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Literary Classics Award for The King of Average

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Literary Classics Award for The King of Average

Literary Classics International Book Awards, Rapid City, South Dakota announced The King of Average as a double GOLD  award winner.  It has been awarded two gold medals for Preteen and Middle Grade fiction.

Children’s Literary Classics, an organization dedicated to furthering excellence in children’s literature, takes great pride in its role to help promote classic children’s literature which appeals to youth while educating and encouraging positive values in the impressionable young minds of future generations.

In the tradition of The Wizard of Oz, The Chronicles of Narnia, and the children’s classics by Roald Dahl, The King of Average combines the wit and wordplay found in The Phantom Tollbooth and tells the tale of James, an average boy travelling his emotional landscape in the Realm of Possibility where states of mind are actual places i.e., Lake Inferior, The Kingdom of Average, Accusia and Epiphany. Transported by his wish to be the most average boy who ever lived, he befriends a talking scapegoat named Mayor Culpa, and a professional optimist paired with an equally professional pessimist called Kiljoy. Together they embark on a wild adventure to discover and claim his true self-worth.

I lived through emotional and physical abuse as a child and I believe we all take the various traumas of childhood with us into adulthood. Without self-awareness, we can suffer our whole lives.

I wrote this story to entertain and inspire children to better understand their feelings and discover their own truth in a hilarious allegory. My hope is that it takes a place alongside other childhood classics and inspires future generations.

I’ll be going to Rapid City to accept the awards and meet other winners as well. Their blogs and titles are listed below.

Have a look.

M.J. Evans ~ The Centaur Chronicles
Molly and Gary Whitney – Thistle Downe, a Tale of Trolls and Fairies

The Value of Fun for its Own Sake

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The Value of Fun for its Own Sake

FUN is FUN and Let’s Leave it at That

As an expert in the field of Improvisational training, I want to express to all teachers, counselors and therapists how necessary FUN is in the process and how not to kill its value with “Lessons”.

Children of the Night Workshop

In 1989, I ran a workshop at Children of the Night Shelter, a most remarkable program in Los Angeles, dedicated to taking in child prostitutes, ages 11-17, and helping them remain off the streets and aiding in finding a better situation. Most of the children victimized by prostitution were first victimized by a parent or early caregiver. Most have been tortured by treacherous pimps, and many testify in lengthy court proceedings against the pimps who have forced them to work as prostitutes. In most cases these children do not have appropriate homes to return to, and the only relative who is a suitable guardian may live far away from their hometown.

The structure of the program was strict; necessary for kids with no boundaries; and when I entered the workshop space, there was a feeling of tension in the room similar to prisons and rehab centers where boundary issues are often violated. I could see all the kids were wary of me being brought in ‘for their own good” and they were guarded to say the least.

We began by playing a game called When I Go to California. It is a game of memory where each person in the circle says “When I go to California, I’m going to take a trunk (or any other needed object)”. The second says “When I go to California I’m going to take a trunk and a hat. The third takes the trunk, the hat and something new.  Each player takes, in exact order, all that has been mentioned and adds another. The game continues until it becomes difficult to keep track. Each player assigned a letter to spell GHOST for each memory lapse until there are only a few players left.
It was essential that I, as the coach / teacher, also played.

When the game began, some of the children were suspicious of me and my motives and tested me to see my reaction by selecting shocking things to “take to California”. For example, “When I go to California, I’m going to take my smelly hoochie, my set of works, a pack of condoms, my dildo etc.” With each mention of sex and drugs the group tittered and watched me like a hawk.

When my turn came, I repeated the litany of their ‘tools of the trade’ very matter-of-factly, and then added a pair of sunglasses. I made no distinction or value on the objects as long as I was playing. The smirks and snickering vanished after one round.

The next round became objects of real need, money, a car, my teddy bear, favorite pajamas, little brothers, etc. I became a fellow player without judgment and the playing became spirited and fun. I made no comment after the game, but went on to another one.

Everyone had a great time. I did not comment on the success because that would’ve turned it into a “lesson” which would have kept the children on their guard. The rest of the workshop progressed like any other with laughter and great fun and the children had a chance to play and enjoy themselves without the burden of scolding or even solicitous, well-meaning adults (hidden condescension). The games were played over and over during the rest of the month, providing both kids and supervisors with a break from the “rehabilitation’ model that colored many of the other activities. Judgment turns fun into a “lesson”. Good fun is its own best reward and its value is intrinsic. Fun is fun for its own sake and can release great energy and peerage.

The Reason I Wrote My Book

Posted by on 3:19 pm in Blog, The King of Average | Comments Off on The Reason I Wrote My Book

mike-and-gary-at-the-kitchen-tableMy own personal story was about surviving abuse by parents who struggled with mental illness and the cycle of their own abuse and the precarious way they clung to economic stability in the 1950s and 60s. It shaped my life and guided me toward entertainment and teaching. I feel proud that I’ve managed to marry both those goals in my book, The King of Average.

Here is an unsolicited comment I received from a school counselor who is reading the book with her own 10 year old son.

I just wanted to let you know that my 10-year-old son and I have been reading your book aloud together.  We are on chapter 17 now, and we are having a great time with it!  We have voices for each of the characters based on their perfectly-depicted personalities, and we crack each other up reading them!

At the same time, we’ve had some powerful discussions about James’s home life and the self-talk he’s developed because of it, and how his thoughts create his biggest challenges.  Like all great children’s books, this one has a lot to teach.  I’ve told some of my teacher friends about it too, and suggested they might get copies to read aloud in their classrooms, especially since we have so many children struggling with difficult home lives and negative self-perceptions.

I will be happy to write a glowing review once Aidan and I have finished reading, but I wanted you to know that you’ve given us a lot of pleasure already.  Thank you so much!   —     Annie Portman

PS (I’m a school counselor in a public school with very high needs.)

A Preview of The Benji Loper Caper

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A Preview of The Benji Loper Caper

Chapter 1

Los Angeles Herald Examiner – early edition: May 18, 1985 Beverly Hills, California

Three armed men robbed exclusive Peter DeMeo Jewelers yesterday, walking off with an estimated 20 million dollars in jewelry. The brazen 5pm heist is the largest robbery on record for Beverly Hills.

Police are reviewing videotape and interviewing staff in an effort to identify the thieves. No one was hurt during the robbery.

Management says the store will remain closed until a full inventory is completed.

 

 

Chapter 2

 Ten days earlier… Wednesday, May 8th

 Benji opened a fresh spiral notebook, wrote the words “FADE IN” in bold letters at the top of the page, and rolled a pair of eight-sided dice. “We’re trapped in a maze. Now what?”

“We come to a door,” suggested his best friend Ira.

The boys sat on the hall floor by Benji’s locker as students passed from third to fourth period class at East Hollywood Magnet School. Fourth period was a free period for Benji and Ira.

“The door is guarded by a…” Benji picked up one die and threw it, rolling a one. “… giant troll. What do you do?”

