Chapter Two - Paul Morgan

“Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed “I do believe, help me overcome my unbelief!”

                                                                        Mark 9:24

New Men’s Dorm-Summer Semester 1967. Granger Christian College sat on the banks of the Pecos River about a hundred and thirty miles east of El Paso. Being a church school, it was private and cost money to attend. Churches all over the southwest supported the school of five thousand with generous donations for hardship scholarships so that the poor could attend and get a Christian education. The scholarships were limited and the student had to supplement it by working part time, but the program helped applicants with stressed finances.

The college was the cultural center of Sparta, Texas. Sparta was a town of about fifteen thousand. It was a place where travelers zipped through on the way between Odessa and El Paso. The main drag was the town square where all of the shops and businesses surrounded the courthouse. The Cactus Theatre showed first run movies about a year after the rest of the country had seen them. The Pecos Malt Shop and Taco stand was a major hangout across from the courthouse. The summers were as hot as the desert that surrounded the town. The winters could be bitterly cruel. Sparta was the perfect place to harvest young Christians and keep them away from big city pleasures and temptations.

Although it was a “preacher’s school”, Granger offered degrees in English, History, Physical Education, and of course, Bible. Students were required to take at least six hours of Bible no matter what their major was.

Bible, Geology and History weren’t on Paul Morgan’s mind as he sat in his dorm room on the third floor. He feverishly poured over the figures one more time.

“I can’t make it add up,” he said to himself.

A rock station in El Paso was part music; part static as it played on the small, red Emerson that sat on the open windowsill. From his window, Paul could see the water tank in Sparta. The pale green structure looked like an ominous moon hanging over the townscape. Night crickets serenaded him as he scratched the numbers on his pad.

Paul was stumped. He chewed on his eraser. No matter how he added it, he was still going to be short of funds for the fall semester. Taking twelve hours during the summer had gotten him closer to a degree in American History. It looked like he was going to have to step out a year and work. That was no problem. The big problem was the draft. If he dropped out, he would lose his student deferment and Viet Nam was open for business.

The radio crackled with the far off voices of the Beatles singing “Eleanor Rigby”. How did he end up in this podunk town and college prison with no money? Of course he had come from a podunk town. And yes, this college was a prison. It had curfews and dress codes and plenty of  “Amens” were heard on campus. Paul had wanted to go to film school with his friend, George Tobin. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the money. In high school, he and George made some eight-millimeter films. They were mostly comedies and World War II epics of ten minutes or less. George had an editing room in his garage and the only disability they had was no sound.

“Some day they will make home movie cameras with good mics and we can actually write scripts with dialogue,” George had promised. 

“Good,” said Paul. “I’m tired of printing out the title cards.”

“That’s because you have very good handwriting.”  Paul gave his friend a sidelong glance. Doing the title cards was an arduous process.

“Your handwriting isn’t so bad,” said Paul.

“Yes, but I’m busy editing.” Paul had to admit George was a whiz with the camera and all of the equipment. Paul was the idea man. He came up with the stories and George directed them.

It was Paul’s idea to try their hand at documentary film making by doing a movie on the inner workings of city hall in their town of Half Moon Bay, Louisiana. They got special permission by the city manager and spent a week in the two story pre-Civil War courthouse that dominated the town skyline. Paul interviewed the workers about their various jobs and functions. As Mr. Briggman, the registrar of voters explained the election process, George interspersed pictures from their history books of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the Boston Tea Party and other seminal events. This kept the dry recitation from putting the average viewer to sleep. When the Mayor saw the film, he suggested that every civics class in the high school watch it. 

Paul’s family was dirt poor. George was from a middle class home and spent all of his allowance on the used moviola, film and lights. Together, they learned the art of cinematography and editing. As producer/director, George persuaded classmates and relatives to take roles in their films. Paul had a talent for writing sight gags that kept down the title card production. During their senior year, George’s rich uncle gave him a sixteen-millimeter camera. It also had an interior microphone. They planned to shoot a serious documentary about pollution on the bayou. It would be a forty five-minute masterpiece with sound. Paul wanted to shoot some scenes in black and white for the history part of the bayou, and intercut it with color for the scenes of the present day.

