the special effects crew put the fire out of the “burning” building.

When he got back to street level, Judd Wagner waved at the applause of the crew. Solomon Branch, the stunt coordinator walked up to him and shook his hand. “Great Judd, just great.  Lyle is very pleased.” 

Lyle Cox was the producer. He stepped off the copter and trotted up to the two men. “Judd…unbelievable. You are the King.”

A lighting man walked up to Judd and patted him on the shoulder. “Great stunt,” he said.

“Gag,” smiled Judd. “Stunts are called gags.”

“Yeah, it was a great gag too.”

“Thanks Mr. Cox, but Solomon here designed the gag.” 

Solomon waved him off. “Yeah, but my old knees are like wet, soggy crackers.”

“How are you feeling Judd?” Cox asked. “It looked like you landed pretty hard.”

 Judd tapped his well-padded chest piece. “I sewed in some extra padding. My shoulder took most of it, but that’s where I had my most protection.” Then Judd held up his hand, revealing a compound fracture on his index finger. “I kind of broke my finger though.” Cox blanched at the hideous sight. 

Solomon took Judd’s injured hand gently. “That doesn’t hurt?”

“Only where the bone is sticking out,” Judd Wagner replied.

“You must be in shock.”

“No man. I’m tough,” bragged Judd.

As Solomon pulled Judd towards the honey wagon, he spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Send Doc Wilson to the honey wagon. Judd’s got a busted finger.”

The director who had stayed in the helicopter with the cinematographer leaped out and headed towards Judd and Solomon.

“Great work guys, I…” he saw the blood and bone coming out of Judd’s finger and like the producer, turned white.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve alerted the doc,” said Solomon. 

Cox followed them towards the honey wagon. “If the doc sends you to the hospital, I’m putting you up in a private room.”

 Solomon turned to him. “We’ll probably go to the emergency room. I know everybody there on the staff personally.”

When they got to the honey wagon, Doc Wilson was waiting for them.

“I keep patching you guys up and you keep busting bones.”

“You don’t want our business?” joked Solomon.

“I would just like to get through one picture, dying of boredom.” Doc took Judd’s hand and gingerly felt the finger.

“Ow! Now that hurts!” cried Judd.

“You’re a tough bird, Judd. Did you do it without a net?” Solomon nodded to the two buildings that were a block away. A net had been strung between the buildings near the top floors. If Judd had fallen, he would have dropped ten feet into the net. It was painted the same shade as the asphalt in the alley so it wouldn’t show up in the shot.

“We always use the net, Doc. We’re stuntmen, not dare devils.”

“Sometimes, I can’t tell the difference,” said Doc. 

Jimmy, the prop man walked up to Judd and put a hand on his shoulder. “You are the best black stuntman in the business.” 

Judd’s handsome features lit up. “And you are the best white prop man in the business.” Jimmy blushed. Judd saw his opening for another shot. “And now you’re the best “red” prop man in the business.”  Jimmy’s blush deepened.

“I meant…I think you’re the best. Black or white.” 

Doc gestured towards the waiting van. “As the best part-Welsh, part-Lithuanian doctor in the business, I’d prefer to get you over to the hospital before I do much to you.”

“Lead the way, Doc,” said Judd.

The stunt business had changed since 1962. At least it had changed for the minority stuntmen. More black actors were getting parts, which meant more work for guys like Judd. Back in ’62, Judd was in his third and last year with the Los Angeles Rams. He was a serviceable running back who had respectable rushing yards, but nothing spectacular. At six feet and a hundred and ninety-five pounds, his physic was perfect. His body fat was next to zero.  He had speed and coordination, but then so did all of the other backs in the NFL. Judd had football talent, but he knew he would never win Most Valuable Player or go to the Hall of Fame.

In his years with the Rams, he met several movie stars. Because of his good looks, they encouraged him to pursue an acting career.

“I think Sidney Poitier has all the black man roles sewn up,” was Judd’s stock reply.

It was true. After you got past Poitier, Sammy Davis Jr. and Woody Strode, the pickings were slim.

Growing up in Mississippi during the war gave Judd plenty of opportunity to experience the prejudices and hatred towards people of his color. A cousin of his had been lynched one Halloween in the late 1940’s. Judd’s father, a poor sharecropper, suffered the indignity of being sent to the back of the line at the feed store until the whites were served.

It could have made Judd bitter. But Judd was a fighter. He believed in himself and he was determined to have a better life. He was determined that society would not dictate where his place was supposed to be. In 1954, Rosa Parks showed him that a correct civil disobedience could go a long way.  Nine years later, Dr. King inspired him to search within himself…to depend on himself and not others to make the changes that were needed.