Ira pushed his glasses further up on his nose and ran his hand through his short, curly brown hair. “I say we cast a fumble spell.”

Benji rolled the dice again. “Unsuccessful! We’re attacked by ten trolls!”

Ira scrunched his round face into a frown and folded his arms. “Is playing Dungeons & Dragons any way to write a movie?”

“It’s an experiment, Ira,” Benji explained, sitting back against his locker. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” admitted Ira. “Mr. Jakeman said we could write an original short story. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Benji rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Ira? We’re film makers. All he said was write something original and I asked if it could be a script and he said yes. And I asked if we could use the AV equipment to make a movie and he said if we did we’d get extra credit!”

Ira shrugged noncommittally.

“Look, if we do it this way, we get to play our RuneQuest characters, Flame and Milfador in our movie,” said Benji. “What do you think about the title Fierce Elves?”

Ira shook his head. “Doesn’t thrill me.”

“Me neither. We’ll figure something out.” Benji picked up the dice and was about to roll an action choice when two sets of sneakers appeared at his feet. Victor Hefley kicked at the sole of Benji’s own shoe, jostling the notebook off his knees.

“Oops!” Victor sniggered. “Didn’t see you down there.”

“What is wrong with you, dude?” scolded Jeff, Victor’s beefy sidekick.  “You gotta pay attention.”

Benji pressed his lips together and ignored the taunt. He took up his notebook and went back to his script.

Victor was tall and good looking in a classic high school movie star kind of way, with a chiseled, square chin, light brown hair and deep set, gray eyes. His looks were his only asset though, according to Benji. When it came to intelligence, Victor rolled a fairly low number. Jeff pretty much matched his friend in IQ but was shortchanged in the looks department.

Both boys were ninth graders. Benji, an eighth grader who had scored high on the placement exam, had the bad luck to advance to two of their classes, Math and Social Studies. Even now, with only six weeks of the school year left Benji hated walking into his ninth-grade classes. He was teased about his size and his smarts, and Victor and Jeff were the worst. They delighted in picking on him.

Now the boys loomed over Benji, chuckling.

He fixed his eyes on their big feet and slowly tilted his head to look up into their leering faces. It gave him a great idea for his movie.  Not Fierce Elves! he thought. The title should be something like Elves Among Trolls. He scrawled the title on the top of the page.

“What’re doing?” Jeff sneered. “Writing love poems?”

“Nope,” said Benji. “It’s a movie.”

“Like Planet of the Nerds?” quipped Victor, prompting a yuck from Jeff.

“You wouldn’t get it,” said Benji.

“Are you calling me dumb or something?”

“Yep.”

Victor grabbed Benji by the shirt and lifted him easily up onto his toes. Benji braced for a slam against his locker or worse when he heard a heavenly sound.

“Hello, Victor.” It was Maryjane Kovac from his science class. Benji had a desperate crush on her. He fell under her spell on the first day of class when she asked him to help her with an assignment. Everything about Maryjane was exotic and beautiful. Silver-blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her bangs came to the top of her cats-eye glasses that magnified her pale blue eyes.

Ann Carter, Maryjane’s best friend walked beside her. Ann was a cute, freckle-faced, bespectacled red-head with a reputation for being stuck-up. Nothing impressed Ann. She looked down her pert nose at just about everyone but Maryjane.

Maryjane flashed a big smile at Victor as she and Ann walked past. “No fighting in the halls.”

Both Victor and Benji froze in a pose a sculptor might title, The Bully and the Pipsqueak.

Then, “You wish!” said Victor, seeing how Benji looked at Maryjane. He dropped Benji instantly and followed the girls up the hall.

“What jerks,” said Ira, retrieving the dice and Benji’s notebook.

Benji heaved a great sigh and stared down the hall, transfixed.

“Forget it,” Ira advised his friend. “She’s doesn’t even know you exist.”

“She does so. We sit together in science,” Benji insisted. “She likes me.”

“She’s using you! You do the work and she gets an A. See how that works? And calling Victor stupid to his face!? Are you that much of a butthead?!”

“Well, he is,” said Benji.

“Doesn’t matter. You told me she likes Victor, right?” Ira gathered up his book-bag. “So, let it go, man. Ya gotta be realistic. Girls like that don’t… Hey!”

Benji was already halfway down the hall. Seeing Victor take the initiative, he resolved to do something – anything. He was done pining for the girl in secret.

Maryjane and Ann had stopped and were dallying at the end of the hall. Victor and Jeff appeared to be clumsily trying to engage them in small talk.

Jeff nudged Victor as Benji approached. “Don’t look now, but I think Benji has something to say.”

“Maryjane?” Benji proclaimed, louder than he meant to. His heart thudded in his chest.

Maryjane whirled around, and Benji, shorter than her by four inches was suddenly looking up her nose. She gasped. He was then riveted by the closeness of her full lips, opened in surprise. He could smell her powdery make-up and feel her startled breath on his face.

“D’you wanna go out?” he blurted.

Maryjane took a step back.

Ann gasped and the older boys howled.

“Oh, my god! MJ, Benji’s in love with you!” Jeff guffawed. “Go on – kiss him!” He gave her a small shove that bumped her up against Benji’s chest.

Now Benji backed away, his face hot. The roar in his ears from the blood rushing to his head drowned out their laughter. He just knew she was going to say ‘no.’ But Benji took a breath and managed to mask his total terror with a serious expression while he tried to decide how to react to her response. Potential scenes ran through his mind like jumbled movies in a fever-dream.

He saw himself in a western. No? Well, I just thought I’d ask. Sorry to bother you, ma’am.  Then he’d turn and walk away, never looking back – the lonesome hero, dignity intact.

But what if she not only said ‘No’ but more like ‘NO WAY! OH, MY GOD!? What did you just say to me!? AAAAAAHHHHHHG!’ and ran screaming from him like he was Frankenstein’s monster? He’d hold his arms outstretched, calling after her. Me love you! Me love you!! Hate bad! Love good!

Both alternatives took a few seconds to play out in his imagination. Then he returned to reality. There he stood at the end of the hall, facing Maryjane, with two goons laughing at him and Maryjane herself gawking, open-mouthed.

Ira skidded to a stop in time to hear Benji’s invitation and slapped a hand to his forehead.

Maryjane stammered. “W-what?”

“Do you want to go out?” Benji repeated. Ira grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him away. “With us! Me and Ira. You and Ann?”

“What!?” Ann and Ira shouted.

Jeff and Victor fell into each other’s arms, incapacitated with laughter, gasping for air. “Haaaww!! HAWW!”

Maryjane regarded Victor and Jeff sourly, then turned back to Benji and eyed him coolly. He stood before her – resolute, waiting for an answer. A crooked smile appeared on Maryjane’s face. “Benji! Are you asking us out on a date? Me and Ann?”

Benji, unable to speak, nodded.

