Lanterns of Babylon

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.