***
Lucky didn’t
realize it at the time, but the moment they’d climbed onto the train at Grand Central Station they
had entered a whole different world of travel. Previously, their travel budget
had been limited to a submarine sailor’s wartime wages – bolstered by family donations - and,
in civilian life, the earnings of a struggling young student couple making do
on the GI bill and menial jobs in post-World War II America. His parents were
restless people – always on the move whether it was necessary or not. However,
up until this time they’d always stayed in drab hotel rooms and ate in dingy
cafes with limited menus.
On their first night on the way to Cyprus, however, they’d checked into the Plaza
Hotel in Manhattan – later made famous by Kay Thomas in her Eloise books. It was
an elegant place. Thanks to the generosity of the CIA it was the first luxury hotel Lucky had ever stayed in. He was pressed into service as a babysitter while
his parents enjoyed a night out, thanks to the generous per diem. Lucky didn’t
mind. Little Charlie would sleep the night through. Besides, the suite was
lavishly furnished, with couches so soft they practically swallowed him whole.
Windows looked out over the glittering Manhattan skyline. Also, there were
books to read and programs to listen to on the impressively large radio in the
main room.
Best of all, there was room service. Raised on the
road, Lucky knew all about room service. He also knew he had to be careful
about what he ordered, because his parents were young and still struggling
financially. But with the CIA per diem dollars burning a hole in his pocket,
Lucky’s father had told him to order whatever he liked. Already a little tipsy
from room service cocktails, he said it with a grand sweeping gesture and a
beneficent smile.
Lucky took him at his word. After studying the menu –
which was confusing – he decided to get some help. This was a tactic he’d
tried before with great success. He ordered a large Coke from room service and
chatted up the waiter, writing in a generous tip to assure immediate
friendship. Then he confessed his problem with the menu. The waiter was
sympathetic and sat down with the boy, going over the hors D’oeuvres, salads,
soups, main courses and deserts. A little later he brought in a tray with a
little bit of everything – all arranged on covered dishes. Then he lingered,
showing the boy how to use the different utensils, explaining this dish or
that.
The waiter was curious, giving Lucky the chance to
really try out his story for the first time. Mr. Blaines had advised that it
was always best to be open, friendly and talkative with strangers. Instead of
evading questions, he said, welcome them. Fill in so much detail that no one
would ever suspect anything was being left out – especially the CIA connection.
Lucky told the waiter his father worked for the State Department and they were
going to Cyprus. Plaza employees were worldly people who dealt with all manner
of international businessmen and diplomats, so although the waiter had never
heard of Cyprus, it seemed that there wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about
living abroad.
"You already understand tipping," the
waiter laughed, giving Lucky a little mock punch in the shoulder. "But
when you’re in all those foreign places money isn’t always the best way to
tip." The boy frowned, wondering what could be better than money. "Don’t get me wrong – good old Uncle Sam’s greenbacks are always
good," the waiter said. "Better’n any local money. But the thing is,
American stuff is even scarcer than American money these days. Talk to the
right guy and you could buy the Taj Mahal with a carton of Lucky Strikes.
Things are tough overseas. Everybody wants American candy and cigarettes. Nylon
stockings. Coffee… You name it, if it’s American, they’ll most likely want it.
"Wait’ll you hit the road. You’ll see."
* * *
In 1952 there
were only two kinds of airline travel in the Western world: first class and
first class with a berth. Since Lucky and his family were traveling on CIA
money, they got the berths.
Lucky loved them. They folded up into the ceiling
over the seats. At night the stewards and stewardesses pulled the berths down
and made them up fresh. When Lucky climbed the ladder and slipped through the
curtains he thought it was a little like entering Tom Sawyer’s secret cave, except
the stewardess would bring him hot chocolate if he rang and an extra pillow
to raise his head so he could see through the porthole in comfort. He’d stretch
out there for hours as the big propellers drove them onward through the
darkness - fingers of many-colored flame shooting across the glistening wings,
beguiling him with fantastic visions.
