Cliff Falls (The Missing Pieces Edition) Read online

  What happens when you run into everything

  you’ve been running from?

  What others are saying about Cliff Falls

  “Can a novel heal your image of God and yourself? Cliff Falls has the potential to do just that. Flavored by remarkable wit, this adventure will nourish your soul. It is that good!”

  – Bobby Schuller, Lead Pastor, HOUR OF POWER

  “Ditto to what Bobby said! Thank you for a palpable, gritty experience of redemption. So real. Art reflecting life. Well done!”

  – Amy Grant, Grammy Award-winning Singer and Songwriter

  “When C.B. Shiepe writes about God, he is on such familiar turf that he is able to capture the nuance and depth of that relationship, bringing the reader into his personal sphere, and providing an experience to build on.”

  – Edward Grinnan, Editor-in-Chief, Guideposts

  “A stunningly visual journey told with wit and humor that is anchored with a big heart and tons of soul. Cliff Falls reads with ease and confidence, and has dialogue as fresh as your last conversation. This book will make a difference in your life.”

  – Sarah Skibitzke, Emmy Award-winning Producer, A&E Intervention

  “Cliff Falls is above all a very human story, rich in feeling, wide in the apparent randomness of experience, full of injured, lost people, and hungry for true human freedom and hope. Underneath and through it all is the underpinning of grace that never lets go and holds the final word. The power of empathy and love changes everything.”

  – Mark Labberton, President, Fuller Theological Seminary

  “The Best of the Best. The Bestselling Independently Published Book in the 125 year history of Vroman’s Bookstore.”

  – Vroman’s Bookstore, Pasadena, California

  “Identity is a fragile subject. Often we can’t know who we really are until we peel off the masks we wear out of our need for acceptance or fear of rejection. Rooted in the silent bedrock of the One who calls us by our true name, this transformative book provides a way forward for all of us who have forgotten who we really are. Thank you, C.B. Shiepe.”

  – Jeremy Rivera, Founder, Little J Films

  “Selecting Cliff Falls for Arcadia’s One Community, One Book program proved to be an inspiration for a whole city. A catalyst for healing: Everyone should read this life-affirming novel.”

  – Scott Hettrick, C.E.O. Arcadia Chamber of Commerce, HollywoodInHiDef.com

  “I believe in Cliff Falls, the best fictional rendition of the kid actor saga I’ve ever read. I sat up through the dark hours reading this book. It kept me turning the pages...and filled me with a sense of hope. As an advocate and former child star, I highly recommend this illuminating and insightful work. There are so many layers in this novel. I promise you this is an enriching experience.”

  – Paul Petersen, Founder, A minor consideration / The Donna Reed Show

  “A fast, cinematic read, I recognized myself in Cliff Falls. The pressure to perform and to be someone other than who we want to be is universal. C.B. Shiepe has captured that experience and married it to our celebrity-centric culture. This entertaining, insightful book is the engaging result.”

  – Charles Slocum, Writers Guild of America West

  “Shiepe’s writing is rich. The dialogue is natural, leaving space for the reader to feel hurt, fear, and hope throughout the story. What isn’t said is as important as what is said. Shiepe lifts the characters off the page and into our hearts by allowing us to hear their inner thoughts and feel their emotions. The same storyline in less capable and poetic hands could be cliché. But with Shiepe’s gift of subtlety, and a respect for the reader’s intelligence, the story is beautiful indeed.”

  – Jill Fales, Author, My Laundry Museum and Other Messy Gifts of Motherhood

  The Missing Pieces Edition

  A novel by C.B. Shiepe

  Cliff Falls Media | Los Angeles, CA

  CLIFF FALLS:

  THE MISSING PIECES EDITION

  BY C.B. SHIEPE

  CliffFalls.com

  Copyright © 2010, 2019 by C.B. Shiepe

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Cliff Falls Media, Inc.

  2275 Huntington Drive, Suite 420, San Marino, CA 91108

  [email protected]

  International Standard Book Number – (13): 978-0-9827020-2-4

  International Standard Book Number – (10): 0-9827020-2-7

  International Standard Book Number – (eBook): 978-0-9827020-3-1

  International Standard Book Number – (Audio Book): 978-0-9827020-4-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906211

  Printed in the United States of America

  New Revised and Expanded Edition, May, 2020

  CLIFF FALLS is a trademark registered with the

  United States Patent and Trademark Office by Cliff Falls Media, Inc.