“When we interview the saw mill foreman, hold the camera at a slant,” Paul told George. His friend shook his head.

“That’ll be distracting.”

“No, it’ll be great. We know they’re dumping bad stuff into the river. Let the foreman tell his side. We won’t censor him, but the crooked camera angle will be a subtle reveal that he’s lying,” George smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I get it.  It’s not conventional, but it might work.”

The project was killed when the boys were not allowed to film at the sawmill. Before Paul and George knew it, the summer after their senior year arrived. George was planning to go to UCLA and enroll in film school. Paul’s options were limited. There was a junior college twenty miles away, but the tuition was still a lot for Paul’s family to afford. LSU and the other state schools weren’t much better.

He heard of Granger Christian College through a classmate who starred in their western, “Boots for a Dead Man”.

“It’s dirt cheap if you can get a hardship scholarship,” he told Paul. “Books are half price, the dorm and meals cost next to nothing, but you won’t do much film there.”

“What degrees do they offer?” Paul asked. 

His friend laughed. “Mostly Bible. My cousin goes there and loves it. He says it’s just like the Marines. You get demerits if your hair is too long. And no facial hair is allowed. Daily chapel attendance is required and if you’re out past curfew or caught kissing a girl on campus, they lay the heavy timber on you.” Paul wasn’t sure what “the heavy timber” was, but he sent off for a brochure of the school. He found that it offered a degree in history. His three-point grade average helped to qualify him for the hardship scholarship. Paul sent his application to Granger in February of his senior year. After a series of forms concerning family income and work applications at various Sparta businesses, Paul was accepted.

Now, as he sat in his dorm room, he realized he couldn’t afford it, even with the hardship clause. Paul stubbed out his cigarette and turned the fan on. Smoking was against the rules, and his roommate would be in soon. Not that Allan would turn him in. Allan was a Bible-banger and had spent the last two and a half years trying to save Paul’s soul.

“It’s not that I don’t believe, Allan…” Paul had told him.  “…I just don’t believe in what you believe in.”

Allan was not pushy, but he had continually spoken to Paul about accepting Jesus as his savior.

“I know you believe in a higher power, Paul. Can’t you see that Christ died for you? He’s inside you. He’s in your heart, I know it.”

In the early years, these religious discussions were spirited arguments. Paul respected Allan’s convictions. He just didn’t feel God worked the way the Granger students advocated. As Allan and he grew comfortable with each other, a deep friendship was forged. Allan never gave up trying to save his soul and Paul refused to compromise his agnostic beliefs.

As Paul lingered over his financial figures, his eye caught the reflection of his portable typewriter in the mirror. There was a piece of paper stuck in it. He turned around and reached for the paper, pulling it out. Paul smiled at the four words typed on the page. KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU.

“You never give up, do you pal?”

During Christmas vacation and breaks, they wrote each other. Allan always closed his letters with the salutation of those four words, “Keep Christ Near You”. It was not unusual for Paul to find the familiar note in his shoes, desk drawer or Western Civ book. Once, when he walked out to his car that needed washing, Allan had written KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU on the dirty trunk. Someone had seen it and added an AMEN to it.

He went back to his figures. He could get a second job, but juggling two jobs and a semi-full academic schedule was almost impossible. And the greasy spoon where he flipped burgers would get busy once the fall semester started. He really needed to concentrate on getting his degree. Then there was his mother. She had been in and out of the hospital the past six months. He was sending money back to Louisiana because his deceased father’s insurance wasn’t enough to pay the bills.

He could hear voices in the hallway outside. The third floor devotional was finished and Allan would be in soon. Paul stuck a couple of sticks of Dentyne into his mouth. The smoke from his Marlboro had almost dissipated. “Light My Fire” was screaming in a small voice from Jim Morrison at the Big KWAC in El Paso.

The door flew open and the voices in the hallway were louder.

“Goodnight gentlemen and I use that term loosely.” Allan James stuck his face in the door and clopped across the room in his sandals. “Since you weren’t at the devotional, I figured you were in here solving the world’s problems. How’s that cure for cancer coming?”

“Almost got it,” said Paul. 