Life was marvelous on those planes. The seats were as
big and soft as armchairs. They were arranged in pairs, with a wide aisle
separating the two rows and if you put up the padded arm and drew the curtain
you had a reclining couch to nest in. It was like having your own small room,
with a wide porthole to view the billowing clouds. If he was thirsty or hungry
he only had to buzz the galley, where the food was deliciously prepared by a
chef wearing a tall white hat and was served fresh and hot at any hour. And all
through the day the chefs sent out little delicacies for them sample, just to
brighten their moments.
Lucky rarely saw another child traveling, which probably
explained the fuss the stewardesses always made over him. On one flight a
stewardess sat next to him for awhile. She fell asleep, her head gradually
coming to rest on Lucky’s shoulder. Her perfume washed over him, arousing all
kinds of delicious sensations. He didn’t move the whole time she napped and
when she awoke his arm had lost all feeling. But he didn’t care, especially
after she winked at his mother, who was ensconced in the aisle seat across from
them. With a knowing smile, the stewardess said Lucky had been a perfect
gentleman. Then she rewarded him with a kiss on his cheek. Lucky’s mother
laughed and said he’d made a conquest, wiping the lipstick off with a lace
hanky.
On another plane an old dowager and her poodle
occupied two first-class seats. Lucky was astounded that anyone could be so
rich that they could afford a seat for their pet. He’d heard that the tickets
cost as much as most people made in a year. The old woman was dressed in
widow’s black and wore a fortune in glittering rings on each of her fat little
fingers and her triple-layered chin was set off by a fan-shaped necklace
studded with jewels. The poodle was a snooty dog - ignoring any attempts to
lure it into play. At mealtimes the chef would braise and slice beef hearts,
which were served on a white platter. The woman fed the dog with her bejeweled
fingers, wiping the gravy from its jaws with a linen napkin and coaxing the
animal with kissing noises when its appetite flagged. Afterwards, when it was
time for the dog to do its business, she’d ring for the steward who took the
poodle for a walk in the cargo hold.
All that comfort was welcome on those long, slow
flights where time seemed suspended by the sounds of deep-throated engines. It
was a long and lazy journey, with frequent layovers in Ireland, England,
France, Germany and Rome. They were never tired – without jets, there was no
jetlag. Just a leisurely transition from one place to another, with few
inconveniences along the way.
Wherever Lucky and his family went they were treated
with the utmost courtesy, especially in Germany where the scars of war were
more than evident and the people ducked their heads and quickened their steps
when an Allied jeep went by, the MPs scanning the crowds with cold eyes. Many
of the streets were still in rubble and the evidence of bombing was everywhere.
It was just as bad in England, where Lucky saw his first bomb craters and rows
of fire-blackened flats being pulled down by workmen.
Americans, he soon realized, particularly Americans
traveling on diplomatic passports, were looked upon like visiting royalty. It
made Lucky feel like a character in a movie. Adding to the feeling of unreality
was the constant reminder that his father was engaged in an exotic business
rarely experienced by anyone outside a movie house. Every place they stopped
the same routine was carried out. Waiting on the other side of the customs’
line would be a gray-suited man from the embassy holding a sign bearing his
father’s name. The family would soon be whisked through customs and in a few
moments their luggage would be gathered up and off they’d go to the hotel in a
chauffeured car. The hotel, always the one with the best accommodations in the
city, would be their home for several days and sometimes a few weeks while his
father visited the embassy - being briefed, he called it.
While his father worked Lucky and his mother saw the
usual tourist marvels - Buckingham Palace, the Eiffel tower, German castles,
and the Roman baths. He was introduced to great art in the Louvre and other
famous museums; to symphony music and the theater in London; to ancient history
at Stonehenge, where he and his mother picnicked while his little brother
crawled among the huge mysterious stones.
It was like a fabulous, extended vacation and after
awhile Lucky nearly forgot his previous life, where knowledge was a boring
thing taught by knuckle-rapping nuns. He was especially looking forward to
Greece - their last stop before flying on to Cyprus. Greece was the home of the
gods and goddesses; of mighty Hercules and the wily Ulysses.
