Screen Writer

On a high 70s, partly cloudy Tuesday afternoon it was the first time I went to pick up Melville Shavelson in Studio City. He was the former president of the Writer’s Guild of America – West. His home was nestled on fertile orange grove soil between Ventura Boulevard and Laurel Canyon on Sunshine Terrace. However, I usually cut across Carpenter Street. The moment I introduced myself to Mel, he had a bottle of Beaulieu Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon and a couple of plastic bags from Ralph’s. The wine never ran out. He told me to go pick from the fruit trees located in his backyard. The thought of picking up produce from where it grows struck me as better than going to the grocery store. There’s plenty of ripe fruits growing from Lemon and Orange trees once planted from agricultural farms that where there before the housing developers bought up the tracts of rich land. The plastic sacks bulged like a load of florescent tennis balls. Below the next door neighbor’s tennis court was an underground wine cellar. Mel taught me from this act of generosity that, “there’s work to be done”. There’s lush diversity in the thriving vegetation. The yield of my own produce will depend on how well I take care of my garden. I walked on sunshine. Tuesday’s with Mel, was the highlight of my schedule. When I chauffeured him from private drive to private university I knew this was an exclusive responsibility. It’s how I fulfilled the requirements of my scholarship. It’s like the entertainment qualifier, “Who have you worked with?” This pairing wasn’t all about the learning process of writing, but what I have observed by walking side-by-side Mel.

Mel said, “This is a bright yellow car. Is it your Taxi?” I said, “No it’s the Buttermobile.” The traffic steadily flowed as we shared the cabin space together, the sports suspension responding to my spirited driving winding down Ventura Boulevard to the entrance ramp past In N’ Out onto the 101 Freeway. Near Philippino Town I maneuvered around the vehicles traveling the same direction as if they were hindering my pathway as I darted to make another daring lane change. We came to a sudden complete stop in back of a massive California Transit Truck with a large yellow vertical bumper, resembling a billboard that Mel quite clairvoyantly noted, “Look, he’s telling you something.” After I read the sign, “Thank you for driving safely” I changed the pace like a humbled hare. Gliding toward entrance three on McCarthy Way and Figueroa, he handed me seven crisp dollar bills to pay for the on campus parking. Mel was always generous toward me with action and spoke to me with words of wisdom like a grandfather. My weekly duty instilled a sense of purpose and exclusivity like I was the one who was picked. The character who plays the role of the understudy in a film rises to become like the one who is carrying his leather suitcase as we strolled into Trojan Grounds inside the Birnkrant Residential tower, he stopped to purchase a espresso con panna and whatever I wanted at the moment before we headed out. Students studied on the reflecting pool’s concrete steps in front of Leavey Library on our right. Friends and classmates gathered on grassy knolls, others glided by on longboards, bikes spilled out of the bike racks. Students chucked frisbees to one another like the first day I visited years ago. Scheduled students crisscrossed the quadrangle like a time-lapse scene. The sun kept everything lit and fountains flowed in measurements of plenty. We headed down to the basement of Waite Phillips Hall, room B – 27 where the Academy Series course would soon begin. When we arrived early, we’d walk over to the USC bookstore. He’d usually pick out something for Ruth, his wife. A pair of matching oven mitts and sunflower seeds to munch on while the class filled the presentation room. Mel always spoke through an amplified microphone attached to a tape recorder for proper documentation. At times he’d read off of a historical script, kept in a large white three-ring binder, about his colorful life working with people such as Sophia Loren and Frank Sinatra. In this photograph, Mel raised his right hand to sprinkle points for the students to learn what they did not know before. There’s a repeating sign, “Sprinkler Shut-Off Valve Inside” as a reminder about the ever-flowing expression within our created beings. I will never cease to sing of all you’ve done for me.