“Where would we go?” she asked coyly, casting a quick glance in Victor’s direction.

Victor and Jeff’s hilarity stopped cold. Their mouths flopped open.

Now it was Benji’s turn to stammer in disbelief. “W-wha-at?”

“Where would we go? Where would you take us?” Maryjane repeated. Her friends stood there, abashed. Maryjane, appearing to exult in their astonishment,  cast another look at Victor who gawped back at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Benji scrambled to come up with an idea. “We’d go for dinner. A week from next Friday. At…”  What was the most spectacular place he could think of? “At Devlin’s in Westwood.”

“Are you crazy!” Ira cried out. “Movie stars eat there!”

Benji gave Ira a sharp elbow in the side.

“I made reservations!” Benji bluffed. “Of course, I could cancel them, if you’d rather…you know, go someplace else.”

“He can’t afford it,” Hefley sneered. “Go ahead, MJ. Say yes. I dare you. He’s lying.”

Maryjane gave Victor the stink eye and said reproachfully, “At least he had the courage to ask, Victor!” She turned back to Benji. “How nice, Benji. Ann and I would love to go with you and Ira.”

Benji could not believe what he was hearing. His heart didn’t leap, it soared to the stratosphere. Fireworks exploded in his mind.

“You would?” Ira croaked.

Ann was equally stunned. “We would?”

“Yes. We would,” said Maryjane.

Aghast, Ann stared at Ira, stout, goggle-eyed, sweater-wearing, baggy-pants Ira.

Ira, seeing he was cast as Benji’s wingman, stepped up and said, “Wow! Sure!” He leaned over to Ann and whispered, “I heard Johnny Depp eats at Devlin’s all the time.”

Benji let Maryjane take his hand and write her phone number on the back of it with a Bic pen. Then he sauntered away down the hall, floating on air. Ira followed him happily, turning back only once to wave toodle-loo.

***

       “You’re not really going out with him?” objected Victor.

Maryjane thumped him on the chest.   “Don’t tell me what to do, Victor Hefley.” She changed tone and flirted, “I’m passing science because Benji’s my… desk-mate.”

Ann got up in her face. “Go out with them!? You have got to be kidding!”

“Of course, I’m kidding!” Maryjane tittered naughtily, then chuckled, and ended up letting out a full-blown laugh. “You should have seen your faces when I said yes!”

“Oooh, Benji’s in loovve!” crooned Jeff.

Maryjane turned to Victor and batted her eyes. “Is he the only one, Victor?” Victor fuming at Benji’s boldness and glaring down hall, didn’t register the hint.

“Victor?” Maryjane asked again.

Victor finally focused on her. “What?”

Maryjane let out an exasperated grunt.

Ann leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief.  “Maryjane, how dare you scare me like that! Dinner with those nerds?”

“No!” said Victor, finally stirred from his stew. He punched his fist into his palm. “You totally should!”

“Wha-at?” Maryjane asked.

“You should go!” Victor said. “Let them take you out. We’ll meet you outside the restaurant before you go in and you’ll hang out with us instead. Me and Jeff!”

“On a date?” Maryjane asked eagerly.

“Yeah, sure! A date!” said Victor.

Maryjane beamed. “You mean you and Jeff would take us to Devlin’s? Really?”

Victor’s smile faltered. “We can go for …like a Fatburger or something.” Victor’s eyes gleamed with the thought of revenge. “Yeah. Even better. If he’s really planning on taking you to Devlin’s, going with us for ice cream instead would…”

“Totally burn him!” Jeff cried.

Maryjane pouted. “So, we don’t get to go to Devlin’s? It would be such a glamorous first date.” She gave Victor a longing look.

“No. Better!” Ann interjected excitedly. “Meet us outside afterwards! We’ll let them buy us dinner and then dump them.”

“Yeah!” Victor slapped a victorious high five with Jeff, then held his hand up for Ann who refused to slap it.

After dinner Ann? That’s so cruel,” Maryjane complained.

Jeff rubbed his hands together in malevolent glee. “Mwah-ha-ha! Totally!”

Chapter 3

Wednesday, May 8th, Los Angeles airport

Jerry Nelson stood in the Los Angeles airport baggage claim area holding a sign that read SID POMMERANTZ. Sid, a scrawny, aging movie producer was a steady client of LimoScene, the company Jerry worked for. He handed Jerry his bag and walked with him out to the Cadillac limousine. Jerry, who had memorized the handful of films Sid had produced in the 1960s, rattled off their titles to Sid’s delight and mentioned he aspired to be in show business too.

“So, you’re an actor?” said Sid before stepping into the car.

Jerry nodded, trying not to stare at Sid’s awful toupee which sat atop his head and contrasted drastically with the graying fringe it was combed into.

Sid gave him a good looking over, like a butcher inspecting a side of beef. Jerry was in his twenties, with dark hair and a very elastic, expressive face that radiated good-natured exuberance.

“You got a good look, kid,” said Sid. “Character actor. Better than a leading man. You get older and still look interesting. That means you’ll always work. Take it from me.”

“I’m a writer too,” added Jerry. “Just doing this limo driving gig to, you know, pay the bills and meet the right people.”

“A writer too? Smart! Diversify, that’s what I did. Me? I write, produce and direct when I can. Why limit yourself? I started just like you, driving a cab in New York. Met my first partner driving him around. We hit it off and started our own production company. Keep it up, kid. You never know.”

Sid eased into the back and Jerry got into the driver’s seat.  Sid spread out on the rear seat and luxuriated in the spacious compartment. He crossed his spindly legs and unbuttoned his loud hound’s-tooth blazer. He pressed the intercom. “What kind of stuff do you write?”

This was Jerry’s chance. He started pitching his latest screenplay.  “It’s called Max High,” said Jerry. “Science fiction. It’s kinda like a classic teenage street gang meets Tron but younger. It’s the future. The earth is polluted and the atmosphere’s shot.”

Sid stared out the window, only half-listening. Jerry found it awkward talking over the intercom, so he slid down the glass partition window that separated the passenger compartment from the front to talk more directly.

“So, everyone lives in these giant continental enclosures surrounded by desert and radiation. We follow these kids in a futuristic school run by a huge corporation called InfoCorp. They’re encouraged by their teachers to form gangs of super smart kids and hack into InfoCorp’s data systems. In the future, data is like gold. The teachers’ job is to stop the kids at every turn. Kill them if necessary! Only the very smartest survive. Successful code breakers are then graduated and brought in to invent new security systems and become ruthless company men.  It’s not only the teachers against kids, it’s gang against gang. ‘Anything goes and nothing’s illegal so long as you win.’ That’s what school has become in the future.It’s also a love story…”

Sid asked, “You got a script?”

Jerry handed Sid his latest screenplay from the stack he kept in the front seat.

Jerry pulled off the highway and took the long way into Hollywood in order to give Sid a chance to read it through.

