To Make Along Story Short

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TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT by Stephen Jackson Powers

Its cold but not cold by any normal standard. The weather in November in Santa Clarita would

be considered spring in most other parts of the country.

Service is prompt at the dealership on Saturday morning and there is only one car in front of me.I wanted to be first because Im a fast, in and out kind of guy. Most people, if you ask them,

would say Im either conceited or indifferent. Beneath my shell has grown a habit of staying by

myself, laying low, avoiding interaction. When I was much younger I was what they now call

agoraphobic. I was so frightened of people I cringed at any circumstance which tore me from

my world of model airplanes and old Warner Brother movies, and as I grew older playboy

magazines. I was frightened to death that someone on a bus might speak to me. It was very

painful. More than most people would imagine. I became an actor partly to overcome this great

fear. Alcohol in my teens became a quick refuge. So, it isnt unusual for me to go an entire day

without any social interaction.

As I entered the waiting area I noticed someone had paused in the task of making coffee and two

stained carafes sat on the counter full of murky water. I nodded to a friendly oversized man and

sat down to make as good a one page synopsis of a script I wanted to send to a film company

representative I had recently met in a five-minute pitch fest meeting at screenwriting

conference two weeks earlier. I had been able to locate him on linked inand because he

thought well of the story I did pitch him though he did say it probably would not be bloody

enough for his company, Lions Gate. This one I was working on was an old one I had written

seven years ago when my marriage was in trouble and I was certain I could write something

commercial. An agent, who did not represent me, read it, and said it was not up to my usual

standard. So here I am trying to resurrect the dead story and theres this guy across from me andIm already thinking Im an jerkfor not engaging him in a conversation since Im plugging

away seeking insight, the perfect set of words that will make the Lions Gate rep drop what hes

doing and request the script. A few phrases come together. A fresh look at what, exactly, was I

trying to write back then when I was functioning on something they put in batteries which had

been prescribed for my manic-depression. I get a little way and say what the hell. I recall an old

Ian Fleming story about James Bond having to spend a weekend aboard a yacht with two boring

people. When he settled in and heard their story his presumptions about them were turned upside

down as they recounted what, to him was the most exciting life he had ever heard about in real

life or in fiction. So I look up. Hes looking at me. Sure is cold starts us off and in a few

minutes he relaxes and we reminisce about our youth. Viet Nam leads to what were you doing

and how did he miss it? Hes a chef, and a teacher, and had worked in an insane asylum in

Mexico City. I say Ive been through there and also where he lived in Nayarit near Mazatlan

where I was almost killed, but I dont talk about myself. We talk about him. I find myself not

wanting to talk about myself. I find myself wanting to talk about Jesse. I add only what is

necessary to keep the flow. If Jesse mentions Guadalajara I say my car broke down there. Jesse

talks freely about himself and I think I am not the first person to hear his stories. As he unveils


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one episode after another he punctuates his stories frequently with to make a long story short.

I am not intrigued, but I am certainly engaged.

It turns out that Jesse worked for many years as a chef. Where did he learn it? Mexico City. Hewould work at an insane asylum during the day and study culinary arts at night in the kitchens of

various high end hotels. They have you peel potatoes at first and you just watch. He hadstarted out in Los Angeles at a technical school, but then an opportunity to go to study in Mexico

came. Nayarit is a small city on the coast near Mazatlan. There he had an Uncle or the wife ofan uncle who had passed away. From there he traveled to Mexico City.

The sixties in Mexico, particularly Mexico City were turbulent. There were student revolts.During one the Mexican Army came into the University, closed the gates and mowed down the

demonstrators with machine guns. Walking to school Jesse saw three students hide themselvesunder a car. The soldiers came along behind them and sprayed machine gun fire under the car

killing them all. Word did not come out immediately in the press but word of mouth spread thestories of atrocity like flame to dry grass. Jesse would go work, to school, lower his eyes, and

pretend not to notice. After all he was a naturalized American citizen. Was it really any of hisbusiness? But, his conscience bothered him at things he saw. The manner of the police and the

military enraged him. He became aware that an orderly had gotten one of the girls in the asylumpregnant. She was only fourteen years old. He had known her and the actions of the man whohad done it appalled him. He summoned up his courage and reported it to the authorities. An

arrest was made and the man was brought to trial. He was convicted on Jesses testimony. Bythis time Jesse was actually teaching cooking at the college. One day the Dean summoned him to

his office and asked to see his visa and teaching certificates. After the man examined thedocuments he tore them in half. What are you doing?Jesse cried out! His voice brought an

armed man into the room who stood behind him. The Dean said he was in Mexico and shouldhave been more careful. The man convicted of raping the retarded girl was the Deans brother. In

Mexico he was told, Blood is thicker than the law. He was told to leave the city immediately or

he would be killed. Jesse turned as the man behind him moved his hand over the handle of hisholstered revolver. Jesse raced to the house of his aunt. As he arrived shots rang out and bulletspieced the stucco on the side of the front door. Whats going on? his aunt yelled. They are

trying to kill me! Yes she said someone had called and saidpack your things. You are leavingor by night you will be dead. She thrust six thousand pesos in his hand. Jesse grabbed his

suitcase and jumped out the back window to an alley. He saw a taxi and ran for it. Take me tothe airport! Quick!, he told him. When he arrived he saw the man who was in the Deans office

with two other official looking men positioned at the entrance. Back up! Turn around! heblurted to the driver. As the driver hastily reversed the taxi he asked him where he was going?

Tijuana, Jesse told him. I know someone who can take you there, said the taxi driver.Hes acrazy old Gringo.An hour later they were parked at an old private airport that was mostly

abandoned. When the plane landed the tallest man Jesse had ever seen exited the plane spittingout tobacco juice as he walked to the hanger. After their introduction Jesse explained that he

needed to get to Tijuana and they arrived at a price. The mans name was Spit Williamson andflew all over the country in an Old C-47 he bought at a government auction after World War

Two. More than twenty years later she still flies like the day she was built. Jesse hopped onboard for what he thought would be a short flight to the US border, but learned from Spit that

yes, they were going there, but not today. Grab aseatPit said and Jesse looked around thecargo area amidst the crates of chickens and goats. There was no other seat. Next to Spit was a


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large empty paint container for spitting in. The seat Spit was referring to was an apple box. Jessesat down, grabbed a hold of the fuselage and held on for dear life. Three days later after criss-

crossing Mexico from Guadalajara to Mazatlan to Vera Cruz and then back to Mazatlan hearrived at Tijuana and realized he did not have his green card. He called his father who asked

him where the hell he had been? Jesse told him and his father told him to wait there he would be

down the following morning. I asked him if he kissed the ground when he arrived back in theStates? He said yes,but I dont think he did. From the size of him I think food was foremost onhis mind back then.

Food is still on Jesses mind forty years later as he still works part time as a chef in a restaurantin Valencia. His career path continued after he arrived back in the US and he became a chef at an

exclusive Japanese hotel in downtown Los Angeles. He has not given up teaching. He teachesmentally handicapped children emotional skills at a high school in the city.

We parted and he encouraged me to write his story if I found it interesting. Maybe one day I

will see a movie and say, hey, thats me.

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To Make Along Story Short