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| Terra Santa - Founded In 670 AD |
Against all logic, Lucky felt betrayed by Jim's announcement that the fiery politics of Enosis had made it too dangerous for him to continue as his teacher. The boy felt he had abandoned by the only adult he had trusted since his father had destroyed all trust when he returned from the war.
In a way, this
was a good thing. Instead of sinking into sulky rebellion, Lucky took an “I’ll
show them,” attitude and attacked his new school with a will to succeed. It was
a Catholic school – Terra Santa – and offered grades one through the equivalent
of 12th grade in America. Founded in 670 AD, Terra Santa was the oldest school in Cyprus. Like the British academy, each class was
taught by a different teacher and the teachers changed classrooms, rather than
the students. Unlike the British school – but very much like American Catholic
schools – it offered an excellent, and even advanced education, aimed at the
finest universities in the world.
Lucky spent the
remainder of 1953 and a good portion of 1954 getting settled into Terra Santa.
His marks from Jim were confirmed by the American Scholastic Society, as were
his grade promotions.
Back in the
U.S., it was a very strange year. There were continued reports of sighting of
UFO’s – flying saucers. Lucky was briefly enamored with them, because as the
son of an agent it was obvious to him that the government routinely covered up
anything it had a vague notion ought not to be let out. He was also convinced
there was life on other planets – why should Earth be the only inhabited one in
the Universe, etc. etc?
The CIA chess
club agreed that alien life most probably existed. But none of them thought
they’d want to visit Earth.
“We’re at the
butt end of the galaxy,” Joe Davis said. “Why’d they want to visit us? Shoot,
we’re probably the most backward folks in all Creation.” As for the sightings,
Joe said, “Sheriff back at home’s always seein’ things. Chases will-o-the-wisps
all over the prairie. Near as we can tell he’s been drunk so long he’s in a
permanent state of the DT’s. I expect that’s what’s happenin’ in those other
places. Bored cops drinkin’ on the job.”
Sen. McCarthy was
also still big at home. He staged hearings, accusing more citizens of being
Communists, but as the year progressed people started getting the nerve up to
accuse him of grandstanding – and worse. Even so, nobody would discuss the man
in the chess club. Like Joe Davis said, “Some new guy’s gonna get mad at me for
pulling a fool’s mate on him and he’ll turn me into Senator Joe.”
Some Puerto
Rican nationalists shot five congressmen on the floor of Congress, sending
everybody into a tizzy about terrorists at home. The Supreme Court ordered
schools to be desegregated, which some predicted would bring a similar violent attack
on the Court by the KKK. Lucky’s father was ecstatic over the launching of the
world’s first nuclear submarine, christened the Nautilus after Captain Nemo’s
sub in the Jules Verne story, “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea.”
One of Lucky’s
favorite happenings – second only to the Supreme Court ruling – was that
Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize. He felt almost as if he’d won it
himself. He got all of Hemingway’s books out of the library and read them end
to end. Yes, this was writing. This was English as pure as it could be.
Terra Santa,
understandably, was not as excited as Lucky about all those events. He was,
after all, the only American on campus, which proved no trouble at all for the
student body of Terra Santa was incredibly diverse. There were British
Catholics, a few Canadians, Armenians, Coptic Christians, Lebanese Christian,
Polish and German Catholic and even a few kids from the Ukrainian and Russian
Orthodox churches. Apparently there was an agreement worked out with the
Vatican that children from Catholic-related churches could attend schools like
Terra Santa if there were none available in their own faith. In return,
Catholic children could attend similar schools in other lands if the same
conditions applied. At the bottom of the agreement was that while the students
would get a Christian education and be welcome at mass and for communion, Roman
Catholic doctrine would not be forced upon them.
The school was
run by a very severe, very old order of teaching priests. They looked a lot
like Greek Orthodox prelates – with long beards, black robes and high hats.
During Mass, however, they wore the same colorful vestments as every other
Roman Catholic priest, and the Mass, and various other sacraments, were
identically administered. Most of the teachers were laymen and women and all
were well qualified for their positions. Some were retired professors, adding
to their pensions while living inexpensively in the warm climes of Cyprus.
Others were the wives of diplomats with advanced degrees from their native
countries. About a third of the students were boarders, who saw their wealthy
parents only on holidays – if at all.
School was 7:30
a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Friday, except for Wednesday, which was a half
day, as was Saturday. Lucky’s curriculum was as follows: Languages: English,
French and Latin; Math: Algebra; Social Studies: World history and political
Geography; Philosophy: comparative religions and logic. PE was also required,
and although the school had no gymnasium or much in the way athletic equipment,
they had a young Italian athlete to oversee their physical health. An injured
soccer star, and favorite of some of the sports-minded monks – he was being
subsidized in his efforts to recover from his injuries and rejoin the Italian
team.