“You got an Escape From New York thing going with the lower levels of abandoned technology. Nice,” Sid offered.

“Thanks,” said Jerry.

“Y’know, kid,” said Sid, suavely smoothing the edge of his toupee with a gentle hand. “You remind me of a young fella I once gave a break to by the name of George Lucas.”

“You gave a break to George Lucas?” Jerry was incredulous. “The director of American Graffiti? Star Wars? Who produced Indiana Jones? That George Lucas?”

“The very same.” Sid smiled. “I judged a student film of his at USC. Didn’t get it, to tell ya the truth — very artsy — but I said to him keep at it, you never know who’s going to think it’s got potential. I told him I’d show it to my boss, Freddie Silverman, the head of CBS at the time.” Another swipe of his toupee. “He passed on it. What can I say? You’d be amazed at how many hit movies we passed on.”

Jerry nodded. “It’s a funny business.”

“It sure is. Lemme take this with me. I’ve got a meeting over at Mammoth studios this afternoon.”

“Seriously?” Jerry’s pulse rose.

“Absolutely. I’ll pitch this to the head of development, Elena Angelo.” Another swipe of the toupee. “I’m meeting with her on another matter.”

“Want me to wait for you after I drop you off?” Jerry looked at his watch. He had to get the limo back for the next pick-up, but he’d risk being late for a chance to meet a real studio executive who had the power to grant his most cherished wish.

“Nah.  This your phone number on the title sheet?”

“Yeah.”

“Good enough.”

***

Elena Angelo peered over her red-rimmed designer glasses at Sid. She was a sultry raven-haired beauty with dark eyes and a sly smile dressed in a smart business jacket, tight skirt and blouse. She fingered the string of pearls around her neck as she read the script. After ten pages, she smiled across the desk at Sid. Sid smiled back.

Elena’s office was the stereotypical executive suite reflecting the accomplishments of the studio and the tastes of someone atop the Hollywood food chain. The posters were all personally signed by illustrious and powerful stars and directors. “Thanks for the opportunity! with Love…” “You’re the best! See you at the Oscars!” etc.

“This is really good, Sid. Where’d you get an idea like this?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, Elena. I mean Ms. Angelo…” Sid began.

“Elena’s fine.”

“It’s been rattling around in here for a while.” He pointed to his temple.

Elena read the cover page of the script. It was handwritten and read “Max High” by Sid Pomerantz with his phone number below it. She flipped the page over. The white bond of the cover page was different than the paper below it. She smiled. It was a common joke among some old-time producers: “How do you re-write a screenplay? Tear the coversheet off and write your own name on it.”

“I’d like to option it, Sid. Five years exclusive rights.”

“Fifty thousand,” said Sid flatly.

“I was going to say thirty-five, but I’m not in the mood to haggle. Okay. You have a deal.” Elena rose and came around the desk for a handshake.

Sid launched himself into a standing position and shook hands. “You know you remind me of a young lady I once helped out of the mail-room at Twentieth Century Fox–” – his hand gently caressed the fringe of his toupee– “–a gal by the name of Sherrry Laaan-sing.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m in the same league as the chief executive of Paramount and first woman studio head.”

“What can I say, Ms. Ange- I mean, Elena?”

“Give Cheryl your card on the way out. Thank you, Sid. We’ll be in touch.”

She waited for Sid to saunter to the door and leave.

The second the door clicked shut, Elena tore off the cover page, crumpled it and tossed it in the wire waste bin by her desk. She picked up the phone.

“Cheryl, get me a table at the Ivy tomorrow for lunch and clear my calendar for the rest of today.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Hello, Charles. Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I’ve got something I think we can really sink our teeth into.”

She laughed. “Oh stop, you always turn everything into a joke.”

She laughed again and hung up the phone. Looking heavenward with a sigh, Elena relaxed into her executive chair and kicked her shoe into the air, thrilled with her new acquisition.

Chapter 4

Thursday, May 9th, 12: 30 pm

The Ivy restaurant on Robertson Blvd. in West Hollywood was crowded. Elena was seated in the corner of the front patio at a two-top table practically on the sidewalk, wedged between the picket fence and a table of chatty Beverly Hills matrons one-upping one another on where they had spent their last vacation and where they were going to go next.  She pinched the stem of her glass and took a large sip, careful to wipe the lipstick off the rim. She peered over her stylish sunglasses at the menu, eyed the oyster assortment appetizer and ordered two.

“Elena!” a man’s voice called from down the street.

Charles was an attractive man of fifty with silver hair who reminded Elena of the movie star Cary Grant in his later years. He wore a very sharp, well-tailored gray suit and yellow tie and carried himself with an easy confidence, conveying that, like Cary Grant, he too was dapper, funny and charming.

“Hello, Elena.”  His smile matched hers watt for watt as he passed by on his way into the hostess station. Within minutes he was seated across from her.

“I’m so glad you could meet me on such short notice, Charles,” Elena said. “Did you have a chance to look over the material I sent you?”

“I did. You’re right. It’s very commercial. But I hear science fiction is very expensive to produce. Special effects cost a fortune, even if you produce it overseas where it’s cheaper,” he said.

“I know, I know, Charles, but this idea is so… potent. It’s got all the right elements. Science fiction, kids, romance, adventure – a message! And the marketing could have so many tie-ins, especially with computers becoming all the rage these days. I’ve got feelers out to some popular young actors. And maybe Alec Guinness from Star Wars for the scientist.”

Charles balked. “A-list kids and big stars…they cost a lot. That’s likely over half the budget right there.”

“Maybe someone less expensive for the outcast scientist?” she proposed.

Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s always hard finding enough money to produce a film. Even big studios like yours don’t fully finance films by themselves any more for fear of losing money. Big budget films are a risk.”

“But a hit can make a hundred times, a thousand times, what you spend on producing the movie, Charles,” Elena argued.

“It’s a gamble, for sure,” Charles agreed. “Speaking of which, how did your last movie turn out? Rick’s, wasn’t it? I read in Variety that it’s your entry at the Cannes film festival this weekend. Do you think it will recoup the ten million it cost you?”

Elena’s last blockbuster remake of the classic film Casablanca had tested poorly with preview audiences, which meant it had little chance of successfully earning back what it cost to make. If it didn’t earn its money back and then some, Elena knew the studio would never again risk trusting her with another big film. If Rick’s was a bomb, her tenure at Mammoth would be short-lived.  She had to bring in a monster hit this year.

She changed the subject. “But this one, Hacker High, is original. It’s potent. It has everything. It could be the next Star Wars!

“How much money are you looking for?” Charles asked.

“At least twenty million. Maybe as much as fifty,” admitted Elena. She leaned in with all the charm she could muster. “I thought we could make it independently, you and I, as a co-production. We could have the studio standing by to market and distribute. You told me you know all about financing, didn’t you? And you love the film industry. This would be a golden opportunity for you, Charles. For us.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, the sun in his eyes prompting a squint. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, weighing the idea’s potential.

