CHAPTER NINE - PALM HARBOR APARTMENTS

Santa Monica, 1974. In the middle of the complex was a swimming pool and wet bar. Most of the units were clean and well kept. The renters were a mixture of singles and young marrieds. Many were college students, many were aspiring actors, singers, and writers holding down jobs as shoe clerks, couriers, and waitresses.

Piano music flowed over the pool area, along with clattering typewriters, friendly chatter and the occasional bark of a contraband pet. In apartment 110, Paul Morgan was burning up the keys of his Smith-Corona. The night before, he’d had a script idea that kept pulling him over to the typewriter. This could be the one, he thought. It was his third screenplay. The first two had been rejected by every agent he’d sent them to. Everyone was looking for disaster movies or corrupt cop films. His scripts weren’t like that. In fact, the stuff he was writing could be described as old fashion. He believed in a good story with moral characters. His minister had read both scripts and was enthusiastic.

“I’m not a movie producer Paul, but I’d buy a ticket to see these films. Your kind of writing is becoming a lost art. There are no curse words and no sex.” Sitting in his office, the minister, Reb Dowling took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now days, there’s so much violence in films. It’s a medium for the anti-hero. Your dialogue is sharp, funny. You don’t rely on dirty words to get a laugh.”

Paul nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I saw a film last week where a ten year old girl cussed like a sailor. The audience ate it up.”

 Pastor Dowling looked sad. “Unfortunately, it’s going to get worse I’m afraid. There’s no innocence in the movies anymore.” He looked up at Paul and gave him a bright smile. “But you keep up the good fight.”

The good fight, thought Paul. Was that what he was doing? He sat in apartment 110, typing furiously as the story poured out of his brain and on to the paper. Hmm, the good fight. Here he was, trying to break into an industry based on sin and temptation. It went against all Christian principles. But he was trying to go against the flow. He wanted to show producers that a good, clean script could make just as much money and entertain folks as the current fare of violence, sex and drugs. “Benji” wasn’t doing too badly at the box office.

How did he get here? Paul remembered the face and voice of Jesus as he lay on the cot back in Vietnam. Had it been a hallucination? Was it the drugs they were pumping into him, or his injuries that conjured up such a vision? Paul didn’t know. But in his heart, he felt it was right. God had spoken to him.

As soon as he was able, Paul was baptized by the company Chaplain. During his rehab at the VA, he studied the Bible with new fervor. Granger Christian College had given him the basics, but the long, dull hours of Bible study had not affected him. Now he poured over the verses with new eyes. And reading every word was a revelation.

When he got letters from Allan in far off Taiwan, he always lingered over the salutation, Keep Christ Near You. It had become his own mantra, but to him, it wasn’t a meaningless chant. He felt the presence of God now.

He wrote to his old friend from Louisiana, George Tobin, when he got out of the hospital. George was a struggling independent filmmaker in Colorado. After getting his degree in film at UCLA, George took his sixteen-millimeter camera, upgraded it, and moved to Boulder to make films on environmental subjects.

George advised him to go to Los Angeles. That’s where the action was for screenwriters. Was this what God wanted? Paul had the desire and talent to be a screenwriter. If it was what God wanted, it would happen. If not, then he would know. As soon as he got out of the VA Hospital, he headed west.

The one thing Vietnam did for Paul was to help him focus on what he wanted to do in life. He always liked writing with George and felt that writing was his calling. So far, he knew that just getting an agent to read his work was a major accomplishment. Paul got a job flipping burgers at Zaks, a local fast food chain. He didn’t need the money, because he got a very generous check every month from Uncle Sam. Nevertheless, he took all of the hours at Zaks that he could get. Being older than most of the teens who worked there, and single, he didn’t mind working weekends and holidays. Other than going to church, he spent his time dumping fries, pulling drinks, flipping burgers and writing screenplays.