In 1966, another cousin joined The Black Panthers. When he tried to get Judd to join, Judd told him, “No thanks. I don’t need a group. I’m my own leader.”

During the 1960’s, there was a black film community, but it was invisible. Judd made a few films for Billy Hawkins, a pioneer in Negro cinema since the 1930’s. Like Poitier, Judd had the looks, but unlike Poitier, he didn’t have the talent. His line delivery was wooden. Hawkins chalked it up to inexperience, but by the time they were filming “Slum Jungle”, it was evident that Judd’s talents lay elsewhere.

One day after a particularly trying scene, Hawkins took Judd aside.

“Hey man, the camera really loves your looks, but your acting just isn’t taking.” 

Judd lowered his head. “I know Hawk. I’ve been watching the rushes. I only have one emotion…” Judd held out his arms and gave him a bright, friendly smile. “…Happiness and optimism.” 

Hawkins gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, but unfortunately, you’re playing a dope addict suffering withdrawals. You look like you’ve got a minor stomach ache.” 

Judd’s smile faded. “You’ve been good to me, Hawk. I know I’ve had more than one chance. And I think I could get this acting thing down. Maybe there’s some place where I could take an acting class.”

 Hawkins shook his head. “Maybe, but I need an actor now.”

“I understand,” Judd replied solemnly.

“Don’t get down on yourself, man. I might have something for you.” Hawkins called over to his assistant. “Maudie, get me Howell Green’s number.”

“Howell Green?” Judd’s eyes lit up. “I know that name. He’s an agent. A big agent.”

 Hawk shook his head. “No. Howell Green is a stuntman. He’s been a stand-in for Paul Robeson and Woody Strode. You’re an athletic young man. Howell’s getting pretty old and he could use a protégé.”

The Stuntman’s Association was a pretty tight group. Just like cinematographers, art directors, and the other guilds, one practically had to be born into the profession. Even whites had trouble breaking the show biz career barrier. With the odds against him, Judd started training with Howell Green. It was three long years before Judd got his break.

January 1964. The New Year’s party had long ended. The sparse apartment was adorned with whiskey bottles, confetti and a sign reading “Happy 1964” was drooping over the threadbare sofa. Judd lay on the bed in the next room and moaned as the hangover began to throb through his numb body.

The ringing of the phone sounded like a fire bell as it crackled through his brain. He reached over the sleeping girl and felt for the screaming instrument.

“Hello?” he answered sleepily.

“Judd, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” came the voice on the other end.

“I’ve been partying. I thought they unplugged the phone last night.” Judd’s mind was a raging roller coaster. No one had unplugged it. No one cared to answer it during the wild evening of the night before. Then it dawned on him. 

“Who is this?” he asked.

“It’s Howie. You sound wasted.”

“No, just hung over.”

“That’s what I meant. Listen man, I got you a gig.”

“What?”

“A gig. A big one. You are going to be on the stunt team for “Titus”.”  Judd’s head was spinning. Some of it was the liquor, but this news was sobering him up.

“”Titus”? For real? I’m doing some gags for “Titus”?”

“Titus” was a gladiator film to end all gladiator films. It was twice the budget of “Spartacus” and had an all star cast. Eighty-five percent of the film was to be shot in Rome. Best of all, there were several key roles to be played by black actors and in such an action packed film, black stuntmen were at a premium.

“Get going, Judd. The studio has you on the one ‘o clock flight to Rome.”

Brock Peters, Ossie Davis and a young actor named James Earl Jones had prominent parts in “Titus” with Yul Brynner playing the title role. Judd was part of an experienced team of stuntmen led by the jovial Solomon Branch. Judd, a virtual rookie, impressed Solomon with his muscular physique and quick moves during the gladiator sequence.

The best impression was made halfway through the film when Solomon approached Judd with a very dangerous stunt. After a long day of filming, Solomon found him in his hotel room.

“How’re ya doing Wagner?”

“I’m fine Sol. I love Rome.”

 Solomon walked over to the picture window that looked out over the blinking neon lights and fountains. “It’s a beautiful city. I was here in ’58, working on “Ben Hur”.”

“That must have been an experience. Did you meet Charleton Heston?”

“Sure.”

The usual jocular Solomon was being serious. What was on his mind? 

Judd gestured towards the chair by his desk. “Have a seat, Sol.” Solomon sat down and remained silent. “Can I ring for a drink?” offered Judd.

“Oh, uh, no thanks…listen Judd…I’ll lay it on the line. Willie broke his leg tonight.” Willie Markham was James Earl Jones’ stunt double.

“Oh no, what happened?

 Solomon’s face was a mixture of helplessness and disgust. “The fool was trying to impress that little Italian firebrand he’s been seeing. He took a walk out on the 3^rd floor ledge.” 

