GE 1998-9 Season 5 Episode 17: Shirley
Note: this is not a transcript, but a working draft of the script, so there may be differences in the aired version.
PAUL: Mexico is a gorgeous New Year's destination, especially
by the sea. And Acapulco, El Estado de Guerrero, perhaps the
best place of all. The salt air sweetened with winter fruit
and late-blooming flowers.
In the colourful town square is El Mercado, the marketplace of
Acapulco. A large corrugated-tin roof shields from the tropical
sun an area alive with buyers and sellers, the bought and the sold.
Goats and iguanas are freshly killed, stalls are stacked with
hot peppers, cilantro, and avocadoes.
And the beaches ! The beaches. The surf and sunset.
Extremely romantic, a wonderful location to find, or re-establish,
love.
The bougainvillea blossoms, the church spires, the crazy "green"
that grows in abundance everywhere on the rocky scrubby cliffs.
And just behind the hills, agave plantations galore, enough to
fuel the hallucinogenic conviction that this is heaven.
It was here, to the El Presidente de Maya de Playa Parador con
Howard Johnson Beach Resort, that I repaired with Shirley ...
dear Shirley, the goddess of Oklahoma.
She had accepted my invitation through Ed McMahon, an intermediary.
I wanted to make up to her.
Our L.A. ... affair lasted a couple of blazing years - her show,
my scripts - but I'd abused it, and I hadn't seen her since the
shoot-out in LA.
I hadn't apologized for cops on her lawn, my friends in her basement,
the overdrawn account, the abuse of a love gone awry.
So, it was to be a New Year's Reconciliation - resolutions were to
be made.
And it was going along swimmingly for a couple of days. Pie de la
Cuesta, for waterskiing; brunch at the Aromatic Almond; cliff-diving
along the shore; ministrations of love poolside and promises of change.
Man, Shirley Jones in a sandal, and only a sandal. Mmm.
All to no avail. On New Year's Eve in Acapulco, the party starts early.
Somehow, I'd stayed off the booze all day. But then, as soon as darkness
fell, the fireworks started exploding ... I can't explain what happened.
We were settled into the intimate and exclusive cabana Queso (Gila) watching
the Roman candles and orange rockets and girandolas arc over the bay and
explode the night.
Then the toasts started. One sip, then another, then, one more. Before
long, I had fallen prey to the allure of the magical agave, was drunk
and abusive again. I made a snide remark about the Partridge Family.
Suddenly, I'd found a handgun, got into a racket with Johhny Weismuller
and then was called to the end of the bar, where Coco Cabrera awaited
with a business opportunity.
"No, Paul," she said, "don't go."
"It'll only be five minutes, Shirley, trust me."
But rather than being away for five minutes, I was gone for three
days, leaving the diva at the bar.
When I finally returned somewhat to my senses, Shirley had deserted
the Weismuller property. We haven't spoken since, and I don't guess
there's much to say.
Except this.
Shirley, if you're listening, I'm sorry, I'm really, really, sorry.
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