The school was a
partially converted monastery of significant age, with a few newer structures
added – including a Quonset hut donated by the British Army Chaplain Fund that
provided a cafeteria; and some stables that had been turned into additional
classrooms. In Lucky’s mind one of the most amazing things about the school was
that the playing field was on top of the walls of Nicosia.
Terra Santa was
nestled against one of the widest sections of the city’s ancient defenses.
There was literally enough room for a full soccer field. Immense cannons, built
during the age when the Venetians ruled Cyprus, marked the opposite goal lines.
The only trouble was, a bad kick could send the ball flying over the wall.
Which meant somebody had to run down a long flight of stone stairs, while
people above kept their eyes on the ball’s flight. Then they’d direct the
retriever with shouts, until he finally found the ball.
But soccer,
oddly enough, wasn’t the favorite game. Oddly enough. A game called “Red Rover” was wildly popular. The idea was that one guy – the Hero - would stand
in the middle of a marked out field, with a safety line at his back. Facing
him, would be the entire class - which could be up to fifty boys. The hero
would shout “Red Rover, Red Rover, won’t you come over,” and all the boys would
race for the safety area. The hero’s job was to tackle as many boys from the opposing side as
he could – making them his allies against the others. Red Rover tactics called for capturing smaller boys first, then ganging up to overcome the larger lads.
At Terra Santa the last boy to be challenged in any game of Red Rover was a huge Armenian
youth, named Boghos. He was about seventeen, with a small mustache atop a 280
pound body. Boghos was fat, to be sure, but also enormously strong and
surprisingly fast on his feet. So, if the lots declared that he was to be the lone
hero facing the multitude, he’d go after the biggest kids first and quickly win
the game. But if he were one of the running multitude, he’d go back and forth,
resisting all efforts to lift him. Until every last boy had been captured, then
it would take all their combined strength to corral him, then pick him up off
the ground.
For a time,
Lucky thought Boghos was mentally slow. Well, to be cruel – nothing but a big
fat, stupid ox. For most of his studies, such as languages, history,
philosophy, he’d been held back to the lower levels where he was this enormous
hulk amongst kids who had cookies and milk for a break and still took naps.
But, then Lucky learned the Armenian boy was taking advanced classes in science
and mathematics, including physics and chemistry. Apparently, he was a near
genius in those subjects and much prized by his professors.
One day his poor
opinion of the Armenian boy was turned upside down. Lucky usually ate lunch off
campus at one of the cafes, or tavernas. His favorite place was the same café
he’d taken Donna to – the one overlooking Metaxa Square. Here he could have an
American style bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, a cold glass of pasteurized
milk, and a small Greek salad of tomatoes and cucumbers and olives. Before he returned
to school, he always downed the thickest, strongest cup of Greek coffee the
café had to offer – and then he’d charge through his afternoon classes
non-stop. On this particular day, however, Lucky needed school supplies, so he headed
for a newsstand that sold such things, along with the usual fare - newspapers,
magazines, tobacco, condoms and French postcards. After the newsstand, Lucky
figured he’d make lunch off a shish-ka-bob cart.
He encountered
the huge figure of Boghos at the stand, arguing heatedly with the old Turk who
operated it. Boghos was grumbling - in that low tractor-pulling growl he had
when he was angry – that the “Turk bastard” was cheating him. All this was in
English. The Turk, meanwhile, was calling Boghos a lot filthy names in both
Turkish and Greek. Boghos, it soon became obvious, spoke neither language and
was trying to make himself understood in his accented English, with Armenian
and French words thrown in.
Lucky knew for a
fact that the Turk understood English well enough and was hiding behind a false
language barrier. In other words, he was guilty of Boghos’ charges – no doubt
about it. Lucky strolled easily up to the stand. Pretending to ignore the
donnybrook, he picked out more than he intended to purchase and added some
magazines and other things to the stack, to make the sale potentially sizeable.
It was then that
he allowed himself to notice Boghos – and the argument. “Hey, Boghos,” he said
in English. “What’s happening here? Anything I can help with?”
As Boghos turned
and slowly recorded his presence, Lucky switched to Greek and told the newsstand
operator, “Mr. Abaz, let me help you. This boy’s father is a very important
diplomat and could make trouble.”
Boghos replied,
“Turkish bastard takes Boghos’s money. Won’t give change.”