Judd couldn’t believe it. “He fell? Willie fell?”

“It was thirty five feet to the pavement, but he was lucky. The canopy at the entrance broke his fall.” 

Judd took a seat on the edge of his bed. “He’s the luckiest, unlucky guy I ever saw.”

 Solomon waved him off. “The thing is, we’re shooting James Earl Jones in the arena tomorrow.  Willie was supposed to fight the lion.” 

Then it dawned on Judd. “You want me to fight the lion.”

 Solomon took a deep breath. “The lion is well trained and the handlers will be just off camera to maintain control. The gag pays eight hundred dollars.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’re inexperienced, but you’re a good physical match for Jones. Steve or Harris could do it, but Steve is as small as a horse jockey and Harris is as big as a horse. It would be obvious that it wasn’t Jones. I like your skills. You take direction well, Judd, but despite the trainer’s presence, you’re still dealing with a wild animal. Even if the lion liked you, one playful swipe could take an eye out, or an arm off…or it could just plain kill you.” Judd mulled this over. Solomon continued. “I can’t make you do it Judd. But if you do, it will save the company about fifty thousand dollars.” 

Judd smiled. “Maybe I should ask for fifty thousand to do the job.”

“If it were up to me, that’s what I’d pay you. Unfortunately, I need to get your answer now. They’re waiting to see if they need to shoot something else tomorrow.”

Judd clasped his hands together. In the cold, air conditioned room, he was suddenly sweating. Solomon leaned forward in the chair. “Listen kid. I’ve wrestled bears and cougars. I even fought a gorilla once in a Tarzan picture. Dealing with animals, I’ve had my arm broken twice, my right knee sprained and my nose broken three times. And that’s lucky.” Solomon let that sink in before he spoke once more. “With animals, you don’t have a lot of control. I’d rather jump out of a plane, drive a car down an embankment into a wall, or dash through a burning building. I just want to lay this all out for you so you can make an informed decision.” 

Judd nodded. “I appreciate that Sol. I truly do.” Judd unclasped his hands and gave a sharp clap. “Okay, I’m in. Let’s do it.”

Solomon’s face relaxed with relief. “Thanks kid. I won’t forget this.”

“Better not. I plan to be around for a long time.”

 Solomon stood up and shook his hand. “Get some sleep. You have a five a.m. call.”

When Judd got to the set, Remy, the wrangler and Norton C. the trainer, took him over to meet Hercules. The lion was in his cage, gnawing on a leg of lamb.

“He’s eating now, but in an hour we’ll go through some simple gags. Hercules growls on cue, slashes out with either paw, stands on your shoulders and wrestles.”

 Judd eyed the beast. “Do you tranquilize him?” 

Norton C. shook his head. “The vet put some stuff in his food, but it’s rather mild. Hercules needs to be alert to follow instructions. We did give him a big breakfast so your arm won’t look too tempting.” Judd’s eyes grew wide.  Remy and Norton C. shared a smile.

 Remy slapped Judd on the shoulder. “Don’t worry Judd, I’ve got two of the best rope men in the business. Norton here will notice if there’s anything wrong and he’ll signal a stop if needed.”

“Ropes? Can’t you shoot him with a tranquilizer?” Judd asked.

Remy shook his head. “If we put Hercules out, we’ll lose shooting time waiting for him to recover.” Judd hoped that the ropers would have good reflexes.

It took two days to get the choreographed fight on film. Judd made friends with Hercules and even fed him some meat at the end of the second day. They brought James Earl Jones in for close ups with a fake lion, and the producer gave Judd a bonus check for his fine work.

“You did good, son. I’ll have Solomon give you a call when I make “The 154^th”. It’s a Civil War picture.”

Judd thanked the producer and headed back to the hotel. His reputation was gold.

1971 saw a plethora of what would later be called “Blaxploitation Films”. They featured blacks in super detective modes. They were not taken seriously, but “Shaft” and “Super Fly” proved to be box office hits. Judd was getting more work than he needed. By 1974, the genre was disappearing, but he got work on a movie called “Ebony Blues”. It was about a cool private eye, part Philip Marlowe, part Shaft. The money was good and his reputation as a top-notch stuntman was rocketing. “Ebony Blues” had the makings of a mega-hit.

It was during a pivotal scene on the sound stage when he saw the beautiful woman standing by the assistant director.

Judd was having his head dunked in a vat of water by the star. On this particular day, he was doubling for Ron Harper who was playing the villain. As his head came out of the water, he could see the young woman whispering to the A.D. She was watching him intently.

“Cut!” yelled the director. “That’s a print. Good work guys.”