Elena noticed she was strangling the stem of her glass with her nervous grip. She released it and composed herself.

Their waiter brought the oysters and stood ready with an order pad and pen. Elena and Charles ordered the obligatory Cobb and lobster salad, the power lunch du jour at the Ivy.

With lunch ordered and oysters before them, they tucked into the meal. She held up her glass for a toast, “To Hacker High, the next Star Wars.” They clinked glasses.

Elena watched Charles sip his cocktail. He was very attractive.  She had met him a year ago last May, at the last Cannes International Film Festival on the French Riviera. It was at a screening of her well-received Hours of Desperation, Mammoth’s arty remake of the classic crime drama Desperate Hours. Elena had heard about a wealthy American playboy living in Cannes who was connected to casino investors and had a beautiful boat for hire. And she wanted the most sumptuous vessel in the harbor in which to wine and dine her show-business dignitaries. And that vessel, The Lady Eve, was owned by Mr. Charles Pace, bon vivant, and casino financier.  Elena had rented his yacht for the after party. Then, when Elena found out Charles was unattached, not gay, and possibly interested in investing in movies, she invited him to escort her to the party.

Afterwards, they spoke on the phone a few times over the year. It led to a pleasant flirtation. His last message told her he was in Los Angeles for an extended stay and would love to talk film sometime. What great timing for this script to fall into her lap.

She smiled at Charles and removed her glasses. “Well?”

“Personally, I’m only good for maybe eight or nine million,” he said.

Elena’s smile evaporated.

“I’m not saying I can’t find more,” he quickly added. “I’d have to get some interest from … certain parties.”

Elena’s expression didn’t change.

“Don’t look so sad, my dear,” Charles consoled her. “After all Star Wars cost only nine million back in the day. I’m intrigued. Really. Maybe I can get the Oxbridge Foundation interested. Truxton doesn’t know much about movies, but he’d feel good if he knew I was putting up some capital. It would give him confidence.”

Elena gasped. “You know Truxton Oxbridge? The billionaire?”

Charles grinned and nodded.

“Actually, I know his son. Truxton the Fourth. ‘Trucky’ we all called him. I manage his trust fund. We go way back. I was his senior advisor at Exeter College. Helped him get through. He was… how shall I put it? Socially awkward. Painfully so. His father was grateful for my guidance. When I opened my own firm, he gave me charge of the trust fund. I’ve guided Trucky’s fortunes ever since,” said Charles blithely. “I’m an investment counsellor, Elena, and I don’t usually like to name drop but his father is my biggest client. Don’t let it get around. He relies on my discretion.”

The reports of Elene’s last box office numbers were below expectation and the poor reception of her entry at this year’s film festival had the studio in the red.  The grapevine murmured that it might be time for a new head of development.

Now, a weight lifted from Elena’s shoulders. With her newly acquired Hacker High, she had a chance to change all that. She was filled with a new confidence.

“Come to Cannes with me, this weekend, Charles,” she said.  “I want to show you off.”

Chapter 5

Thursday, May 9th

“Benjamin! It’s 6:30!” Lorraine Loper called up from the bottom of the stairs.  “Cliff can drop you off at school if you hurry!”

Benji grimaced.

“C’mon, champ! Wakey, wakey!” hollered Cliff, Benji’s stepdad to Benji. Then he said to Benji’s mom, “Get in that kitchen, babe, ‘n rustle us up some breakfast, would ya?”

Benji heard the customary slap on his mom’s rump and her shriek of“Oh, Cliff! Stop it!”

Benji sighed. Cliff fancied himself a ‘ladies’ man’ and Benji resented the crude way he treated his mom.

“Daylight’s burnin’, little man! Hustle!” Cliff hollered again up the stairway.

Benji hurled off his covers and jumped into his jeans that lay in a neat crumple at the side of the bed. He hated being called ‘little man’.  So, he was short! Why make it a nick-name? He had started calling Cliff ‘big fella’ but that ended with slap from his stepdad, who told him to have some respect. Yeah, right. he thought.

“Coming!” he shouted through the door.

It made Benji mad that his mom had to settle for Cliff. “Give him a chance.” she told him. “He works hard and pays the bills.”

When he got downstairs, Cliff was already at the kitchen table, buried in the morning newspaper while wolfing down waffles. He had on his Wooley’s Trucking cap and matching embroidered denim jacket. Cliff was embroidered on the front pocket. Some of his long, sandy brown hair poked out of the gap by the plastic strap that sized the hat to Cliff’s head. Cliff sipped his coffee and said, without looking up, “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Benji didn’t answer. He plopped himself down in the captain’s chair opposite the man. Benji’s mom handed him a plate of waffles and went back to the stove.

“I’m meeting Ira at the bus stop. No need to drop me off, Cliff.”

“Sure, champ,” Cliff replied. “Okay with you, lover?”

Benji cringed.

Cliff was so different from his real dad. Richard Loper was a short, wiry man with a conservative crew-cut and wore a white shirt and tie, almost like a uniform. He was a hardworking salesman for a big company before he struck out on his own, setting up and running his own insurance company.  That’s when things had gone bad.

Benji’s mom had constantly worried about money and complained Benji’s dad was always spending more than they had. “It’s the cost of doing business. You have to look like a million to make a million,” and “Relax, it’s only money” were his father’s favorite sayings. But Benji’s mom counted pennies and disliked living beyond their means. One day, when Benji, when came home from school, his mother told him his dad was gone and was never coming back. He’d been arrested for embezzlement. That meant stealing funds from your own company. Dad had spent all their savings and left them broke.

That was it. Just like that. His father was gone. No goodbye. Nothing.

It was a bad year for Benji and his mom. She declared bankruptcy and managed to save the house but had to get a job at a restaurant to support them. She had refused to let Benji communicate with his dad. A year later she had met and married Cliff.

Benji resolved to make the best of things. He’d also made a conscious decision to be more self-reliant. The lesson being, you can’t really count on anyone.

Benji threw himself into school work and did well that year. He got such good grades he was moved to the East Hollywood magnet school where he could learn at his own pace and focus on subjects he liked. He was cheerful and friendly but he chose never to speak about his family to anyone.

Until he’d met Ira, that is. After he and Ira became best friends, he introduced Ira to his mom and Cliff but still, he never talked about his real dad. Best friend or not, that kind of information was strictly on a need-to-know basis.

Cliff got up from his chair and backed it across the linoleum floor with a loud rat-tat-tat. “G’bye lover. I’ll be back in a week.”

He strode over and took Benji’s mom around the waist for a goodbye kiss that made Benji put down his waffle, grab his book bag and bolt. “Gotta go!”

“You be good to your mom, little man!” Cliff called after him.

“I will!” Benji shouted as the screen door to the back porchh slammed shut.

