CHAPTER TWELVE - Struggling Writer

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CHAPTER TWELVE - Struggling Writer

The party upstairs had gotten louder. Paul was typing away on his final draft of which he now called, “Star Trapper”. It was a science fiction piece that was an allegory of the crusades. The script had lots of special effects, which could make dry reading, but he also thought that his dialogue was crisp and believable.

Someone laughed, which turned to a coughing fit. Marijuana smoke was drifting into his window. Paul ignored it and continued typing. Since she’d lost her job at the club, Senta had become the Hostess of Santa Monica. It seemed like there was a party every night.

After his embarrassing scene with Senta, she had cooled to him considerably. Every once in a while, when she and Zeke finished rehearsing, they would come downstairs and persuade him to take them out for a burger. Of course Zeke usually paid. Sometimes Paul paid.  Senta never paid.

If he needed to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar, or anything else, Senta obliged cheerfully.  Sometimes they’d go for a drive and she would ask him about his writing and he asked her about her singing. That was as far as the relationship went. He thought it was probably for the best, but her beauty haunted him. He could not get past it.

When she lost her job for being too drugged up to sing, Senta didn’t need Zeke anymore. Zeke seemed to always have an excuse to see her. And most of the time, Zeke ended up at Paul’s place, sharing a glass of tea.

They made an unusual threesome. One night, Paul invited Senta and Zeke over to play “Monopoly”.  Zeke had professed a love for the game, so he invited her to bring her game board over. Senta called the idea corny, but went along with it anyway. The evening had been very enjoyable, and Paul felt a bond to both women. He didn’t see the special look that Zeke gave him. He only had eyes for Senta.

“Anybody home?” Paul looked up from his script to see Senta standing in his doorway. “Sorry to bug you, but I need a couple of ice trays,” she said.

“Sure, come on in. I’ll get you some.” Senta walked over to the coffee table that held his typewriter and writing materials while he went to the refrigerator.

“Are you finished with the script yet?”

“Almost. Right now I’m stuck on the planet Glafar.” She saw his wallet and car keys on a table by the couch. As he struggled unsticking the ice trays from the freezer, she quickly rifled through the wallet and took a ten-dollar bill. In the past few months, she’d stolen about eighty dollars from him. A five here, a ten there, she didn’t think he’d notice. He always had lots of bills squirreled away in the cheap, imitation-leather billfold. She palmed the money as he brought her the trays.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks Paul. I’d invite you up, but I know you wouldn’t have a lot of fun with all those sinners.”

“Are you kidding? I could go up there and maybe save a few souls.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Yeah, Jesus was often seen in the presence of sinners.” 

She gave him a blank stare, then turned. “See ya later.” She didn’t see the hurt expression on Paul’s face.

As he got back to the planet Glafar, Paul felt energized about “Star Trapper”. It was his third script since he’d moved to Los Angeles, but it was by far his best. And he knew he was getting better as a writer. The other two scripts had collected close to a hundred rejection slips. He was able to get an independent producer to look at his first effort, “Tides of Change”. It was a Vietnam War story set in the late 60’s. The producer said that it was well written, but nobody was buying Vietnam War scripts. 

Paul was pretty sure that his first two scripts were no better than rough drafts. His second script, “Skyline” was about an inner city youth who fights his way out of the ghetto to a responsible position on Wall Street. After it got six or seven rejections, he showed it to Senta.

“I’m not a writer Paul, but you know what the problem with this script is?” She was on his couch with the script in her lap. He peered at it over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Your dialogue. These street kids don’t talk like this.” She pointed to a line of dialogue. “You need to sprinkle their speech with profanity. In fact, you need a gusher of profanity. Your main thug here talks like Donny Osmond.”

 He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see how dirty words will sell a script.”

 She sighed loudly. “Look, I know you don’t want to go to hell and all, but if you want to get produced, you need to write like real people talk. You could have gotten away with this ten years ago, but movies have caught up with real life.”

 Paul shook his head. He could see her point, but could not admit that she was right. “The story is good enough without that,” he said stubbornly.