The director went over to talk to the star as the crew quickly moved to the next set up. The makeup lady handed Judd a towel. The woman was now standing by herself, near the camera.  Judd walked up to her.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked, referring to the scene just shot. She casually looked him over. Her eyes were like almonds; her coffee-shaded skin gave him visions of Cleopatra. Her afro-styled hair had a bright tint of red highlights.

“I enjoyed watching Neil push your head under water.”

 Judd rubbed his head vigorously with the towel. “What do you have against a poor working man?”

“You play the villain don’t you?”

“No. Ron Harper plays the villain. I only play the villain when he gets shot and falls down a flight of stairs or has his head dunked into a vat of water.”

Without asking, the young woman took the towel and swabbed his face. “That didn’t look like a dangerous stunt. Why didn’t they let Mr. Harper do it?”

“The director doesn’t want Ron’s make up to get messed up. Besides, I can hold my breath longer than Ron can. When you want it done right, you call a stuntman.” 

She pursed her lips, which he found very attractive. “Have you ever jumped out of a flaming car before it ran off a cliff?” she asked.

“A couple of times. In all modesty, with as much humility as I can humbly tell you…I am the best in Hollywood.” 

She laughed. “So, Stuntman, are you afraid of a flaming cup of coffee at the commissary?”

“If the commissary’s coffee is hot, that would be a stunt.”

 She took his arm. “Then let’s go.”

The commissary was loud and packed with an assortment of actors in various costumes. Judd led her to a long table full of cowboys.

“John Wayne is shooting today,” said Judd as he held a chair for her.

“Have you ever worked with him?” she asked.

“No. I did a spaghetti with Eastwood. There’s not a huge call for black cowboys.” Judd waved at one of the young men who wore a black Stetson. “Hey man, you look good in that hat. It looks natural.” The actor smiled and gave him a thumb’s up. Judd set the tray of coffee and donuts down. He nodded towards the actor. “I can’t remember his name, but he’s trying to get in the stuntman’s union. He’s got some talent.” Judd’s face screwed up in concentration as he tried to think of the cowboy’s name. “Jerry somebody…I think.”

“Are you a coordinator?”

 He shook his head. “I don’t want the responsibility. I’m sort of the lone wolf type.”

“As long as you’re not a wolf.”

“How do you know that I’m not.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “Because I’m a great judge of people.”

“Is that what you do for a living?”

 She took his hand and turned it palm up. “Yes, I’m a psychic. I can tell your deepest desires.  I know what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

 She shut her eyes, squinting in the direction of his face. “I see a deep question in our future.” She opened one eye. “Are you an Aries?” She shut the eye. “No, you’re a Leo. You are definitely a Leo.”

“Actually I’m a Judd. You’re not real good at guessing names.” 

She opened those beautiful, almond shaped eyes. “And your deep question is…you want to know my name.” 

Judd slapped his head and kicked back in his chair. “You are good.”

 She gave him a light slap on the knee. “Don’t be sarcastic.”

“No, really! That’s exactly what I was thinking. What’s your name?”

“Goldie. Goldie Hamon.”

“So Goldie, what do you do?”

“I’m a production assistant’s assistant.”

 He nodded. “Right. Glorified gopher. Very good.”

“I’m working with Leah Greenburg.” Leah Greenburg was one of the few female film directors in the business.

“So do you hope to be a director some day?” he asked.

 Her glowing face turned serious. “To be honest, I don’t know what I want to do. I just graduated from film school. I’d like to write, or maybe get into casting.”

“You’re pretty enough to be an actress.”

 She shook her head. “No talent and I’m camera shy.”

“That sounds just like me.”

“Oh, you’re shy alright.”

“No, I’m a bad actor,” he said. 

The seriousness returned to her face. “My father wants me to join the family business.”

“Uh oh, now I’m psychic,” said Judd. “I can see it clearly. Goldie, the Black Mafia Princess, starring in “The Goddaughter.” She gave him another slap on the knee. He was beginning to enjoy this.

“No silly. Dad has no Mafia connections.”

“So what’s the family business?”

“He’s a producer.”

“A movie producer? Is your daddy white? Because I don’t see any other colors producing movies. What’s his name?”

“Bretherd Hamon.” The name meant nothing to Judd.

 He shrugged. “Never heard of him. What has he produced?”

“Have you ever heard of “Road to Damascus”?” He shook his head. “How about “One Day at Calvary?” He shook his head again. “The Greatest Fisherman?”

 Judd looked like a lost child in an amusement park. “Nope. Never heard of those films.” 

As Goldie spoke, there was an edge of pride in her voice. “Those are all very popular films. They’ve played across the country.” Judd took his cup of coffee and looked into the black liquid.