Mr. Abaz said,
“This fat bastard lies through his Armenian teeth. He claims I gave him the
wrong change. Bah! In thirty years, I have never given wrong change.”
Now Lucky knew
what the problem was.
“What he says?”
demanded Boghos, looming over Lucky. He had a way of trying to intimidate
people, although Lucky had realized some time ago that Boghos was no bully. He
was just a big, slow man, in a world of fast little people and sometimes he
became frustrated.
“It’s not a big
thing,” Lucky said. “Mr. Abaz, here, says he gave you the correct change and,
obviously, you disagree.” He looked pointedly up and down the street,
indicating that many curious eyes were on them. “How can we settle this without
the police?”
While Boghos was
frowning at this, Lucky turned his attention on the newsstand operator. “You
heard what I said about the police?”
Abaz grinned. In
a police encounter a Turkish cop would always back him against an Armenian kid.
Lucky said, “You
are probably not in trouble – unless you sold him some of those French
postcards you keep under the counter. Then he can accuse you of selling such
things to a mere boy. He’s underage, you know.”
Abaz’s grin
turned to a look of horror. While he was thinking about it, Lucky turned back
to Boghos, who had come to some sort of a decision.
“I know he
cheat,” the huge lad said. “He think Boghos stupid. Maybe so. But not with
numbers. Boghos never stupid with numbers. Make him give me my money, Lucky.”
Lucky nodded and
switched to Abaz. “He’s willing to forget the whole thing,” he said, “if you’ll
only give him what he believes is his correct change.”
Abaz wanted to
protest, but Lucky displayed his purchases. “For the sake of peace,” he said,
“you can cheat me a little bit with these.”
Abaz hesitated,
then jerked out his cash drawer, withdrew some coins and counted them
one-by-one into Boghos’ hand. The two glared at one another while this was
going on. When they were done, Lucky quickly tossed a bill on the counter that
more than paid for his purchases – and grabbed Boghos’ elbow and hauled him
away before he could let loose the anger he obviously still felt.
He gruffly
thanked Lucky, then marched on – in no seeming direction. Boghos was too
furious to set a course. Instead, he lumbered along, muttering what Lucky
thought must be Armenian curses under his breath. Lucky tactfully drew him into
a little sidewalk café, where he could eat lunch and calm down before they had
to return to school. Boghos insisted on paying as a thank you and ordered up a
huge platter of goat shish-ka-bob and vegetables and rice. He inhaled half the
plate, before Lucky had barely started, then settled down, to drink a cola and
scoop of swaths of humus on slabs of bread.
“Fucking Turks,”
he said, getting the lunchtime conversation started. “Always fuck the Armenian.
Every chance, fuck the Armenian.” He thumped his chest. “Well, I say, fuck Turk
back.”
Lucky tried a
little diplomacy. “Sure, some Turks are bad,” he said, “but this guy is just
trying to feed his family. He doesn’t mean anything. Everybody in the whole
Middle East short changes people. Why pick on him?”
Boghos banged
the table with a massive fist. “He is Turkish shit, is why,” he said. “We know
each other. He hate me. I hate him. Boghos hate all Turks. I study math, I
study science - soon I learn how to
build big bombs and big rockets to deliver them. And I, Boghos, will kill them
all.”
Lucky was
aghast. “That’s awful, Boghos,” he said. “How can you think that way?”
Boghos shrugged.
“I have duty,” he said. “The Turks killed my family, the families of my
friends, and the families of my friends’ friends. It was a massacre – like
Hitler with the Jews. The Turks tried wipe all the Armenians from the face of
the Earth. So, I will learn to make missiles. And I will learn to make bombs.
And when I am a man, I shall kill all the Turks I can manage.”
He said all this
while wolfing down all the humus and bread and swallowing three bottles of
soda. Then, over a platter of honeyed fruits and pastries, Boghos gave Lucky a
short history of what he said was the Turkish massacre of the Armenians.
Between the 1890’s into the 1920’s, he claimed, the Turks had conspired to kill
tens of thousands of Armenians. The land of Armenia itself was emptied out:
everyone who stayed was killed and the survivors fled in terror to the ends of
the earth. Their leaders, Boghos said, were stalked for decades by Turkish
assassins.
Later, Lucky
checked Boghos’ story and learned that it was all pretty much the truth, with a
slight exaggeration here and there – but nothing that would in any way lessen
the horror. Lucky wondered if that would be the eventual fate of the Greek
Cypriots if they lost their battle for Enosis. A small part of him grew to
understand the fanaticism of the people who opposed Jim. It wasn’t that
different from his own people – the Irish who were victimized by the English.