He jumped the steps and hit the ground running. He headed down the alley behind the small fenced-in back yards lined with garbage pails and hurried towards Fountain Avenue in Silver Lake, an older residential and commercial area in central Los Angeles. He was eager to talk to Ira about their double date at Devlin’s.

On his thirteenth birthday, a red envelope had arrived addressed to him marked Personal & Confidential. Inside was a card from his dad and seven one-hundred-dollar bills. Dad’s note said that he had earned this money honestly while in prison, had no need of it, and wanted Benji to spend it on something that would make him happy. The letter ended with the words “I Love You. I let you down. I’m sorry. Dad.’
The P.S. asked Benji to promise not to tell his mom about the card or where he got the money. Benji had no problem keeping that promise. That information would only hurt his mom and complicate his plans.

Those seven-hundred-dollar bills were now tightly folded and tucked into his front pocket, and would pay for the one thing that would make him happy: An evening with Maryjane and a fabulous dinner with his best friend Ira and Maryjane’s best friend – all on him.

Benji reached the end of the alley, rounded the corner and was promptly yanked from behind and spun around. “What’s your hurry, Benj?”

It was Victor and Jeff.

 

 

Pixar Personifies Personality and Paves the Way for My Book

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average-map

THE KING OF AVERAGE’S Landscape of Self-Esteem

inside-out

Alliteration aside, I was happy to see the successful translation of personality traits in Pixar’s Inside Out. It is a triumph of story, character and metaphor and a dazzling piece of animation. It tells the story of Riley, an eleven year old girl, whose early life makes here a well-adjusted, authentic child. But as she approaches the confusing, contradictions of growing up she has conflicting feelings of alienation when uprooted and moved to a new city and school.

Her metaphorical anthropomorphic characters represent Anger, Sadness, Fear, Disgust and Joy and are wonderfully portrayed by great comic actors. It has a wonderful message for kids – you are shaped by your feelings and don’t deny them.
The conflict of the movie comes when Riley is convinced she needs to be the happy child for her parents during a stressful time in their lives, denying her own feelings in favor of theirs. And therein lies the drama. It is what psychologist Alice Miller described in her book, The Drama of the Gifted Child. Pixar resolves this story in a wonderfully charming way and we can all relate to setting aside our needs for others.

I’m jazzed that the movie has come out at the same time I’m about to publish my book, The King of Average, because my book uses the same conceit. My hero James is an eleven year old boy who has a more acute case of the Gifted Child Syndrome.  He has been wounded by a narcissistic, cruel mother and he too befriends his metaphorical partners, Guilt in the form of Mayor Culpa, a talking scapegoat, Optimism in the person of Monsieur Roget ze ‘appy Frenchman and his partner Kiljoy, a professional pessimist. He is travelling the landscape of his psyche.

His self-esteem is so damaged that he’s convinced he’s as terrible as his mother tells him. Yet, as he rebels against that notion, he can only aspire to be not-so-terrible, but less-than-terrific, so he decides to become the most average person in the world. It propels him into a new world where Average is a Kingdom, and child-kings rule places like Accusia and Appathia.

With the success of Inside Out, I can’t wait to option the movie rights to The King of Average. Hey – It could happen…!

Viola Spolin’s Writing Game

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One of my main missions in life has been to teach and share the work of my mentor Viola Spolin with the world. Now, as I move towards writing at this stage in life, I feel I should share tools I’ve picked up along the way. Viola Spolin was a genius. She was my friend and mentor and encountering her changed the course of my life. People are amazed that I bring that up first and acknowledge her inspiration instead of tooting my own horn.

I admit I am a gifted teacher of Spolin. Probably one of the only teachers who understand her work and practice it at the level I do. So what? I am eternally grateful to her for what she gave me and I love passing it along.

So, here’s a gift to writers. A game she devised as part of her search for transformative doorways to the intuitive.

Four-Way Writing

Any number of players and one sidecoach

Materials: 4 pieces of paper or one divided into quadrants, pen or pencil

Label each paper 1, 2, 3 and 4. Title #1 My Dream, #2 How To, #3 A Story and #4 A letter (or any 4 disparate subjects or styles of writing. i.e., A memory, A poem, etc.)

Sidecoach calls out a number to the players. Players must begin (without hesitation or forethought) writing on that subject. Writing is to continue non-stop. Points off for hesitating or too much thinking and not writing. After a short interval coach calls another number and players must INSTANTLY SWITCH to that number’s page, writing non-stop on the new subject. Coach will call each number randomly and at intervals under one minute. Players are to switch to each subject called and continue writing where they left off.

Game continues until each player has covered each page with writing.

Focus: To switch instantly between 4 different subjects when coached

Sidecoaching: Keep writing! Don’t plan! No pausing – write continuously!

Points of Observation:

  1. Each subject requires a different mode of thinking and switching instantly between modes allows access to player’s intuitive areas.
  2. This is an exercise and not a test. Have fun and push to make switches instantly. Hesitation is bound up with worry that what you write will be evaluated. Judgement causes hesitation. Judgement is subjective and will cancel flow.
  3. Avoid forethought. Forethought is writing without putting it down.

When I originally played this game, I was struck with not so much with the content of what I produced, but what I was left with after the experience. I felt agile, present and surprised by my own stuff. The information was secondary to the feeling that I was able to leap before looking, talk before thinking and think while doing.

This is the essence of improvisation to create in front of yourself and an audience. When improvising the ultimate goal is to be just as surprised as the audience at what develops out of solving the problem. That is stepping into the not-yet-known and that is where art is born.

A Nod to Norton Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth

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It’s fifty years since I read The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. The book endures as a modern classic in the vein of Alice In Wonderland, Gulliver’s Travels, and the Odyssey by Homer.

A few years back, I wanted to re-adapt the stage play of The Phantom Tollbooth into a Story Theater format. A form developed by Paul Sills, the son of my teacher and mentor Viola Spolin. There was already an adaptation out there, but it was not as satisfying as I knew it could be given a different treatment. So I contacted Samuel French and they put me in touch with Mr. Juster’s lawyer to whom I wrote a letter explaining the need for a new version and my qualifications for writing it.

Imagine my surprise one Sunday morning, while watching the TV program Sunday Morning, in bed with my wife, when the phone rang. “Gary Schwartz? Norton Juster here.”

I sat bolt upright and muted the TV.

“Mr. Juster. What an honor. What a surprise.”

It was as if Lewis Carrol or Johnathan Swift called. This legendary writer who I admired since childhood dialed my number and here I am in my underwear, sitting at attention speaking to the man himself.

“My attorney tells me you want to adapt my book into a play?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Why?”

I explained that much of the nuance and charm was missing from the stage adaptation that could be easily added with this technique of narrating the action by the actors who are also speaking the dialogue. I gave him the history of Second City and Viola Spolin and Paul Sills and he was very attentive. We had a great conversation about how Phantom Tollbooth has been a movie, an animation and soon-to-be, an opera. But he also said, on the advice of his attorney, one stage adaptation is all they want. Another would confuse things.