“I must have missed them at the local theatre.”

 Goldie laughed. “They’re not major motion pictures. They’re evangelical films.”

“Evang…what?”

“Religious films. They’ve played in thousands of churches across the country…both black and white churches.”

Judd took a sip of his cold coffee. Religious films. He never thought about that. He’d seen “The Ten Commandments” and “King of Kings”, but those types of films were few and far between. And the trend in Hollywood was moving away from such movies.

“I suppose there’s money in it,” he said.

“Of course. But more important, they bring the message of Jesus to many people.”  Judd was treading unfamiliar waters. His parents had been Baptists. He dutifully went to church, but as soon as he went to college, he dropped God out of his life.

Judd really liked Goldie. He felt comfortable with her. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized that this Christian young woman had actually picked him up! And while they were obviously attracted to each other, where could their relationship go? He could accept her Christianity, but how would she react when he told her that he was an atheist?

CHAPTER FOUR-SENTA BERGSTROM

Orange County Auditorium 1971

“Senta Bergstrom!”

Senta took her feet off the seat in front of her and strode down the aisle. The auditorium was full of actors, singers and dancers, but a quiet tension pervaded the huge room. The director was looking at Senta’s resume and whispered something to the stage manager.

All eyes followed the red head as she climbed the steps to the stage. She was wearing a tee shirt with a rainbow on it, yellow pedal pushers and white stockings with red strips. While her hair was a natural red, the rest of her had an artificial sheen. Both of her blue eyes were covered with thick, black mascara.  Her cheeks had too much blush and the deep, green lipstick she wore made her mouth look too big. One of her competitors whispered to the girl next to her. “Check out Raggedy Ann.”

“I was thinking more of Ronald McDonald,” said the other girl.

Senta handed her special tryout arrangement to the pianist. The pianist looked at the material and squinted up at her. “You’ve got to be kidding.” 

Senta gave him a sly smile. “What’s the matter, you can’t play it?” she challenged.

“I can play it…can you sing it?”

“Just play it,” she sniffed as she walked to center stage.

The musical arrangement was a ninety-second medley of Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, and Billy Holiday songs. Senta had arranged it herself and the piece would display a wide range of voice talent in a short time span.

The pianist shook his head. It took a lot of gall to sing a Garland or Streisand standard, but this was too much. He wanted to laugh at this red-haired wannabe, but his curiosity got the better of him. Could she pull it off?

As the opening melody of “People” filtered out over the auditorium, Senta’s small voice started slow and sad. She had everyone’s attention. Then her voice grew strong and emotional, and as the piano played on, electricity shot through the large room.

From her viewpoint, Senta’s eyes caught the girl who had called her Raggedy Ann. She was nodding dumbly as Senta hit a high note. Her range was seven octaves. She could see their faces, frozen in awe. It was a scene she was familiar with.

And it was over before they knew it. Senta finished with a jazzy flourish in a mixture of sweetness, sadness and power of the Billie Holiday song. Her clear, even voice turned raspy, wanting, and there was not a dry eye in the house. The director, who had talked through everyone’s audition, was a statue. The pianist blinked his eyes at the girl in the heavy makeup and ridiculous outfit. And after several beats, as Senta’s voice echoed off, the applause started. People were cheering. Some even stood up.

Senta left the stage to the growing applause and an assistant rushed over to her. “Mr. Mack would like to see you.”

“Mr. Who?” she asked.

“The director.”

“Oh, him.” Senta walked over to the director’s desk. “Yeah?” He looked at her from top to bottom, nodding slowly.

“Very good, Miss Bergstrom.”

“Thanks.” He spent fifteen more seconds looking at her resume. Senta stood calmly in front of the desk with her arms to her sides.

“It says here that you were at the New England Theatre Festival.”

“Yes. For three seasons.”

“And you were at The Actors Theatre in Louisville for two more years.”  His thumb moved down her resume. “The Dallas Opera…last year was it?”

“Yes Mr. Mack.”

 He shook his head. “When I saw this resume, I didn’t believe it. I see more fiction on these things than an Arthur Hailey novel. After hearing you sing.” He shook his head in amazement. “Very good.” He looked up at her and smiled. “You’ll be hearing from us, Miss Bergstrom.”

“Thank you.”

Senta walked out of the auditorium and into the sunshine. I am on my way, she thought, as she skipped down the steps. The California Musical Company was not only a prestigious, professional theatre, but also it was a great showcase for Hollywood. Since the 1940’s, stars like Dinah Shore, Vera Ellen, Shirley Jones and Petulia Clark had gotten their starts here.