But that was a
lesson from real life. Meanwhile there were the musty, dusty lessons of the
academic world to be mastered. To Lucky’s delight, after his concentrated
one-on-one education with Jim, the school work was not so hard as it first
appeared. He took to the new school with ease. After a time, he found himself
enjoying the company of his classmates – something he missed when he was with
Jim. There was a social world to be mastered, as well as an academic one, he
realized.
He even became a
close friend of a classmate – something that hadn’t happened to Lucky since he
left the States and became a school gypsy. The boy’s name was Keith Digby. His
father was a British diplomat, his mother minor Greek royalty and a great
beauty in her day. Keith was an exceptionally smart young man, a little shy,
but in Lucky’s view a holder of secrets. He guessed – correctly as it turned
out – that Digby’s father was British Intelligence.
Digby was
anxious to introduce Lucky to his mother and she was, indeed, as beautiful as
advertised. Her features were classic Greek – porcelain skin, dark hair and
flashing eyes and a figure a sculptor would sacrifice his soul to capture.
When they met,
she sat in a boudoir decorated with Greek antiquities and she looked like
drawings Lucky had seen of graceful young matrons in classical times. She
greeted Lucky warmly and made him feel that she was supremely happy that he was
her youngest son’s best friend.
Then Digby’s father
entered and the atmosphere changed. A tall, cold, blonde man with a military
brush mustache and a faint scar that ran from crown to chin, he barely took
note of Lucky. Gave him a brusque handshake when introduced, then immediately
broke away to give his wife orders about an upcoming social gathering at their
house.
The way the
woman gulped and nodded as he spoke – along with occasional signs of quickly
suppressed rebellion – Lucky knew that she was struggling under the same harsh
burdens as his own mother.
He said, “I
haven’t met your grandmother, Digs.”
Digby gladly led
him out of the room, through the house and down into a basement kitchen very
much like the one at Lucky’s house. Except, here, the basement kitchen was the
main kitchen. All the stoves were fired up, pots were boiling, giving off
delicious odors, and two maids were operating spits of meat in a huge,
old-fashioned kitchen fireplace. Commanding the kitchen was a formidable old
Greek woman in widow’s black. Her eyes were stern as she watched the maids and
her strong, wrinkled hands were busy shelling peas into a large bowl of fired
clay.
When she saw
Digby, however, all the sternness vanished and she gave a glad cry, pushed the
bowl away, and held out her arms. She clasped the boy to her immense bosom and
rocked him back and forth like a child. Obviously, this was Digby’s ya-yah –
his grandmother. Then she saw Lucky and pushed her grandson away, scolding him
– but teasingly – for not introducing his friend first.
“This is
American friend, yes?” she asked in English, looking Lucky up and down with
critical eyes.
Digby replied in
Greek, that yes, Ya-yah, this is my friend Lucky and he’s an American.
“I’m pleased to
meet you, Ya-yah,” Lucky said in Greek – to the woman’s huge delight. “Keith
speaks of you all the time.”
The old woman
practically adopted Lucky on the spot. Such a nice boy, who could speak Greek,
no less, even if it was with a Cypriot accent. Immediately, she made the boys
sit at the table and imperiously ordered the young maids to bring them
refreshments. The girls giggled at Lucky when they served him little cakes and
cups of sweet, thick coffee and the old woman barked at them for being hussies,
although she did it with a smile twitching her lips.
She wagged a
finger at Lucky. “If you should come to visit me and I’m not here, be careful
of these girls, or they’ll get you into the pantry and who knows what could
happen.”
Lucky was rather
intrigued at this prospect, but he promised Ya-yah that he would take a care.
After Digby
filled his grandmother in on school gossip, she said, “Your brother, Tom, is
coming from England.”
Her words were
spoken gravely and Lucky was surprised to see sudden moisture in her eyes.
Digby squirmed
in his seat. Looking down at the table, he said, “Mother didn’t tell me. When’s
he expected?”
“The Saturday
after next,” the old woman replied. She reached over and covered Digby’s hand
with her own. “Try not to upset your father,” she said. “We need to keep him
calm, yes?”
Digby nodded,
then abruptly got up. “Let me show you our chestnut tree, Lucky,” he said. “I
promised I would.”
He’d promised
nothing of the kind – Lucky didn’t know – or care – about chestnut trees. But
he took the hint and got up. “That’s great, Digs,” he said in English, trying
to sound enthusiastic.