I accepted his explanation and said thank you and hung up the phone. I had spoken to Norton Juster.

Recently, I finished my novel The King of Average an homage to the wordplay Norton Juster so famously used and just because, I decided to send him a copy with a fan letter, letting him know his impact on me and my growing up years.

I got an email back within a week!

Dear Mr. Schwartz:
I have received the book and the note you sent me, but unfortunately I’m afraid I cannot offer any assistance.
I have had a series of difficult health problems this past year and am unable to take on any additional projects or concerns. 
I wish you the best of luck with the book and your future.
It is a long, hard road I know, but you sound dedicated and determined.  The rest is just hard work and luck.

Thank you for the book and your kind words.

My best to you.
Norton Juster

It’s thanks enough that he has a copy of my book and I his email. I will heed his advice and persevere.

Bloom Where You are Planted

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I ran away once to Boston for two months when I was sixteen. I hated where I lived. Who I lived with and my whole existence. Ever feel like that?

Obviously, I wasn’t happy at home, what with chaotic family dysfunction, an unrequited mad crush on a girl and the usual teenage angst that everyone goes through. So I thought, ‘make a new start’.

I had an older, cool friend named Giles who played the saxophone and was going to Boston to become part of a blues band. I got a ride with him and a place to crash. The band had a house in Somerville, a seedy neighborhood across the river from Beantown.  I thought, what an adventure. A new city, following a band around, and I’d be happy at last.

The band was really good. They drank beer all day and played gigs at night. I hung with these cats who were much older than me and who were pretty rowdy. It wasn’t much fun. I couldn’t go to the clubs because of my age, so there was little to do other than watch rehearsals at the house. They were prodigious drinkers. My job was to go to the corner store and return empty bottles of Narraganset beer for the deposits so they could buy more beer.

I was a mopey kid and not a musician and not friendly with anyone other than my pal Giles.  The adventure fizzled pretty quickly.  One day, while I sat on the front stoop and listened to a great jam going on inside, a ruckus ensued when one of the players (I think the drummer) shouted “You all don’t get drunk enough to play the blues!” before passing out. Someone called “Take five!”

James, the lead singer and my friend Giles came out and joined me on the steps. They smoked and talked and included me in on one of their philosophical conversations. I told them that I was depressed and didn’t know anyone in Boston except them and that I was lonely and bored. “This city sucks.” I said.

“Hey man.” James said. “Everywhere sucks. Get used to it. Being on the road sucks and this house sucks, but you know what? You gotta bloom where you are planted, man.” My friend concurred.

“Bloom where you are planted.” That stayed with me and gave me a lift.

I left Boston and went back home. It still sucked, but I had friends there, I knew the roads, the shops and a lot of kids in school and realized it’s not the place, but the people who make a place good or bad. That phrase and practice has stood me in good stead over the years, as I moved from my home town to various places to make my way in the world.

“Bloom where you are planted.” It’s great advice to give a disconsolate teenager or anyone who complains “This place sucks.”

Screams from Childhood

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I’m busy picking my jaw up from the floor. I just found a review of a book by Martin Miller, the son of the famed Alice Miller, author of “The Drama of the Gifted Child”, the book that influenced my journey to connect with my authentic self and inspired me to write “The King of Average”. The book is called “The True Drama of the Gifted Child”. It appears that his mother Alice Miller victimized him in the way she describes in her own book! It’s as shocking as if Sigmund Freud slept with his mother! There’s no denying their contributions, but give me a break!

In searching for interesting things to blog about, in order to promote my book, I came upon the author of the book “Screams from Childhood” Barbara Rogers. 

Barbara Rogers was a personal friend of Alice Miller’s and broke with her a few years back. I just ordered her book.  “Screams from Childhood”. The stories of adults who’ve overcome the drama of a gifted childhood, are often horrific and unsettling. Her stories and poetry echo that feeling and it is brave and needed, in order to help those so afflicted with a less-than-ideal childhood.

From Oliver Twist on down through the ages, we celebrate children overcoming adversity, but we never go under the hood, so-to-speak to see what damage might have been done to the soul of such children. What if Henry Miller wrote Oliver Twist? We’d see the shadowy doubt and psychological motives for Oliver’s actions, which would be a very different story indeed.

I suppose, I covered over the horror of my own life with humor. It became my shield, my calling card and my salvation and my way of coping. And though I support and empathize with anyone who’s endured privation in childhood, describing the horror sometimes makes it hard to look at.  There is a need for provoking such feelings and I respect anyone who can tell the truth.

“The King of Average” is my attempt to put into a form that is both entertaining and fun, a journey that many children of neglect have never taken and should take. For me, I still use humor to communicate the same message. I celebrate in my own way my triumph in my book “The King of Average’ and I hope I will have added another way to look at “The Drama of the Gifted Child”.

Gary Schwartz, North Bend, WA

Friends are my Salvation

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My first Best Friend

My very first best friend was Chip Sutton. How we became friends somehow escapes me fifty years later. The first thing I remember about him was his laugh. He laughed explosively, with a hoarse cough. I remember thinking it must hurt to laugh like that. Like having a whooping cough, but it came with such a delightful appreciation of anything I did that was funny.

That was me. I was funny. I was the funny friend. I could make him laugh. When we hung out, that was a big part of the fun. I’d do funny voices and sound effects and we’d hack around. (In the late 60’s that was the term for doing nothing in particular – hacking around.) I spent a lot of time after school over at his house in an upscale neighborhood not far from school. His parents were my ideal of what parents were supposed to be. Father Clem (Clement Evans Sutton Jr. – Chip was Clement Evans III but always preferred Chip. Wouldn’t you?) was a southern gentleman; reserved, kind and tolerant. Chip’s Mom was a mother who could’ve had a TV show in the style of Donna Reed, Southern style, and Chip’s sister Betsy was sweet, fun and pretty; a few years younger, she idolized her brother.

I became a fixture at the Sutton home. I slept over a lot and was welcomed by the whole family. Meals were a bit tricky for me, for the family was religious. Before meals we’d have to hold hands and give thanks, listening to the blessing given by Mr. Sutton or sometimes Chip. The honor was given on a rotating basis.

Now being a cynical Jew raised by hypocritical parents, put me in an odd situation in this regard. My parents were first generation Brooklyn Jews and wanted me to have a bar-mitzvah in an orthodox synagogue, which meant I had to go to Hebrew school three days a week after school. Hebrew school was done in a low-rent area of Schenectady. My teachers were definitely old world Jews from Germany, Russia and Eastern Europe, and most likely survived the holocaust or had searing memories of that period before I was born. Mr. Friend was my cultural history teacher. He made the Old Testament stories come alive for me and made me proud of my Jewish heritage. He hated Jesus Christ and never referred to him by name. “JC” was how Mr. Friend referred to the false messiah.

