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.

Prologue

BOOK ONE

1966-1975

“For who knows what is good for a man in life during the few meaningless days he passes through like a shadow? Who can tell him what will happen under the sun after he is gone?”

                                                                                                Ecclesiastes 6:12

PROLOGUE

He felt life slipping away from the knife wound below his heart. The old man’s eyes glazed as he lay in the alley against the concrete building. No help was coming. The sun was struggling through the smog to give light, but the shadow of death was winning. He struggled up on his hands and knees.

Behind the Dumpster lay a young man with multiple stab wounds. The older man tried to focus.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly to the body of his friend. He reached for the white New Testament in his coat. It came out red and sticky. A spasm of coughing speckled droplets of blood on the pages. “Forgive me,” he sighed. The numbness kicked in and his body rolled on to the hot concrete.

MAIN CHARACTERS:

Cory Stilling-An actress. Beautiful, talented, Cory is a strong Christian who puts God ahead of a career.

Josh Smythe-An actor. He’s got the looks, the talent, and an ego to match.

Paul Morgan-An agnostic. He is a struggling student at a Christian college.

Senta Bergstrom-She has a God-given talent for singing, but drugs are her main source of worship.

Judd Wagner-An atheist. He is the best stuntman in Hollywood, and depends on his athletic prowess to make a living. He does not give God the credit for his talents and physical abilities.

CHAPTER THREE-CORY STILLING

The Farmer’s Market 1971

It would not stop raining. The streets near the Farmer’s Market were flooding over and the traffic had grounded to a halt. Sunny California thought Cory. At least it beat the snow in Minnesota. The driver behind her gave an impatient honk. Cory looked in her rearview mirror at the man in the red Ferrari. He was probably a producer late for a meeting. He honked again. She held up her hands. What can I do mister? I can’t move until the cars in front of me move.

Cory Stilling had been in Hollywood for five years. In that time, she had done three films and had various roles on TV. The two national spots for Chevrolet and Ultra-Brite toothpaste made her enough money to live comfortably. She turned down a very well paying beer commercial and a generous offer from Playboy magazine. She also turned down a film role in a prestigious, all-star film, because the part required nudity.

So was the life of a Christian actress in Hollywood. Cory did not regret the work she turned down. God had more than provided her with opportunities. What if I hadn’t gotten any work at all? She wondered.  Would I still be in Minneapolis? Chicago, maybe? She had steeled herself to be a starving actress when she made the trip west, but God had blessed her.

Unlike many actresses, Cory did not suffer many dry spells. In fact, life in Hollywood had been relatively easy for her. She knew that even if she had to struggle and take odd jobs, she would not succumb to the casting couch. She would refuse jobs that didn’t fit her moral code. Surprise, surprise, Cory found her niche in the lucrative TV commercial world.

The oldest of five children, Cory left her big, happy family for the bright lights of La La Land. She had natural beauty and an abundance of talent. And she had a desire to use God’s gifts in the proper way. Her mother was against the bold move.

“Cory, honey, that town is a cesspool,” said Mrs. Stilling. “There are temptations around every corner. Please don’t go.”

 Her father, a preacher, was all for it. “Find your way, Cory,” he told her. “And God will lead you in the right direction as long as you keep Him in your life and do His will.”

She was very satisfied with her well paying career. Instead of buying a flashy car and a home in Bel-Air, she lived modestly with a second hand car and her simple wood frame rental house near the Market. Her money went to the City of Angels Christian Church and to various charities. She donated several hundred Bibles to the inner city, along with clothing and food. What she had left over, she invested. Cory was a Wall Street junkie. She lived and breathed the Dow Jones and studied the business world. As a young girl, she spent long hours with her uncle who was a broker. He explained the types of investments and risks that were involved in high finance.

“Earl, don’t bore poor Cory with your shoptalk,” Aunt Lana said.

 Cory, who was sitting at the foot of Uncle Earl as he sat in his easy chair, waved her off. “Oh no, Aunt Lana. I find it all very fascinating. It’s like the wonderful things you can do with math, except that it translates into shops, hospitals, beef, all sorts of neat stuff.” Aunt Lana arched a cynical eyebrow at her niece. 

Uncle Earl chuckled as he filled up his pipe. “Don’t inhibit the child, Lana. This girl is going to become the Financial Wizard of Wall Street.”

 Cory gave a delighted laugh. “What about that blue chip thing Uncle Earl?”

So when Cory had a little money, she found companies that were safe investments and multiplied her wealth making her very comfortable financially.

Despite her solid career and finances, Cory wasn’t completely happy. Her single status was not in her life plan. Cory wanted a family. She wanted children. She avoided the actors and directors who constantly hit on her. She tried dating some of the young men at her church, but they were intimidated by her beauty, self-confidence and semi-celebrity status. She dated a guy named Don for about four months. It was her longest relationship in California. Once as they were leaving a movie theatre, Don asked, “What if you become really famous like Julie Andrews or Audrey Hepburn?”

