Blurring The Lines

Blurring The Lines

Jerry Zehr

Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

Carl Jung

Copyright © 2012 Jerry Zehr

www.jerryzehr.com

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All rights reserved.

ISBN:1470019124

ISBN-13:978-1470019129

Cover Design by Mick Adreano

Second Edition May 2012

Zehr Publishing

Printed in the Unites States of America

Dedication

I want to dedicate this book to Elizabeth Diop and Jennifer Clark, my soul daughters, whom I love. I am proud of how they have grown into the young women they are. I also dedicate this to my daughters, Jennifer and Lori, my grandchildren, Atticus and Colette and all my nieces and nephews, whom I love deeply.

I thank God for my wife, Diane. She brings a rainbow of colors into my black and white world. I thank God for Dad, Mom, Bob, and Sharon, who gave me the values and foundation to grow into the person I am today. A special thank-you to my sister Peggy who spent hours editing my manuscript.

I want to thank Peggy Danzl for encouraging me to keep writing even when I thought I had nothing to offer. Thank you to Steve and Brenna Penrose for the idea of the front cover and title. You’re the best.

This book would not be complete without the wisdom and advice from Marje Treff and Scott Colglazier. I thank God for Lois Giancola, Lori Crantford and John Fischer who came in my life in kairos time.

Blurring the Lines

I sat at my kitchen table staring at the phone. My right leg was bouncing up and down, I couldn’t keep it still. My heart was pounding hard in my chest. Part of me wanted to make the call, and another part of me was afraid if I picked up the phone, my life would be in greater danger than it already was.

Detective Richardson was sitting at his desk in the police station in downtown LA. He was on the third floor with men who were part of his task force.

There were eight detectives put together to concentrate on white-collar drug trafficking. It was 6:30 pm, and with only two other detectives from the day shift, the bare fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling cast a cool, harsh light into the room making it feel colder than usual. Each desk looked similar to one another except Richardson’s, which had stacks of papers on both sides.

After 20 years on the job, he never enjoyed doing paperwork and put it off as much as he could. He forced himself to stay late this evening to complete his report on this new drug operation. He was tired and hungry when the phone rang. Richardson here, he barked.

I jumped. The voice on the other end did not sound like the easy going detective I had met a couple of months earlier. This is Thomas Anderson. You came to my apartment some time back, do you remember me?

There was a sound of shuffling papers, a pause, Yeah, I remember you. His voice softened a bit.

I knew these next words would set me on a path from which there was no return. "I’m ready to meet."

There was a moment of silence and then, Can you meet at 8:00 pm?

"Sure," I said reluctantly, feeling like I was walking a path that was dark and unfamiliar.

"Meet me at Marie’s Café, on Sunset Blvd. Do you know where it is? I think it’s close to where you live."

"I know the place," I replied. I sensed this path would lead me to freedom or to my death.

"I’ll see you there." His voice had a new energy.

When I hung up, I knew making that phone call would change the rest of my life.

The Beginning

It was 1978. Los Angeles was a town bustling with many wannabe movie stars, but I was going to be different. I grew up in a small Amish town in northern Indiana. My parents had grown up Amish, and then as they became adults, they joined the Mennonite church in town. Most people believe the Mennonite church broke away from the Amish, but it was the other way around.

The Mennonites became too liberal, so Jacob Amman led a group of Mennonites to follow stricter codes of dress and behavior, and they became known as the Amish. I always thought it was funny to think of the Mennonites as liberal, because in our church, we could not dance, drink, smoke or play cards. Anyone who was not a member of our church was going to hell, and to me, this was conservative.

My parents were God-fearing Christians who had tried to raise their kids with good Christian values. Entertainers and fast towns like LA were not big on my parents’ list of favorites. I grew up going to a Mennonite church where the minister talked about all the evils of the world. I always felt worse about myself when I left church. I knew I was going to hell for something. To a young person sitting in a pew, having a man point his finger at the crowd (I was sure he was always pointing at me), and pound on the pulpit was scary. The crazy part was, I had gone to summer church camp having wonderful experiences learning about God’s love, and these two opposite experiences would create a conflict in my soul that would disturb me for many years.

The first year I went to church camp I was ten years old. I had never been away from home for a whole week and as my parents drove from the camp, I sat beside my suitcase, homesick before they were even out of view.