When you are ten, eleven and twelve years old, this makes an impression. Religious indoctrination is a strong ingredient of anyone’s youth. And had I been more inclined to accept Judaism, by example of my parents, I may have never looked into the life of JC, my best friend’s savior, read Siddhartha or studied religion as an outsider.

Here is a good example of why I am not religious:
I attended an orthodox synagogue, Temple Beth Israel. Shabbos (The Sabbath) is days of rest for observant Jews and they do not use machines of any kind. This meant I had to walk to shul. My mother worried it was too far and, not wanting to tax me too much, would drive me to within three blocks of the synagogue and tell me to get out and walk the rest of the way, like the other Jews. This was a great thing for me to see at twelve and set me on the path of skepticism.

So, I would walk to shul and attended services. Boring! Old men in heavy full tallises (prayer shawls for you non-Jews) would look like shrouded bobbins dovening in the front rows. The pews were wood and had Siddurs (prayer books) one side Hebrew, the other English. The women sat in the balconies and the side areas while the men sat in the main room. It was all very traditional. I remember the Rabbi would give his sermon in English, but pray and sing in Hebrew and I can’t for the life of me remember anything he ever mentioned that stayed with me. I was more interested in why the girls were separate from the boys and kidded around with some of my Hebrew school pals.

After shul, I would walk back to a prearranged spot and be picked up by my mother, who would drive me back home and make me delicious bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with a malted milk on our Hamilton Beach mix-master with the steel cup. So rather than swallow the teachings of the Torah, I swallowed pork with milk and realized that I could not be an observant Jew. I gladly made peace with this bit of cognitive dissonance.

So back to the Sutton dinner table with me, Chip, Besty and Mr. and Mrs. Sutton all holding hands around the table and Mr. Sutton says “Chip, would you please say grace?”

I bow my head reverently. Chip begins, “Dear lord, we thank you for the blessings you bestow upon us. For this meal, for our family and our friends.” Chip squeezes my hand. “In Jesus’ name, we praise God from who all blessings flow. – Amen.”

I’m glad that’s over, I think to myself and we begin the meal. Chip passes me the roast potatoes on a plate. I make a sharp stab at one with my fork, thinking that I’ll plunge it into a nice, soft cooked potato. I did not realize that these were crisped and fried Southern style and my fork glanced off the hard shell, scattering potatoes all over the table and the floor. I was crimson with embarrassment. Chip let out a hoarse whooping cough laugh and helped me salvage the potatoes on the table and picked up the ones from the floor and took them into the kitchen. He barked his laugh all the way in.

Chip was a very talented artist and he drew cartoons. His panels would be about him and his sister, or him as a super-hero (I’m not sure I’m remembering this properly, but it’s what comes to mind as I write this, anyway.) He also could draw a mean Popeye and Brutus and Olive Oyl and I was in awe of his artistic talent.  We loved Get Smart, James Bond and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Chip was a shutterbug. He loved taking pictures, so I got a camera and did some photography too. We took Kodachrome slides and black and white film and got them developed at the local Woolworth’s. We made up stories like “Secret Agent Alfred State”. I was Alfred State. Why? Because my sister went to Alfred State University and I had an Alfred State T-shirt.

We shot photos of us jumping and doing odd, silly things and then, when the photos came back as slides, we’d sit and make up a story based on the images, and project them in the carousel projector.
I was so glad to have a friend like Chip. One day, having slept over, I’m walking down the stairs and bump into Mr. Sutton, who was getting ready to head to the office. He took a look at me on the staircase as he stood by the open front door and said “Tuck in your shirttails, Gary, that’s disgusting.” In his great Georgia accent, which came out “Tuck in ye-ah shoittails, Gary, that’s dizz-gustin’.” Rather than be embarrassed or feel chastised, I suddenly felt elated. Mr. Sutton, a father-figure, took the time to look at me and make a correction for my own good.

My father (whom I look on fondly now as a tragic figure, valiantly struggling with a harridan of a wife and severe bi-polar disorder) never did anything like that. He’d criticize or ignore me in his more docile state and hit me in his manic states. The Suttons were my refuge. I stayed away from home as long as I could, without wearing out my welcome.

So it happened one Friday afternoon after school in the library that I confessed to Chip how the police had to come and break up another of my parent’s fights. I always spoke matter-of-factly, keeping the drama out of it, reporting as if I was talking about some other kid. Chip knew my situation mostly, though we never really talked about it. I hated being pitied, by anyone other than myself.
So as I went on and told him how depressed I was, he took me by the shoulder and looked me in the eye.

“Gary. I can help you. You have to let Jesus into your life.”
JC? I think. “Yeah, right.” I say derisively.
“No, I mean it. He can save you. He wants you to be happy.”
“I want to be happy too.” I say.
“You have to open your heart to Jesus and accept him and it’ll happen. I promise you.”
I see how earnest Chip is and try my best not to make some wise-crack. “I wish I could, Chip, but I can’t.”
“You told me yourself, you’re not really a Jew.” he says.
“Yeah. So?”
“So bring Jesus into your heart and you’ll be re-born.”
I can’t resist. “Sorry, once was enough.” I say.
“I’m serious, Gary. You have to.” Chip says, handing me a pamphlet. It’s an illustrated story of how Jesus Christ can enter your life and give you salvation. I take it and go and sit down in one of the aisles of books and go through it. The pictures are simple and Jesus is the typical image of a kind savior. I leaf through and it reads something like, Give yourself to God. Give Him everything you are, everything you hope to be, all your dreams, visions, hopes and desires. Make everything His, and He will demonstrate His power through your life.”

On the last page is the contract; an actual contract, promising to give your life to Jesus Christ.
I, NAME HERE promise to give my life to my lord and savior Jesus Christ in return for salvation and everlasting life in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

“I’ll have to have my lawyer look this over. I’m not going to sign anything without his approval.” I say.
This obviously stings and Chip’s eyes fill with tears. “I love you, Gary and you need to accept Christ. I want you to be happy and this is the way, you have to believe me.”
I begin to cry. I see how I’ve hurt him, but I can’t bring myself to play into this ridiculous thing. A contract with JC? You have got to be kidding. I explain to him in all seriousness, even if I sign this, I don’t believe it and I’d be mocking his religion even more. “Please, don’t make me.” I begin to cry.
We both are sobbing now: Me for my wretched depression, self-pity and fear of losing my only friend. Chip, for whatever reason, I can’t know other than he’s truly heartbroken at not being able to bring his best friend to Christ.
After a while, we wipe our faces and walk solemnly out of the library into the parking lot, where we part. I walk slowly home and so does he. It is not the end of our friendship by any means, and though it is a wall that will never come down between us, we love each other to this very day, even though our lives are lived at opposite ends of the continent and we haven’t seen each other in decades.

Caleb, Stan, Skip & Mike

The greatest blessing of my life is that I have several life-long best friends. Chip, Skip, Caleb, Mike and Stan, and they, for me are my salvation. God bless friendship.