Senta put the script on the coffee table and stood up. “You’re so innocent. It’s like you were born yesterday.” She headed for the door and turned. “You know Paul, I haven’t had an easy life. I’ve had to scratch for a living. I never had money like you. Have you ever heard that an artist must suffer for his art? It’s obvious you’ve had a very sheltered life, protected from its cruelties. I’m not saying that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but you’ve had it soft, I can tell.” She folded her arms and gave him a superior smirk. “Maybe you should give up this God thing and jump into life with both feet. Have some dangerous adventures like taking a girl to bed, or getting drunk at a biker bar.” She put her hands on her hips. “It’ll make you a better writer, believe me.”

Paul considered her sermon. How could he tell her about being so poor? Growing up, he considered Goodwill a luxury department store.  It would do no good to tell her about Vietnam or how even today, as he drove down the streets of Santa Monica, he automatically looked up at the trees, watching for snipers.

Later as he worked on his sci-fi script, Paul thought perhaps she was right. Maybe his scripts were too goody-goody. Maybe he should add a little sex, a little curse word here and there. Of course he’d just finished a battle scene on Glafar, of Biblical proportions. His main villain, Tracto, was evil incarnate. And the curse words he used were in Glafarian. Maybe he could do it…add some real dialogue. No. He couldn’t compromise his art…his Christian art.

He didn’t really need a lot of money. He always kept at least a hundred dollars in ones, fives and tens in his wallet. It made him feel like Howard Hughes, but Paul had gone on for so long without a lot, he didn’t need a lot. He didn’t even mind it when Senta stole from him. He did mind that she probably used it for drugs. He would have to stop that. If he could just get her to see things his way. No, not his way. God’s way.

Ed Rosnowsky climbed up the ladder and set the blue paint can on the top rung. Wiping his brow, he called down to his daughter, who was stirring some white paint.

“Zeke, when you finish the garage door, go on home. I can clean up here.”

“Okay Dad.” As she stirred, she hummed “Softly and Tenderly”, but her mind wasn’t on the hymn. “Hey Dad, I’m asking my friend Paul over for dinner tonight. Would you like to come?”

“I’ve made you give up your weekend to help me. I figured you’d want to get a vacation from all this.” 

She smiled. “Ah Dad, I don’t mind helping you on these big jobs.”

 He applied an even stroke of blue on the eave, then dipped the tip of the brush back into the can. “Since when do you invite me on your dates?”

“This isn’t a date. Paul is just a friend.”

“Is this another accountant?”

“No sir. He’s a writer, or trying to be. He works at Zaks.”

“Is he a manager?”

“No, but he’s the chief grill master.”

Ed quietly went about his work. This Paul character didn’t sound like a real good bet.  Zeke was a levelheaded girl. Girl.  Zeke was an adult. She could make her own choices, but he still worried about her. “How old is he?”

“Dad, I’m not in high school anymore. If you must know, he’s twenty four.” Twenty-four years old and he worked in a hamburger joint.

“Does he go to church?”

“He goes to the City of Angels.”

“That’s good. Why don’t you invite him to services tomorrow?”

“Maybe I will.”  Zeke carried her paint over to the garage. She knew what her father was thinking. “Paul is just a friend, Dad. In fact, he’s slobbering over some night club singer.” A night club singer. Great.  What did this Paul want of his child? Ed remained silent as he painted. If only Sarah had lived. She died on Zeke’s tenth birthday. It had to be on that day. The cancer had been relentless. Sarah had tried so hard to hold on, to make it past her daughter’s birthday.

“I don’t want her to have this sort of memory on a day she should be happy.” Sarah told Ed. But at noon on that day, Ed and Zeke were bringing Sarah a piece of birthday cake and they found her half off the bed, unconscious. She was pronounced dead an hour later.

For Zeke’s sake, he attempted to re-marry. His daughter needed a mother, but after Sarah, he couldn’t find anyone else. He couldn’t forget his lovely wife. Zeke encouraged him to date for his own sake.

“You need to get out Dad. Mother would want you to,” said the precocious ten-year-old.

It seemed that Zeke adjusted better than he did. His daughter was not fragile. She was an independent sort, but he still worried about her. He hoped she would get good grades. He hoped she would be safe. He hoped she would choose the right college. He hoped she would marry the right man. He hoped she would have healthy children. He hoped. He hoped for a lot of things. He prayed to God that he had done right by her. So far, so good. She had turned out to be okay, even if she had a lot of tomboy in her.

This Paul person worried him. Was he some deadbeat writer? Flipping burgers wasn’t a promising career. And no matter what Zeke said, Ed knew his daughter. She was in love with the guy.