I began walking toward the other kids when a six foot, muscular, bald black man walked up to me. This was in 1965, when our country was going through civil rights conflicts, so for a boy from an all-white community, this was scary. I had never met a black person; I had only seen images on TV that did not portray black people in a good light. As I look back at that time, I realize how many assumptions I made about people of other races never having actually met them. I guess that is how many prejudices begin, out of ignorance.

Are you Thomas Anderson? The big man asked.

Yes sir, I replied, as I looked up through my pop-bottle glasses.

My name is Andrew Johnson. I will be your counselor.

As he said those last words, I heard myself gasp for air. I could feel my legs start to shake in fear at the sight of this man staring down at me. I was desperate to go home.

By the last campfire of the week, I became close to Andrew. With my pop-bottle glasses and goofy haircut, I always found myself on the outside of the main group of kids. Andrew had noticed how awkward I was around the other kids and had taken me under his wing. I was always acting up, being the jokester, trying to get attention. Andrew saw my natural ability to perform, so he would let me direct the kids as we acted out the Bible parables. Andrew could tell I yearned for attention and affirmation.

The last night we had a big campfire, and Andrew noticed I was sitting alone. He came and sat down beside me. Thomas, Andrew said, you’re a good boy. I don’t think you believe it, but you have talent and a big heart. I made something for you.

He gave me a handmade macramé cross. I hope you keep this cross as you grow up, remembering God’s love in your life. As I took the cross, he got up. May this cross always remind you of our friendship, and remember, God loves everyone and is bigger than any one church. I had never been given a handmade gift like that before. I sat there feeling such a mixture of emotions. I felt guilty I had not wanted Andrew as my counselor when I first met him. I felt sad that I was going to leave this man who had become such a good friend to me. Most of all, I felt a warmth inside my heart that I had not felt before. I sat there holding onto the cross feeling loved. I knew my parents and grandparents loved me, but for an adult to give me a gift like this made me feel valued and loved in a way I had not felt before.

When I got back home to our church, I heard a message about the judgment of God, and how everyone who didn’t follow the ways of our church was going to hell. I always felt conflicted about my experience at camp; seeing Andrew and others of different faiths being people of God just didn’t fit with the teachings of my church.

As I got older, I questioned these teachings of the church and, at the same time, found affirmation from my performances in theater. When we moved to a bigger town for my dad’s job, I started performing in community theater productions. My father never came to my shows. I never knew if he disapproved of my being in the theater, or if he just saw it as a waste of time. I eventually went to college and majored in theater. I loved directing and performing in shows, and I acted in summer stock productions between school years.

My father had always hoped I would get a regular job, settle down and have a family like he had. He hoped I would follow in his footsteps, but it was not my way, I kept saying. Well, let me know when you want to get a real job, would be his response. So you could imagine my father’s reaction when I graduated from college and told him I was moving to LA to be an actor. To the people in our Mennonite church, LA was the sin capital of the US, after Las Vegas, of course.

I got rid of the pop-bottle glasses and goofy haircut. I was five feet ten inches tall with more than 25 shows under my belt, and a resume picture. I was ready to stand out from the crowd like no one had before.

I didn’t realize there were 100,000 other people each year that came to Hollywood thinking they were going to do the same.

Chapter One

When I moved to LA in the spring of 1978, I had $600. I found a cheap studio apartment in Culver City, and with first month’s rent and security deposit paid up front, I knew I needed to get a job right away. I got the classified pages and started circling some different places where I thought I might be able to get work. I needed a day job so I could audition and perform in showcases at night.

I went out, not knowing the area, but found a couple of jobs as a waiter and a position as a hotel clerk. I spent the day applying, trying to land something that would provide some quick cash and reliable employment. The trouble was, when prospective employers saw my undergraduate degree in theater, they knew I probably wouldn’t be around long. Sure enough, after two rejections applying for waiter jobs, I finally found myself at the Beverly Hills Comstock on Wilshire Boulevard, interviewing for the desk clerk position. I didn’t even realize the hotel’s reputation.

The Beverly Hills Comstock was right beside the Beverly Hills Hilton, but the clientele were – well, nowhere near alike. The Hilton was where all the movie stars or anybody who wanted to be seen would stay. The Comstock was the place where famous and rich people who wanted to be more secluded resided. The hotel was made up of suites, where some people lived all the time, and others would come for a month.

As I approached the entrance, I noticed the front was all glass, 40 feet high and at least 30 feet wide. There were two sets of double doors featuring door attendants with white gloves and blue double-breasted