He was eager to see the white columns of the
Parthenon, built, it was said, to honor the wise and beautiful Athena, who was
Lucky’s personal favorite. But, as it turned out, it would be several years
before he set eyes on such wonders.
* * *
Everything
went terribly wrong when they reached Athens. The moment his father
displayed their passports, the Greek customs official turned hostile. As usual
there was an embassy man with a sign awaiting the family on the other side of
the customs line. Lucky saw his father wave to the man, who smiled and waved
back.
Suddenly, the customs official started berating
Lucky’s father in barely decipherable English. About what, the boy couldn’t
tell. From his father’s reaction Lucky could see that he was just as puzzled.
The Greek official was so angry and excited that his English failed him. They
did their best to interpret his garbled commands, hoisting up the suitcases for
him to examine. But instead of the usual polite, if thorough check of the
contents, the man scattered their belongings all over the table, embarrassing
Lucky’s mother when the man held up her underwear, waving them about as if they
were contraband.
The American embassy official put down the sign and
approached. A heated argument ensued and soon the customs agent’s superior
joined in. All the other passengers were staring at Lucky and his family as the
debate raged. Soon other Greek officials gathered to form a knot, pushing Lucky
and his mother to the edge.
His baby brother started crying and Helen comforted
Charlie, looking worried at first, then indignant when one word in particular
was hurled about with increasing frequency. That word was "smugglers."
"What a nerve," she said to Lucky. "What
would we smuggle? Do they think I’ve got the Queen of Sheba’s jewels hidden in
my underwear?"
"I heard them say something about gold,"
Lucky said. "Do we have any gold?"
Helen’s Irish temper flared. Just then one of the
Greek officials looked her way. She waved her left hand at the man, displaying
her wedding ring. "It’s the only gold I own," she said.
The man reached out - as if grabbing for the ring -
and Lucky’s mother gasped and snatched her hand back. "You just try,
Mister," she snarled. "You’ll have to cut off my hand."
The official shrugged and turned back to the
argument. Finally, some sort of conclusion seemed to be reached and Lucky and
his family found themselves being ushered by armed soldiers through big double
doors into the narrow security corridor with its uncomfortable bench.
The embassy man came along, assuring them it was just
some sort of snafu. Lucky’s ears perked up. He was always eager to add color to
his vocabulary. He asked his father what that word meant.
"Snafu?" his father said. "Oh, that’s
slang from the war. It means ‘Situation Normal All Fu’" - and Lucky saw
his mother elbow his father and his father made a hasty, mid-course correction
- "Uh... Fouled Up."
Lucky wasn’t fooled. The "F" word had clearly been intended. He muttered it to himself as he got out his book to pass
the time. He was many pages into it before the fat little Greek diplomat
arrived. He was full of self-importance, puffing out his ill-fitting brown suit
as he took command. When he sat, crossing his legs, he displayed sheer red
socks that his mother later said were disgusting - all that thick black leg
hair showing through. The diplomat informed them that Lucky’s father was
suspected of committing grave crimes against the government of Greece. Prison
was mentioned and Helen said if that was so she’d refuse to leave the country
until her husband, Allan, was released. The diplomat only smiled wickedly and
said that Madame would likely find herself in prison as well, since she was
obviously an accomplice.
As the heated argument resumed, Lucky - who was
coincidentally reading The Count Of Monte Cristo, and already considered
himself an expert on such matters, having recently devoured Huckleberry Finn
for the fourth time - began planning their escape from whatever cell they were
placed in. All he needed was a sharpened spoon to dig a tunnel and everything
would soon be set right. Finally, some sort of temporary agreement was reached.
The family would be confined to the security corridor - under military guard -
while the diplomat conferred with his minister and the American embassy man
consulted his superiors.
And there they remained through several changes of
the guard, each soldier seemingly younger and more belligerent than the other.