The four-block walk to the bus stop was short, because her mind was on the stardom that awaited her. The stardom that was by right, hers. It had been worth the long bus trip south to Costa Mesa where the California Musical Company was. They did eight shows a year and paid good money. Producers and directors had season’s tickets to the Company and actually used them to ferret out new talent. Should she give up her Hollywood digs and move closer to Costa Mesa? Senta mulled over her expenses. She could find a cheap place in Long Beach until the money and job offers started rolling in. She could kiss Gerald goodbye. No more working at that greasy spoon and his wandering hands.

As the bus came to the stop and she boarded, Senta didn’t realize she had a big smile on her face. She didn’t smile a lot. If she’d had the money, she would have tipped the driver. She found a seat near the back. A middle-aged cowboy looking worn as a saddle, eyed her as she sat across the aisle from him. Down Tex. You’re too old for me.

She giggled. This feeling was almost as good as the pot she had before the audition. The resume had been very effective, even if it had been a total lie.

At fourteen, Senta knew she wanted to be a singer. Tony, her stepfather said she had a very mature voice. When he and her mom had one of their frequent, wild parties, he let her sing for their drunken friends. The nightclub circuit was full of drunks it seemed. And Senta’s parents were the biggest drunks she knew. She preferred the escape that marijuana provided. A drummer had given her a blow on his “reefer” as he called it. She was eight. By nine, she was a veteran pot smoker.  She could roll ‘em, smoke ‘em and find out where the best stock on the street could be found.

Tony was a third rate saxophonist and a first class jerk. He performed a magic act with her mother as his assistant. She also sang to his saxophone accompaniment after he was finished sawing her in half. Tony sprinkled the act with low brow, vaudeville dialogue. Her mother wore a skimpy bathing suit, showing off a good figure that remained slim, thanks to a heavy ingestion of drugs. They scraped by, performing the act in sleazy dives throughout the country.

Tony taught Senta music. He encouraged her to develop her voice, which had an unusual range. She really could sing opera, but Senta preferred the sad ballads and showstoppers.

Sometimes when her mother fell into a drunken stupor, Tony frequently tried to kiss her. She didn’t like the mixture of cigarette smoke and whiskey on his breath. She hated it when he grabbed at her. He always said he was kidding around, but something in his eyes told her to keep her distance. When he was sober, he was okay. When he began to drink, she learned to get busy elsewhere.

Senta didn’t realize her talent for the longest time. One night, Tony got the crazy idea to drag Senta and her mother to a tent revival just outside of Bossier City, Louisiana. She didn’t understand the preaching, but when the gathering started to sing “Amazing Grace”, her interest was pricked. She silently scanned the hymnal, reading the music and listening to the words. On the second verse, she joined in. Her voice was sweet and soulful. People around her stopped singing and just listened to her. Senta had missed this attention since her mind was on the hymn. When it ended, she looked up and the people around her were applauding.

“That was wonderful!” cried the lady behind her. 

An older gentleman put a grandfatherly hand on her shoulder. “That was fine singing young lady. God has blessed you with an unusual talent.”

Tony winked at her. The applause was short, but it made her feel good. She noticed the revival chorus had a soloist, who had opened the meeting with a selection of hymns. And she knew where she belonged. The stage. The center of attention. The star.

The day she turned sixteen, Senta decided she would grab the center stage. They were in Steubenville, Ohio. Tony was performing at The Inferno. Senta had taken the place of her mother as his assistant during the magic act. Her mother was staying drunk longer and longer. She spent most of her time lying around their camper, sleeping it off.

Tony performed the usual tricks, sawing Senta in half, putting her in a trunk and making her disappear…mind reading. Her favorite trick was when Tony handcuffed her and put her in a huge paper bag. Then he would wrap himself in a sheet and start playing the saxophone. After a few chords, she would emerge from the sheet, continuing the saxophone number, uncuffed. Then she would lift up the big paper bag, revealing a handcuffed Tony. This always got a great reaction from the crowd.

“Hey, you did good tonight, kid,” said Tony. They were backstage in the hot, cramped dressing room. Tony was carefully taking off his cheap tuxedo. 

“The saxophone always makes that trick work,” she said. Senta was behind a dressing screen, shedding her costume.

“Maybe we can do the same gag with a trunk and two audience members holding up the sheet. What do you say kid?” Senta was silent as she pulled on some ragged jeans. “Of course we’d need the trap doors.  A lot of these cheap spots don’t have the trap doors.” Senta came out from behind the screen, buttoning up her shirt. “You sure are quiet tonight,” he said as he poured himself a scotch. “What’s bugging you?”

“I’m leaving Tony.”

He sat in a chair and wiped off the thick grease paint from his face. “Whadda ya mean?” Then he took a long swallow of scotch.