He found a modest apartment at Palm Harbor and started a saving’s account at the bank across the street from Zaks. If he didn’t sell a screenplay, he wanted a financial war chest. And he would let the Lord lead him down the right path.

As he typed away, he heard the stirring voice in the apartment above him. He checked his watch. Yep, it was around 6:00. Every evening at six, the woman sang until about 6:45. When she did, all activity around the pool ceased. There was less chatter and typing from the open windows which included Paul. This had gone on every night for the last three months. Paul and his fellow tenants were treated to a medley of show tunes, torch songs and popular music. It was like having a radio show every evening.

The voice had a haunting quality as she sang a melancholy rendition of that Sinatra song. What was the name of it? “It Was A Very Good Year”. That was the title, he thought. And as her voice echoed through the complex, a smattering of applause could be heard by those down by the pool. Then the woman launched into, “I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair”, from “South Pacific”. Paul found himself tapping the beat on his typewriter as he listened to the bouncy number.

His neighbor, an actor, said that the lady sang in nightclubs. She usually didn’t go to work until nine. One night, Paul saw her through his screen, walking down the stairs. She wore sunglasses and a scarf over her head. With her was a tall, black man who looked like a pimp. The actor told him that the man was her accompanist. If he was, he didn’t play that well. Of course the woman’s voice made his playing sound better. Why would she wear sunglasses at night, he wondered.

When the evening concert ended, Paul threw himself back into the writing. His goal was to finish twenty pages. He had an early shift at Zaks the next day, but writing was going to keep him up late. It didn’t matter. He had to finish the script.

Around 9:00, Paul took a break. He got his car keys and headed over to a nearby convenience store.

The Lucky Seven was his usual break stop. Tonight, would it be milk and cupcakes? Or cola and chips? He was grateful that he had those choices. Most of his life he hadn’t had enough money to worry about trivial things such as midnight snacks.

As he entered the store, he noticed that Habib wasn’t there. Habib was always there, because his father owned The Lucky Seven. In his stead was a young Mexican woman checking out a customer. Paul decided on cupcakes and milk. When he brought his goods up to the counter, the young woman looked up. She froze. For an instant, she looked terrified.

“Hi,” said Paul. Usually a smile and friendly “hi” put strangers at ease. The young lady kept her eyes on the milk carton and cupcakes.

 She couldn’t look at his face. “That will be a dollar, nine,” she said.

“Where’s Habib?” 

She kept her eyes down, putting the snacks into a sack. “He’s off tonight.”

“Oh, well tell him that Paul says hi.” 

She looked up quickly with a smile, then down again. “Si. I will tell him.” He picked up his sack and headed out.

Sometimes, Paul’s looks startled people. His right eye was a tinge lower than his left. Doctors said that more reconstructive surgery would fix that. It didn’t bother Paul. Nor did the long, red scar that went down the side of his head to his neck. Not long after he got back from the hospital, he was walking past a school where some kids pointed at him and yelled, “Frankenstein!” He gave them a lopsided smile and limped on, ignoring the taunts and delighted squeals of horror.

Paul didn’t care how he looked. He had seen the face of Jesus and that was enough. With therapy, he was able to diminish the limp and started jogging five miles a day. The scar, which began to look natural to him, had faded a bit. It still had an angry redness, but the doctor said that with time, it would shrink and fade to a pale white.

He worked on his screenplay until well after midnight.  It was as yet, untitled, but the story was flowing. He stretched his legs, ignoring the millions of tiny pinpricks in his muscles. He really needed to get to sleep. Rather than getting up and hopping into bed, he collapsed on his couch, enjoying the soft breeze coming through his open window.

About 3 a.m., he was awakened by two people arguing. He rubbed his eyes and peered out the window from his couch. The two figures were in front of his window shouting at each other. It was the woman and her piano player.

“You don’t need anyone you can’t use, baby!” yelled the man.