  Cover design: Sean Teegarden and Jane Moon

  Typography: Soo Kim

  Author photo: Pam McComb

  This book was written for an audience of One.

  And is dedicated to my Mom, Marie Anne Shiepe,

  for her gifts of belief, strength and unconditional love.

  And to all who struggle, in and out of the

  spotlight, to know their belovedness.

  “It’s one thing to believe in something

  when you don’t need it to be true.

  It’s another when everything is riding on it.”

  – Clay Grant

  A Word Before

  Are you just passing through? I’d say pull up a seat, but the counter is the best place to view all the action at the Acorn Diner. At the counter, you get into great conversations. It’s amazing what you learn about people.

  We all have a story because we are all recovering from something. If I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that. What you get out of this story probably depends on where you are in your own life right now. If you’re in a tough season, you’re in good company.

  Me? I just stopped in to fill up my thermos with some of the Acorn’s “gourmet” coffee. It’s a dark roast from Guatemala. Something strong for when you have a long day ahead. My name is Diego and I work up at the church as a groundskeeper. It allows me to live here in Cliff Falls, in these beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains. Anytime I’m away from here, when the city closes in on me, I just think of these mountains and I can breathe again. It’s important to breathe, to have those places where you can go and reconnect with yourself and God. I know I need that. But this isn’t my story. This is the story of former child star Clay Grant.

  If you had told me I could see myself in the life of a former child star, I would have laughed. Most of them are screw-ups, right? But see myself, I did. And it changed me. I don’t justify what Clay did—torching a Hollywood studio backlot is never a “good choice”—but when you hear his story you’ll understand why he did it and how quickly it got out of control. And why he thought he had no other choice but to run.
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  They say God speaks in a still small voice, but how can you hear Him if you’re never still? Or worse, if other voices speak louder, drowning out your own voice let alone God’s? Especially in darker times when you feel like you’re suffocating from the world around you?

  Clay’s struggle is like ours. We all hear voices. The ones we decide to listen to are the ones that matter, that determine how things are going to turn out. Or at least who we are going to become, regardless of how things turn out. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Now if you’ve heard another telling, forget it and forgive the author. The other version wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the full truth. Clay had shared so many pieces of himself with the world that it was only natural that he wanted to hold some of the most hurtful pieces back. But the missing pieces make the difference. He’s allowed the author to share them now in the hope that they might bring healing to others. I think that’s called bravery.

  The more we get to know each other, the more comfortable we are sharing our whole story—the light parts and the dark. The missing pieces that were left out before, well they are now ready to see the light of day.

  There are different ways to tell a story. Painting is how I tell mine. So I’ll let the author tell you this one. C.B. Shiepe is sitting at the counter right now. The guy in the black V-neck sweater. He’s been traveling the country, surprised, but grateful, by the response to Clay’s story. Amazed how people from all walks of life connect with it in such a deep, personal way. Maybe we’re not so different after all?

  See that empty spot at the counter? That’s yours. Have a seat and let the author tell you the remarkable journey of Clay Grant.

  And remember, Clay was just passing through, too.

  ~ Diego

  Chapter One

  Hollywood Studio Backlot

  August 16, 1987

  Rising thousands of feet into the air, pillars of heavy smoke could be seen from miles away. It covered the streets filled with fire trucks and police cars. Twenty-three structures lay in ruin. Chicago Alley and Hometown U.S.A. streetscapes were a total loss. The dry rot and plastic sets had burned quickly, the wooden façades igniting like matchboxes. Light from the blaze flickered across the faces of the gathering crowd of overnight studio employees. They watched as the firefighters extinguished the flames on the Hollywood studio backlot.

  Wind howling, Burt Cummings sped to the scene in a studio golf cart, praying his instincts weren’t true. He dusted embers from the fire off his Little Guy Mike black satin jacket that had “Crew” embossed on the front in gold thread. If his gut was right about who started the fire, the studio was going to bury Burt alive in this jacket. His bosses, the moneymakers, would make sure of it. “When I get my hands on that kid!”

  Burt’s golf cart stopped short of the makeshift barricade. Stepping out, the stocky Crewmember searched for the Producer among the firefighters.

  Shielding his face from the toxic smoke, Burt ducked under the yellow-black barrier tape. His eyes glared upward at what remained. The rising metal scaffolding was exposed through smoldering chunks of torched foam rubber. It was all that separated the front of the Little Guy Mike façade from the back, the outside from the inside. As the smoke cleared, Burt stared into the hollow structure, horrified by the melting tower of Little Guy Mike merchandise glowing in the distance—toys, games, and dolls oozing together to form one being. It looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. Its red glow pulsating like a heart struggling to stay alive.