Allan flopped on his bed, letting his heavy legs hang over the edge. He ran his fingers through his blond, reddish hair. “You missed a good devotional.”

“Do you ever have a bad devotional?”

“We read Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount and prayed for the boys in Vietnam.”

“Very patriotic of you, Bigfoot,” Paul said affectionately. 

Allan sniffed the air. “You’ve been smoking.”

“Have not.”

“Have too. You’re going to hell in a hand basket.”

 Paul smiled. “At least when I go to hell, I’ll be millions of miles away from your nagging.”

“True, but it won’t be as fun as heaven.”

Physically, the thin, six foot tall Paul towered over Allan who was five foot six in his cowboy boots and carried a hundred and ninety pounds on his ample frame. His pale, doughy face was a contrast to Paul’s ruddy, handsome features. Walking across campus, the two made an amusing sight, cutting the figures of physical opposites. Now, Paul sat at his desk, mulling the fatal money figures.

“Hey Bigfoot, we’ve got to talk.”

 Allan did not miss the serious expression on his roommate’s tired face. “Let’s hear it.”

“I won’t be coming back for the fall semester.” 

Allan felt a chill. “What’s the problem? My snoring getting too loud?”

“Well…yes, that too. But if it were just the snoring, I could fight it out. Unfortunately, it’s the usual problem. Money.” 

Allan gave an inward sigh. “Oh man.” He knew that Paul worked like a slave to stay in school. Ever since their freshmen year, Paul had worked at one job or another. Allan had prayed on the matter and loaned Paul money when he could. Of course Paul had too much pride and always paid him back in unique ways. While Allan left KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU notes in Paul’s books and cigarettes, Allan found money in his shaving kit, Bible and golf bag. “You realize if you drop out, you’ll end up in Vietnam.” 

Paul gave a rueful smile. “At least I’ll know you’ll be praying for me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be drafted and sent to Paris.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Allan said dejectedly. “Maybe my church could help. They’re supporting me.”

“You’re going into the mission field, Bigfoot. Your church doesn’t need a history teacher.”

They were silent, thinking over the problem.

 Paul stood up and stretched. “Well, I’m paid up through August. Maybe something will come up.” Allan nodded slowly. Paul Morgan had had a tough go at it. Despite the curve balls life had thrown at him, Paul remained optimistic and resilient. Allan admired that. On their first night in the dorm, he found out a lot about his new roommate.

Paul lost his father to a drunk driver when he was only three. He and his mother lived on a bayou on the Texas-Louisiana border. Most of what they ate was the fish they caught in the bayou and the vegetables in their garden.

As their friendship grew, Allan spent many a weekend at Paul’s house. It was a two-room shack with a tin roof and no air conditioning. His mother was a thin, undernourished looking woman who constantly coughed while holding an ever-present cigarette in her hand. She earned money sewing for the people of Half Moon Bay. Most of the time, Paul didn’t have money for the cola machine. And now, it had run out. What more could he do?

One of the guys from down the hall stuck his head in the door. “Hey Morgan. Phone call for you.”

“Thanks,” said Paul. He looked over at Allan who was studying a loose lace on his sandal. “That could be Mr. Huggins. He said he might have a night job for me at the warehouse. It might be just enough for another semester if I take half a course load.”

“Don’t overextend yourself buddy.”

“Never,” said Paul as he hurried down the hallway.

With his roommate gone, Allan got up and scribbled, KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU on a piece of typing paper. He folded it up and went to the closet. He put the paper in the pocket of Paul’s jacket. On the radio, the DJ chortled, “You can win up to ten bucks a week when you listen to the Big KWAC! That’s right! Whenever you hear Gary Lewis and the Playboys back to back, give us a call and you could be a winner!”

A winner thought Allan. Paul needed a winner. Allan turned off the radio and bowed his head. He prayed aloud. “Dear Father, please help Paul stay in school. He’s had such a hard time and he’s trying, he’s really trying.” The rest of the prayer was silent. He didn’t hear Paul come back into the room and reach for his suitcase under the bed.

“I’ve got to go.” 

Allan looked up. “What?”

“I said, I’ve got to go.” Paul went into the closet and started pulling out clothes.

“What’s going on?”

 Paul’s face was pale. “My mother died.”