“Well I don’t need you Trevor. It’s bad enough when you’re all coked up, but I won’t take any more of your abuse!” Paul picked up the clock and looked at it. It was ten minutes after 3:00. He was going to have to get up in a couple of hours. The couple continued to argue. “Take a hike, Trevor! I’ll get somebody who doesn’t need to get high so he can play chopsticks!” 

The man cursed and got more in return from the vitriolic woman. Paul couldn’t tell what they were doing, but he heard a dull “thwap” and saw the woman stumble.

“See ya later princess,” sneered the man as he clumped away. The woman lay in front of his window.

 Paul got up and eased over to the screen. “Hello?” he said softly. The woman waved him off. “Are you okay?” He couldn’t see her face. She was lying there, moaning quietly. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

The light bulb at his front door cast a dull, yellow glow over the figure. She turned over on her back, but he still couldn’t tell much. Paul started to get up and go to the door to help her, but suddenly she was up in a sitting position.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” she muttered. She sounded drunk as she hoisted herself up on her elbows and spoke to no one in particular. “Stupid bunhead…doesn’t even have any rhythm. They’re supposed to have rhythm.”

She stood up on trembling legs. Using the guardrail, she trudged up to her apartment. Paul yawned and stumbled over the coffee table in front of the couch. His knee caught the corner of the table and he felt the jolt awaken some old wounds.

“Ooh!”  He collapsed on the couch, clutching his knee. It started to throb and he lay there, trying to sleep. Just as he started to drift off, he heard his upstairs neighbor cursing and hammering out harsh, bitter notes on the piano. 

Then he heard another neighbor scream out his door. “Shut up! Shut up or I’ll call the police!” He heard his next door neighbor’s door creak open. “Give us a break, it’s freaking three o’ clock in the morning!” yelled the actor/neighbor. The piano gave one last discordant clamor. A loud thud shook his ceiling. She had either tossed a bowling ball on her floor or she was dead. Around 4:00, Paul finally fell asleep.

He got off shift around four p.m. the next afternoon. Working at Zaks Burgers made him feel like a grease trap. He enjoyed the systematic job of laying down the frozen patties on the hot grill and dressing the buns with the standard formula of mustard, two pickles, and one slice of tomato and lettuce. The job was automatic, he could lay down burgers and fries without thinking about it. This gave him time to think about his script. Once during a lunch rush, he cooked a hundred and ninety burgers as he thought out the plot of an action/adventure story.

When he got home from Zaks, all he wanted to do was shower the grease and smell off his body. The drain in his shower turned grey with the mixture of soapsuds and grease.

This was Paul’s favorite part of the day. Wrapping a thick, terry cloth robe around him, he enjoyed sitting in his living room and unwind with a brief Bible study. He usually read two or three chapters as he worked through a selected book. Lately he had been working through the gospels and he was in the book of John. His favorite verse was the popular 3:16. “For God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son.” This was his third time through the entire Bible. Every time he read it, he discovered new insights and had a deeper appreciation for the words of Jesus.

He was on chapter four when he heard the knock at the door. Paul put his Bible down and pulled the robe tightly around him as he went to answer the knock. 

Standing in his doorway was a young woman with a deep, purple bruise on the side of her face. Other than that, she wore no makeup. She had red, shoulder length hair and wore a green work shirt and faded jeans. She showed no reaction to Paul’s scarred face and droopy eye.

 She noted his terry cloth robe. “Uh oh, it looks like I’ve disturbed you again.”

“I’m sorry?” Paul asked, not understanding.

“I think Trevor and I woke you up last night.”

 Then he realized who she was. “Oh, you’re the singer…yes, I mean, no, you didn’t disturb me. I mean, I’m always dressed like this.” He felt like a total idiot. I’m always dressed like this? He couldn’t find his tongue. Despite the purple bruise, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d seen. “Uh, can I help you? Why don’t you come in? Let me get some jeans on. Would you like a cold drink?” He couldn’t shut up as he let the woman enter his apartment.