“I’ll be about ten times richer,” she laughed. 

Don looked troubled. “Yeah, but I want to have kids and a home,” he said.

“Me too,” Cory replied seriously.

“I don’t know Cory. Do you think you can handle being famous? I mean really being famous?”

Don opened the door for her and she got into the blue convertible. She was quiet for the first two blocks as they drove towards her place.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“About your question. The answer is yes. I could handle it.” Cory looked out at the endless string of clubs and restaurants on Santa Monica Boulevard. “But that’s not the question Don.”

“What is it then?”

“The question is, could you handle it?” 

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I think I could.” 

Cory’s voice was calm and low. “Do you think you could handle the photographers, the time consuming interviews, the attention other men would give me?”

 Don’s face turned red. “I think I could.” His voice was hard, full of bravado.

Cory kept her eyes on the street ahead. Don was nice. He was a good Christian, except for one fault. He had a jealous streak. Cory knew it would be tough on anyone who married her. And she was very choosy, despite the burning desire to marry. She wouldn’t marry just anyone.

Long before Cory moved west, she depended on God to show her the way. If He let her have success, she would deal with the down side of it. If she couldn’t find acting work and had to do odd jobs, that was okay too. Her battle wasn’t dealing with a career, but finding a man who could deal with it. Cory hoped and prayed she’d find the right mate. Even knowing that she was in His hands didn’t always temper her frustrations. She was beautiful, well off and respected. But maybe she wasn’t supposed to be here. Maybe Los Angeles was not her future. After five years, she was still looking for the right person to share her life.

Cory dashed out of her car with the groceries. The rain had let up, but it was still a watery trek to the front porch. Unlocking the door, she heard the phone ringing. She dropped the wet grocery sacks on the couch and hurried to the wall phone in the kitchen. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Cory, good news.” It was her agent, Kiki.

“What’s up, Kiki?”

“Wayne Hampton wants you for “The Lancer Ultimatum”. You’re in, sugar.”

Wayne Hampton. She had forgotten about that audition. It had been two months ago. He called her back to read for the part of the younger sister. It was a great role. It was a career-making role. And everyone in Hollywood wanted to work with Hampton. This young director was the flavor of the year. His first three movies were all in the top ten grossing films of all time. Hitchcock was the master of suspense, but Wayne Hampton was being called The Titan of Tension.  In the vein of such thrillers as “The Andromeda Strain”, Wayne Hampton was an old pro at putting audiences on the edge of their seats.

“The Lancer Ultimatum”, Cory repeated.

 Kiki was trying to keep the excitement out of her voice and failing miserably. “This could get you an Oscar nomination, Sweetie.” Cory felt a sensation around her ankles. Her gray cat, Doll had silently wandered up and was gently rubbing against her. “And here’s the best part,” said Kiki. “I’ve got you a hundred and fifty thousand, plus points.” Cory reached down and picked up Doll.

“You’re kidding.”

“Points, Cory! Points in a Wayne Hampton picture. I am so good, I cannot stand myself.”

“How did you do it, Kiki?”

“I convinced them you’re going to be bigger than Julie Christie, Streisand, Ann-Margret, all of them. This movie will make us both rich!”

“Calm down, Kiki. I’m thrilled and thanks a lot. You are the best. Do I have script approval?”  Kiki’s voice dropped an octave.

“I’m not a miracle worker kiddo. What do you want?”

“Well, I read a few scenes at the audition. I read a couple more at the call back. It’s a dynamite part, but I’d like to read the whole script.”

“Don’t worry dear. You play the younger sister who betrays her country while putting her older sister in danger with the communists. It’s a fool proof part.”

“Yeah, that sounds like me.”

“And I stipulated that your character will not have a nude scene.” 

This is what Cory was waiting to hear from her agent. “Thanks Kiki. How about the language?”  There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Cory heard Kiki let out a resigned sigh.

“You will drive me to the Loony Bin for Agents.”

“I thought that’s where you are now, Kiki.”

“Ha. Ha. Be at Global Productions on Tuesday at 9:00. We’re signing contracts and making it a publicity moment. For the film, not for you.”

“Kiki, you cut me to the quick. You know I have no ego.”

“You have an ego. You just don’t show it.”

“See ya, Kiki. And thanks again.”

Cory hung up and touched her nose to Doll’s.

“We’re going to be rich and famous, yes we are.” She walked over to the window, watching the rain, rubbing Doll behind the ears. She looked up into the grey clouds. A tear rolled down her cheek. It was not a tear of sadness, but of deep gratitude.

“Thank you Lord. Thank you for Thy love. I don’t deserve your goodness or the bounty you provide me.” Her heart was full. Life was too good for her. Cory put Doll down and started unloading the groceries.

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.”