Lucky’s father said they were innocent bystanders,
drawn into a dispute between the Greek government and the U.S. State
Department. Apparently a gang of former GI’s, who’d stayed behind in Europe
after the war was over, had been caught smuggling gold out of Greece. For
reasons Lucky wouldn’t learn until much later, the Greeks considered this the
final straw in a long list of alleged wrongs committed by the U.S., whom they
believed had conspired with the GIs. Coincidence had drawn the Cole family into
that waiting net when they presented the diplomatic passports that were part of
his father’s cover.
"But what will we do?" Helen asked her
husband. "What if they were serious about prison?" She hugged his
brother tighter. "What about Charlie?" she said. "And Lucky? Who
will take care of them?"
His father smiled. "Don’t worry, honey," he
said. "Somebody’s about to get their pucker string yanked - damned
hard."
Lucky was delighted when he heard that. The Greeks
obviously thought they were dealing with one of the "fat assed" state
department types his father was wont to malign. Very soon a certain mysterious
American would make a phone call that would strike fear into the hearts of the
Cole family’s tormentors. Lucky thought such power was delicious. It was like
having Zeus as your personal best friend. A mighty god who’d hurl lightning
bolts at your tormentors.
Hours passed. There was no food served, but there
were plenty of warm cokes to drink - they’d been sternly warned about drinking
the water in Greece. Helen always kept a good supply of peanuts and raisins in
her purse to stave off hunger pangs and so they weren’t in danger of
starvation. As for his baby brother, there were enough jars of baby food and
bottles of sterilized water and powdered formula in the large baby bag Helen
carried. After awhile, however, the diaper situation looked like it was going
to get serious. The family’s luggage had been confiscated and every request for
someone to fetch a fresh supply of diapers had been greeted with that tsking
noise that Lucky quickly realized was a sound of rejection.
Using Monte Cristo for cover, Lucky shifted in
his seat to get a better look at his father. Less than thirty, he was a small
man with a gymnast’s build. He had a large head, close cropped hair making it
seem even larger. His coloring was sallow, like a man who had spent much time
in the sun in the past and was now going pale. Lucky’s father was a man who
rarely smiled and blinked infrequently. He held the world at bay with his moody
blue eyes in a piercing, unnerving gaze. Allan Sr. was the product of a
much-married mother whose habit was to leave her child in the care of relatives
for months at a time whenever she’d shed one husband to take another. He was
also a submariner, fighting both in the Atlantic and the Pacific during the recent
war. His boat had penetrated Tokyo Harbor in one of the most daring exploits in
submarine history. Negotiating a maze of mines and sub-catching nets, Allan and
his crewmates ran so low on air during that stealthy mission that doctors
feared some of them might have suffered brain damage.
Lucky wasn’t sure what that meant. But he had noticed
that one drink, even a beer, could turn his father’s somberness into sudden
high humor. Which, after a time of jokes and games, was frequently followed by
angry incidents that Lucky didn’t like to dwell upon. Those incidents were best
thought of as bizarre acts of nature. Like the two hurricanes he’d experienced
in Florida. Wild acts of tremendous force and even violence but without seeming
cause or reason. Lucky remembered one storm when the powerful winds had lifted
up bricks piled beneath his bedroom window. They slammed against the panes -
heavy blows, just short of breaking the glass. Knock, knock, knocking like his
father’s knuckles rapping at his door in the middle of the night, getting him
up to play. Or to punish him. He never knew which.
Mr. Blaines routinely asked Lucky about his home
life, wanting to know if everyone was happy and well-treated. It was a
question, the boy suspected, that was best not answered honestly. And so he
lied. To be more accurate, he avoided the truth - which was one of Mr. Blaines’
favorite phrases – "Sometimes it’s best to avoid the truth at all
costs," he used to say. Lucky always answered his queries about the family
by telling hero-worshipping stories about the great fun he had with his father:
the games they played when Allan Sr. was off duty; the books and poetry his father
read to him, like Edgar Alan Poe’s "The Raven," which was Lucky’s
favorite poem of all time.