They made their
goodbyes to Ya-yah and hurried from the kitchen. Once outside Digby led Lucky
to the back of the sprawling house, which was half-again as large as Lucky’s. A
tree, that Lucky guessed was a chestnut, sat on the edge of the property. There
were woods beyond. To Lucky’s surprise, Digby pushed past the tree, then shoved
aside some bushes, revealing an irrigation ditch.
“Come on,” he
said and he jumped into the ditch and scrambled up the other side.
Lucky followed,
hopping over the stream of water running down the middle. Digby sat on the
bank, tossing stones into the water. Lucky sat beside him, gathered a few
pebbles of his own and started throwing. He didn’t say anything. His friend was
clearly troubled and he was sure he’d tell him soon enough.
“My brother Tom’s
a smashing bloke,” Keith finally said. “A great fellow. Everyone likes him.
He’s good at school. Fabulous a sports. He’s tall like my father, dark like my
mother and the girls can’t get enough of him.”
“I see,” Lucky
said – not seeing at all. Was this a case of brotherly jealousy?
“He’s eighteen,
you know,” Digby went on. “Been away to school in England.”
“I guessed
that,” Lucky said.
Another long
pause, accompanied by another stoning of the ditch water. Then: “He and my
father can’t stand one another. There’s always a row when Tom’s around. And
this time I’m afraid there might be fisticuffs.”
“Why is Tom
coming home, then?” Lucky asked. “Wouldn’t it be better if he stayed at
school.”
Digby hesitated,
then asked, “You won’t tell?”
“I never tell,”
Lucky replied – and this was certainly more true than his friend would ever
know.
“Tom fallen for
a girl and he wants to marry her,” Digby said. “Dad says he’s too young. Which
is true, I suppose. But that’s not the worst part.”
Suddenly Lucky
understood – it was the British class system. “She’s a bar maid or a shop girl,
right?”
Digby nodded.
“Shop girl. The thing is, my father wants Tom to marry royalty like he did. My
mom’s one of King Constantine’s nieces. A countess or a princess… I can never
figure which. She’s also a cousin of Prince Philip.”
“You mean, like
the Prince Philip who is Queen Elizabeth’s husband?” Lucky asked, all agog. He
couldn’t help it. This was getting interesting.
“The very one,”
Digby said. “Anyway, Father’s ordered Tom home. Either Tom obeys, or he’s going
to cut off the college trust fund my grandfather set up for him.”
Lucky raised an
eyebrow – now there were trust funds involved. Digby explained the trust was
administered by his father until Tom was twenty five, so he could cut him off
without a cent at any time. Meanwhile, Tom had been ordered to Cyprus to have
it out with his father.
Lucky shrugged.
“That’s too bad, but from what little you’ve told me about your brother he’ll
just tell your father to go to hell and do things his own way.”
“It’s not so
simple,” Digby said. He hesitated a long, long time, then finally said – nearly
in tears – “My father… He’ll take it out on our mother.” Another long pause and
a big gulp. Averting his eyes, he said, “My father’s kind of crazy sometimes.
He… well, he… bloody hell. You know what I mean by crazy, don’t you?”
Lucky said, “The
war, right?”
Digby nodded.
“He was in a Japanese prisoner of war camp in Malaysia for four years,” he
said. “It was really awful. He weighed all of ninety pounds when he got out –
and he’s over six foot. You should see the scars on his body. And he still has
all kinds of jungle diseases – malaria is the least of them. So, you know, he’s
got a reason for being crazy. Anybody would, right?”
“Sure,” Lucky
agreed. “Anybody would.” He skipped stones, then asked, “What are you going to
do?”
“Tom can take
care of himself,” Digby said. “He’s as strong as my father now.”
Lucky nodded.
“Okay.”
“But then my dad
gets mad because he can’t beat Tom, so he goes after my mother.”
Lucky sighed. “I
know,” he said.
“I won’t let
him, this time,” Digby declared. “I swear I won’t.”
“I know,” Lucky
said.
“I can get a gun
– cheap, too,” Digby said.
“I know,” Lucky
replied.
“I’ll kill him.
If he hurts her again, I’ll kill him. I swear it.”
“I know,” Lucky
said.
Digby wiped away
tears. Then he said, “Maybe I should wait for Tom to get home and ask him what
to do.”
“Good idea,”
Lucky said. He waited a minute, then added, “About the gun?”
“Yeah?”
“Ask Tom before
you buy it.”
After a minute,
Digby nodded. “Okay,” he said.
NEXT: THE ROSTER OF THE DEAD
*****
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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
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
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.
*****
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United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
 |
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.
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