Trevor was late. Senta tamped out her cigarette and looked out the window. Where was the creep? She felt the tremors race up and down her body. She needed a fix. Her entire body was screaming for relief. It felt like her limbs were becoming unglued. Her muscles itched and felt like mush.

Maybe she could skip down to Paul’s apartment and get some money. He was at Zaks, but he always kept money in a cigar box in his bedroom. She knew this by doing a quick search while he was in the shower. He had invited her and Zeke over for a game of “Monopoly”. How lame. But it got her inside his apartment and she convinced the two holy rollers that she actually enjoyed playing the game.

Where was Trevor? Senta lit another cigarette and grabbed a letter opener. She trotted down the steps to Paul’s apartment. She took the letter opener and used her body to shield her actions. It took a few moments, but she was able to jimmy the lock.

Zaks was a beehive on Friday night. Date night. Let’s grab a burger. Paul was doing double duty, because Jesse called in sick. Yeah, Jesse was sick alright. Every Friday night, teens that worked in burger joints got sick all over America. Paul lowered a basket of fries into the hot grease and turned to the prep table to dress hamburger buns. Brenda was pulling drinks and taking counter orders while Steve worked the drive through window.

“I need three ham, one no mayo!” shouted Brenda.

“Where’s Jesse?” asked Steve.

“He called in sick,” she replied. 

Steve chuckled. “He must have a hot date tonight.” Brenda and Paul laughed too. They were too busy to take a breath, but it was still funny. They knew that Jesse would show up hail and hearty on Monday afternoon after school.

“Kids,” Paul said derisively, shaking his head. He smiled as he pulled ten patties off the grill and laid down twenty more.

The dinner rush was still going strong and he had to keep up. It didn’t take much to concentrate. Like a machine, he automatically went to the freezer and pulled out frozen fries, tacos and onion rings. He dropped those in their respective fryers and unwrapped twenty more buns to go with the patties. He then turned back to the grill and sprinkled salt and pepper on the patties and tossed tiny pieces of chipped onions on them before flipping them.

All the while, he was thinking of a new ending to “Star Trapper”. “I could have the planet explode after they crucify the Rangleans,” he said aloud.

“What’s that?” asked Brenda. 

Steve pointed a thumb at Paul. “Hemingway is working on his masterpiece.”  Steve was an actor. He and Paul had vowed that if one of them got into a position to help the other, they would. “If you get a screenplay produced, you can recommend me for a role.” 

Paul spoke over his shoulder back at Steve. “Good deal. And if you get a part in a film, you can show my script to the director or star.”

“I will be the star,” Steve countered. They shook on it over frying tacos.

As Zaks got noisier with customers, the jukebox blared out “Bad Leroy Brown”. Paul felt a certain serenity among the happy chaos. He was at peace with himself and thanked God for His blessings. I might never be produced. I might just end up managing Zaks, thought Paul. Wherever God sent him, he was ready.

Around eleven ‘o clock, things began to slow down. There were few customers in the dining area. Brenda was straightening and re-stocking the paper products while Steve handled the drive through window and front counter. Paul changed the grease in the fryers and cleaned the shake machine. The graveyard shift would scrub the grill and mop the floor. He was ready to get home and write the new ending of his script.

The courtyard in Palm Harbor was quiet as he walked under the yellow lamps in front of each apartment. Senta’s apartment looked dark. He wondered where she was. As he reached for his key, he noticed that the door was ajar. Uh oh. He didn’t want to surprise a burglar.

Was there someone inside? He cautiously opened the door, keeping his body tense and ready to spring. Every fiber in his body was on red alert. The lamp in the living room was on just as he had left it. The apartment looked undisturbed. Paul slowly crept into the bedroom, his eyes and ears wide open. He hadn’t felt this tense since he’d been in the jungle.

He peered down the dark hallway. The bedroom and bathroom looked clear. There was no vandalism. He looked into the cigar box. There were pennies, liquid paper and a couple of tiny notepads. He began to relax. Maybe it was just some kid who had gotten scared off before he could take anything of value. Then he got to the bottom of his cigar box. The fifty dollars that had been in it was missing. He retraced his steps back to the living room.

Everything still looked intact. He didn’t really have anything worth stealing. His Bible lay on the bar. It looked untouched. Then he saw the coffee table. His typewriter was gone.