Mr. Blaines had taught Lucky well. Before he left for
Cyprus the boy could dodge the truth at will by giving overly detailed accounts
of a few true things. Secrets and lies. Lies and secrets. Two very necessary
things in a time when the atom had only recently been split and the whole world
was poised at the edge of destruction.
Lucky shifted his attention to his mother. Helen was
curled up asleep between Lucky’s father and the baby carrier that held his
brother. She was a city girl from a large, warm South Philadelphia family.
Raised in an Irish working class neighborhood, she was usually full of laughter
and humorous stories. She could turn the smallest incident into a hilarious
tale that was frequently longer than the incident itself. In her late twenties,
she was remarkably pretty - as were all the Guinan women. Her oldest sister had
been Miss Philadelphia and it was family lore that she probably would have won
the Miss America title if her father hadn’t forbidden her from entering a
contest that he believed exploited women. Another sister, Rita, was a famous
ballroom dancer in style of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Helen had a long,
delicate face with startling blue eyes set deep and framed by long lashes. Ever
since he could remember, Lucky had noticed the way that men watched her when
she walked by – even though she didn’t wiggle like a sexy movie actress. She had a
brisk, business-like walk that never seemed to tire as she moved from one task
to another with swift efficiency. Even so, the men watched her just the same.
Lucky suddenly noticed that his mother’s skirt had
ridden up, exposing her legs to the stocking tops. She wouldn’t have liked
that. Why, his mother wouldn’t even stand in front of an open doorway on a
sunny day for fear that the bright light shining through her dress would be too
revealing. Then the boy caught the guard staring at his mother’s legs. It made
him angry. He glared at the guard but the young soldier ignored him. Lucky saw
the man’s eyes glitter as his mother shifted in her sleep and the skirt rode higher.
"I have to go to the bathroom," Lucky
announced to the guard.
Annoyed at being interrupted, the guard shifted his
look to the boy. He shrugged an elaborate shoulder-lifting shrug that was
insulting in every way and manner. He muttered something in Greek - pretending
he didn’t understand. Lucky knew better: earlier he’d noted the interest the
soldier shown in his parents’ conversation.
"I said," Lucky repeated, "that
I have to go to the bathroom." He added a rude, schoolyard gesture, whose
meaning could not be mistaken.
The soldier grunted, getting it. Then his eyes turned
mean. He shook his head - no.
Lucky stood up. "Well, I’m going anyway."
He started to walk toward the far door where the
foul-smelling facilities were located. The guard hissed something that sounded
like a curse. His heavy hand fell on the boy’s shoulder. Lucky tried to pull
away, but the guard tightened his grip.
Then his mother’s voice snapped out - "Keep your
hands off him."
Lucky craned his neck and saw his mother was very much
awake now and angry. "He won’t let me go to the bathroom," he
complained. The soldier snarled another Greek curse, his fingers biting into
Lucky’s shoulder. "Ouch," he said, more surprised than hurt.
His mother shot to her feet. Behind her, he could see
his father jolting awake. Helen stormed over to the soldier, who was so alarmed
at the menacing figure - all of five foot one, if she stood on her tip-toes,
and perhaps 100 pounds - that he let go of Lucky’s shoulder and stepped back,
bringing his rifle up like a horizontal bar.
And then all of Helen’s anger at the Greek
bureaucracy and the injustices she had been forced to endure poured out,
scalding the young guard. "Get that - that - THING out of my face,"
his mother railed. She shook her finger at the tall soldier, who cowered as if
it were a pistol. "I’ve had just about enough of your rudeness," she
said. "First you accuse us of this smuggling nonsense, then you make us
sit here all night. You don’t feed us, don’t let me wash out the baby’s dirty
diapers. And now... and now... you have the nerve to tell MY son he can’t go to
the bathroom. Well, you’d better watch out, Mr. Big Shot with your big fat
rifle, or we’ll tell the Germans they can have your damned country back."
"Helen," his father called.
"Helen..."
"Don’t Helen me," his mother snarled,
whipping about. "This... this.... soldier had better learn
some manners or I’ll give him such a sock."