“No thanks. Unless you’ve got scotch.”

“No, I’m sorry. The strongest stuff I have is ginger ale.”

“Pass,” she said. 

He headed for the bathroom. “Have a seat. I’ll be back in jeans. I mean, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

In moments, he was back wearing jeans and a tee shirt. She was sitting on the couch, looking at the picture of  Allan and Theresa on his coffee table. The picture had Allan and his wife surrounded by several Taiwanese children, all beaming at the photographer. Written at the bottom of the picture was “Tsung Church, 1973, Keep Christ Near You.”

 She looked up. “You must really be into National Geographic stuff.”  She held up the picture.

 He nodded. “That’s a missionary friend of mine and his wife.”

“Are you a missionary too?”

“Sometimes I feel like it. You should see some of the forsaken places in this town.”

“You’re not a preacher man are you?”

“Not really. I work at Zaks.” He pointed at her bruise. “That has got to hurt.”

She pointed back at his scarred face. “Probably not as much as you. It looks like you got whopped upside the head by a taxi cab full of gorillas.” 

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“I’m Senta.”

“Hi.  I’m Paul.”

 She sighed. “Well, guess I need to get this over with. The manager threatened to throw me out if there were anymore complaints from the neighbors. I just came by to apologize about last night. Trevor and I were having a disagreement about how he should play “Blue Moon”. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s okay, I needed the entertainment. My TV set’s busted.” He couldn’t get over her beauty. He thought her voice was exceptional, but her face was shining beauty. “You probably kept Randy up.”

“Who?”

 He threw a thumb at the wall, indicating his neighbor next door. “Randy, the actor. He was growling all night.” 

A look of recognition hit her face. “Oh, that wasn’t you who was telling me to shut up?”

“No, that was Randy and a few others.”

She stood up. “Guess I’ve got more people to see then. I don’t want to get kicked out of the complex again.” He didn’t want her to leave.

 Paul thought frantically what he could say to make her stay. “Ah, sure you don’t want a cold drink, Senta? How about an ice pack for your face?”

“You’re sweet, but no. I’ve got to find me a new accompanist. You don’t know anybody who plays the piano do you?”

 He shook his head. “You’re a tremendous singer, Senta. I’ll bet you know lots of musicians.”

“Lots, but they’re all jerks. I can play the piano, but I prefer someone else twinkling the ivories.” She started for the door. 

“You don’t know anybody huh,” he said. 

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She gave him a lopsided grin. Was it a smile of regret? “I’ve been through fifteen accompanists. I’m running out of people.” She turned the knob.

“Wait!” he blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“What is it Paul?” She had called him by his name. Why did it make him feel like some lovesick fifteen-year-old?

“I might know somebody.”

 She put a hand on her hip. “Well…are you a musician?”

“No. But I could probably find someone for you.”

“What do you do Paul? I mean besides flipping burgers at Zaks. Are you an actor?”

“With a face like this? Sure. I play the Incredible Melting Man.”

“You should get some plastic surgery done. I’m sure they could fix your eye.” Paul wasn’t embarrassed, but he was a little taken back by her comment. Or really, the way she said it. It wasn’t sympathetic. It almost had a cruel edge to it.

“I’m a writer,” he said. “I’m working on a script right now.”

“I see. Well, you’ve got a face for a writer.” Ouch. As she headed out the door, she stopped. “Hey, you look like a nice guy. And I appreciate your help.” He nodded, feeling his tongue-tied up again. “And I’m a pretty good judge of people. Maybe you’re even a good writer.” He nodded again as she continued. “Something tells me you aren’t right for this town. It’ll chew you up and turn you into a human spitball. You’ve got to be able to handle pressure. You don’t seem like the type.” She gave him an easy smile. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. I’d just hate to see you get hurt.” 

Senta left and he heard her knock on Randy’s door.