“I mean I’m headed west. Maybe Las Vegas, maybe Los Angeles.” 

He looked at her for a moment, then started laughing. “And do what? Sing for your supper?”

“Maybe I could get a job.” 

He shrugged. “You don’t even have any money.”

“I’ve got twenty dollars.”

“That’ll get you to the state line. Then what?”

Senta had packed a suitcase back at the camper and brought it to The Inferno. She took it out from behind the screen and headed for the door. “I’ll get past the state line.”

Without warning, Tony jumped up and blocked the door. His face was red. He was sweating. She could smell the scotch on his breath.

“Where are you going to go? How ya gonna eat?”

“That’s my business Tony. Could you let me pass?”

“Maybe I don’t want you to go.” His eyes were half closed and he had a funny look on his face. He was drunk. He put his hands on her shoulders. She slumped under his weight. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

“No, Tony.”

“Come on!”

“You’re hurting me,” she said evenly. His fingers dug into her shoulders. He was strong, but the alcohol made him clumsy. Senta suddenly stepped back and he lost his grip. He fell forward, hitting the floor with a dull thud. As he spoke, he kept his face to the floor.

“I love you Senta. Stay with me.”  He grabbed her ankle as she tried to hop over him towards the door.

“Let go, Tony! I mean it!”

“I love you,” he repeated pathetically. 

She was totally disgusted. “Stop it!” With that, she swung the suitcase, hitting him in the head. He let go and she made it to the door.

“Come back!” he pleaded.

As soon as she was in the parking lot, Senta’s thoughts of Tony and her mother ceased.

She hitchhiked to Kansas. Her first ride was with a salesman who told dirty jokes and tried to buy her beer at a truck stop. When she told him that she was only sixteen, he lost interest and told her she needed to get another ride.

There were a couple of other rides with the same results. It seemed like the highways were full of salesmen who wanted to get her drunk and take advantage. Just outside of Topeka, a truck driver offered her a ride west.

“How far ya going?” he asked.

“As far west as you’re going mister. Any place short of China,” she said. The man was fat, middle aged, with large hands and heavy jowls. There was a darkness under his eyes from years of long drives at night. He reminded her of that cartoon dog named Droopy. She hoped he wouldn’t try anything as she laid her suitcase behind the seat.

“I’m hauling refrigerators to Denver. That’s as far west as I go.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The flat, Kansas prairie spread out before them like a yellow blanket. There were wheat fields everywhere. Senta leaned forward, putting her hands on the dusty dashboard.

“Do you like driving these big rigs?”

“It’s okay. Been doing it for about a hundred years.”

“Does it pay much?”

“No job ever pays enough, but I get by.” She noticed a small cross, made of Pop-sickle sticks hanging from the rearview mirror. The wood was faded and slightly warped. The Pop-sickle had probably been eaten years before. The driver, whose name was Sam, noticed her looking at it. “You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s a real work of art.” Sam either missed her sarcasm or ignored it.

“My kid Jake made that about ten years ago.”

“That’s nice,” she said, feeling boredom and realizing this guy wasn’t going to make any moves on her. He was one of those Holy Rollers she’d seen sometimes outside the clubs. They were usually handing out pamphlets proclaiming salvation through Jesus. Senta shook her head to herself. What a scam.

Sam flipped the visor down on the passenger’s side. Glued to it was a photo of a dumpy woman and a young boy with glasses. The picture was fuzzy, but she was sure the kid had a bad case of acne. He looked to be about fourteen.

“That’s Jake and my wife, Bitty. Actually her name is Elizabeth, but she was always called Bitty.”

“I would hate to be called Bitty.”

 Sam laughed. “It is an odd name, but her aunt called her that when she was about two and it stuck. Bitty was the runt of the family and Bitty was short for…”

“…itty bitty,” she finished for him. Senta wanted to throw up. This guy was not for real. As his voice droned on, melding with the sound of the engine, her eyes felt heavy.

“…God?”

She had been drifting. She opened her eyes. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

 Sam’s eyes were on the road. “I said do you believe in God?” Here it came. The old pitch.

“I don’t want to offend you Sam, but I don’t believe in God, Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, in that order.” 

 He was quiet for a few moments. “I can understand that. I didn’t believe in God either. Jake and Bitty always dragged me to church when I got in from a trip.” He shook his head. “All I wanted to do was sit in my big chair and watch football. I was a tough case.”

“What changed your mind?” she asked, stifling a yawn. She was getting a free ride, might as well  pretend to show interest. 