Lucky would’ve like to have seen that. Despite her
small size and Catholic academy polish, she had a powerful punch - taught to
her by his grandfather, a former champion boxer who said he was blessed with
more beautiful daughters than the Good Lord had given him strength to protect
and so he’d taught them all to box.
"He’s only doing his job," Lucky’s father
said.
The soldier looked suddenly mournful. He waved at the
drab hallway, and nodded. "Job," he said. "Demitris’ job."
"Oh, ho, ho!" his mother crowed. "So
you’re a liar as well as a bully. You do speak English."
The soldier fought for control. "No speak,"
he said. "Demitris no speak Anglika."
Helen stamped her small foot. The guard jumped as if
it had been the foot of a giant. "Either my boy goes to toilet," she
said, "or you’ll be seeing the back of my hand, sir." Lucky had
noticed that the angrier she became, the more pronounced was her South
Philadelphia Irish lilt.
But the guard seemed honestly stumped.
"Toi-let?" he said, puzzled. "Toi-let?"
"Try WC," Lucky’s father advised.
"What’s WC?" his mother asked.
"Water Closet," his father said.
"That’s what the English call it."
His mother snorted. Her own grandfather had come over
from Ireland during the famine and Helen shared his bitter views of all things
smacking of John Bull. But it wasn’t necessary for her to use the euphemism of
the oppressors, because the soldier was nodding - smiling sudden understanding.
"WC," he said. "WC. Good. I take boy
WC."
Lucky grinned, making sure the guard knew he hadn’t
been fooled, then marched off. The guard followed, rifle at ready in case the
twelve-year-old should make a dash for it. In the bathroom, Lucky stayed in the
stall for a long time. Despite filth that would gag a maggot - as his
grandfather might’ve put it - he was enjoying the situation immensely. What an
odd world this was turning out to be. A soldier guarding a kid while he went to
the bathroom. And the biggest joke of all, was... he didn’t even have to go.
Chaos erupted the moment he returned to the bench.
And out of that chaos things began to work themselves out. Flanked by abashed
aides, the Greek diplomat suddenly returned, wringing his hands and spouting
apologies. A moment later the embassy man, accompanied by a tall, imperious
American who never spoke, but turned cold eyes on anyone who said something he
did not favor.
One thing became quite plain. Although mistakes were
admitted, the Greeks were determined to save face by barring Lucky’s father and
the family from officially entering the country. His mother muttered something
about, who’d want to visit such a Fascist place anyway, but everyone pretended
not to hear.
By happenstance a Cypriot Airlines plane was
departing within minutes and the family was rushed out of the security corridor
and through crowds of travelers - wearing everything from suits to Arab robes
to Indian turbans – all babbling excitedly in many languages.
Then Lucky and his family were being hurried across
the tarmac, trailed by customs men carrying their luggage - including his
mother’s all-important trunks. The plane’s propellers were already turning when
they reached it and somebody had to shout for the wheeled stairway to be rolled
back in place so they could enter. The airplane was ancient and smelled of
aviation gas, mixed with garlic and onion and a peculiar, not entirely
unpleasant, odor that reminded Lucky of a barnyard. It was packed with people,
most with dark Mediterranean complexions and they were all smiling and laughing
and chattering loudly with their neighbors.
The crowding was made worse by all the things the
passengers were carrying. There were cardboard boxes tied with twine and
stacked in the aisle; string bags reeking of strong cheese, dried fish and
black sausage; and duffel bags bulging with gifts for friends and relations at
home. Children ran up and down the aisle - leaping over the boxes - and squealing
with excitement. Somewhere in the back of the plane Lucky swore he heard a
rooster crow.
There were few seats left, so Lucky sat in the
pull-down chair next to the exit door, while his father and mother found a
place back where the rooster had crowed. Charlie was awake, laughing and waving
plump baby fists at the crowd.
Then the airplane jolted forward and everyone cheered
as it lumbered down the runway.
NEXT: THE ENCHANTED ISLE
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!*****
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
 |
| Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969 |
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
*****
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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