There was a rumble and Sam pointed to the dark clouds gathering in the west. “We’re going to hit a real gully washer in a few minutes.”  Up ahead, it looked like rain. Sam was quiet, concentrating on the heavy clouds. When the first large drops hit the windshield, he answered her question. “I became a believer when Jake got sick. He was diagnosed with leukemia. Bitty and I were shattered. I mean my world collapsed. I was afraid of losing my son. I was afraid of what he might experience in death. I didn’t want him being in some cold, horrible place, alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t really know about death. I mean, I knew about death, but until Jake got sick, I hadn’t thought much about it. I had questions. Would Jake suffer? Would he be in some dark spirit world with evil beings?”

“When you die, you die,” said Senta. “There’s no joy or pain. You’re just…dead.”

 Sam nodded. “Until Jake got sick, that’s exactly what I thought. But it got me to thinking about eternity. Was there such a thing as eternal peace? Or eternal suffering?”

“So what changed you?” 

Sam squinted out at the rain and wind beating against the windshield. “Jake. He was at peace. He was so strong…much stronger than me. But he was focused on Jesus. He knew where he was going. He told me that everyone takes that step, and before they do, they make a choice of which door they’ll take after death. It can be heaven or hell. He had chosen heaven and it made him happy and at peace.”

Senta felt sorry for Sam. If he was comforted by this unseen, unproven force, more power to him. All she was worried about was getting west.

In Denver, Sam tried to give her a small Testament. “There’s a lot of answers in here, young lady.” 

She held out a hand of polite refusal. “Save it for someone else Sam. Thanks for the ride.”

She got out of the truck and headed down the street with her thumb out. Four hours of God talk made her anxious. She even hoped a salesman would pick her up. At least he wouldn’t try to save her soul.

A van of hippies picked her up outside of Denver. They were headed for a commune near Boulder. She shared some pot and hooked up with a young man named Freedom. When they reached the commune, Freedom got them some good weed and a pound of pita bread. Senta was ravenous and preferred the bread to the assorted pills that Freedom tried to give her.

She had her first sexual experience with Freedom that night. He was not like Tony, or the band members who always came on to her. He was gentle, almost shy. Senta’s only worry was getting pregnant.

Two weeks later, Freedom left the commune with a girl named Tawny. Senta felt jealous and abandoned. She knew with Freedom, it wasn’t true love. She did expect the relationship to last a little longer. Senta picked up her suitcase and headed west.

Bruce, who had driven the van, found her about two miles down the road. He pulled up beside her in the blue vehicle with flowers painted all over it. “Hey Senta, why did you leave?” 

Senta stepped up to the window. “I dunno. Now that Free’s gone, I’m on my own. Are you headed west?” 

Bruce shook his head. “Naw. I’m going to hang out at the commune a while longer. Me and Lady are going to keep on truckin’ to New Mexico.”

“Groovy,” replied Senta. She gave him the peace sign and started to walk on.

“Hey Senta, wait!” Bruce got out of the van and handed her a piece of paper. “If you get to Vegas, give this guy a call. He can set you up in a place.” On the paper were a phone number and the name, “Hooper”. “He’s a drummer. I was in a band with him back east. He can help.” 

Senta gave him a hug. “Thanks Bruce. I’ll do it.”

 He waved at her as he got back into the van. “Hang loose,” he said.

She made it to Las Vegas a few days later, tired, hungry and in need of a bath. Tracking down Hooper was a little harder than making a phone call. His number had been changed and when she dialed the new number, a man named Grogan answered.

“I’m looking for Hooper,” she said.

“He went back to Pittsburgh for a while. I’m house sitting for him.”

For the first time in her trek west, Senta realized she was out of money, had no friends and no place to live.

“Mr. Grogan, I was told that Hooper could get me a job here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a singer, but I’m willing to do anything that doesn’t require heavy lifting.” She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. It sounded like he had asthma.

“That’s a good answer. Where are you, I’ll come pick you up.”

Senta stumbled on Gary “Wildman” Grogan, the best-known pimp on The Strip. Prostitution was not on her mind when she said she’d do anything. She realized this when she saw Grogan. He was a slick article; dressed in black leather with more jewelry on him than Liberace and Zsa Zsa Gabor combined.  And the silver and white Cadillac he drove wasn’t bought by shining shoes.

When she saw his set up, Senta knew she had no choice. It still wasn’t too late to back out.  Grogan brushed her red hair off her face.

“You look real nice. You can do very well here. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” she said.

 He laughed. “Yeah, in my dreams. A girl like you can make a lot of money fast, but first, I’ll have to get you a fake ID.”

“I could sure use the money.” He looked deep into her eyes. She saw a dark, soul-less face and felt a shiver down her spine.

“Yes ma’am. You’ll do.”

And that was it. For the next four years, she worked for Grogan. She made a lot of money.