  “We found a huge pile of this stuff,” a firefighter shouted to the Producer as Burt approached. He held a charred lunch box.

  Burt caught the Producer’s eye. The day had come.

  “It started around back,” the firefighter shouted, as he returned to the blaze. “This was no accident.”

  “You pushed him too hard,” the Producer said to Burt. “You gave him no other option.”

  “You’re blaming me?”

  “You said he was under control.” The Producer tried to contain his rage. “You assured the studio he wasn’t a problem.”

  “I did my job! I did what I needed to do!”

  “We paid you to handle him,” the Producer said, “not incite him to this.” He swept his hand out to encompass the path of destruction.

  All Burt saw was everything they had worked for reduced to ashes.

  Red embers rained from the sky, but they could have been green from the money that was lost. And not just the physical set, the whole enterprise was destroyed.

  “I’m going to kill him!” Burt was an intimidating figure, which, from the studio’s perspective, was both a benefit and a curse on set. He was all neck and forearms, having spent equal time at the gym and craft services table. Burt may not have been a real threat to the rest of the world, but to a teenager there was more than a serious power imbalance. “When I get my hands on him!”

  “Calm down,” the Producer said, attempting to keep Burt in line. “Your short fuse causes more problems than it solves.”

  “He burned down the lot,” Burt said under his breath. He knew that the show and his job were over. Once the public found out who started this, they’d never be able to separate “Little Guy Mike” from the crazed teenager who struck the match. Now Burt was going to be the scapegoat. And worse yet, they’d screw him out of his promised backend deal. The real money they always held out like a carrot on a stick. “I can fix this,” Burt said. “I’m going to find him and he’ll answer to me!”

  “No, you’re not. You’re finished!”

  “Don’t blame me!”

  The Fire Chief ordered them to move back.

  Stepping away, the Producer focused his mind on damage control. “We can still save the syndication.” The money was in repeats, mining the show’s history. Internationally, they were already being dubbed in Japanese, French, and Italian. The lawyers were now in final negotiations, drawing up contracts. The Producer would have to think quickly to save this ship from sinking. “Let him run.”

  “What? Look what he did!”

  “Clay Grant was never here. Don’t you remember? He was with you celebrating his birthday. That is exactly what you’re going to say. If you want to get paid.” Turning to an enraged Burt, he was adamant, “No one can find out who started this. No one!”

  “Don’t let him get away with this,” Burt fumed.

  “Don’t worry,” the Producer insisted, raising the burnt lunchbox, “he’ll pay!”

  Chapter Two

  Earlier that day

  “In just a few moments the Burbank Town Mall welcomes ‘Little Guy Mike’ on this, his 18th birthday!” The announcer spoke over the loudspeaker.

  The crowd roared. The turnout was overwhelming. People filled the expansive central court and upstairs promenade. With excited faces, they chanted his name.

  The makeshift backstage was curtained off. Boxes of merchandise were still being carried in by stagehands as a plywood birthday cake was rolled into position. Four feet high, the cake had a hollow back and was decorated on the front with a portrait of a smiling boy wearing a baseball hat and an orange rugby shirt with wide horizontal stripes.

  “What do you mean you can’t get through the crowd?” Clay shouted into the payphone. He stuffed his leather journal into his back pocket. “I have to be at LAX by 4 p.m. I promised her. I told my mom I’d meet her at the gate!” Removing his baseball hat, he flung it behind some boxes. “I haven’t seen my mom in a year!”

  The crowd’s cheers grew louder.

  “I’ll get there myself!” Clay hung up the phone. “Nothing is going to spoil this day.”

  Burt came up behind him, grabbed Clay’s journal out of his back pocket and hit him on the head with it, giving him a solid whop. “Where’s your hat?”

  Burt leaned over Clay, his stocky shadow encompassing him as it always did.

/>   Clay reached for his journal as Burt pushed him away, the force of Burt’s forearm keeping Clay at bay. Burt read from it, mocking:

  “All they care about is money. If I died, they’d sell tickets to my funeral. They’d cut a deal with a candy company; stick a few golden tickets in chocolate bars. Even in death they’d find a way to exploit me!”

  “Give it back!” Clay said. He didn’t care about money. He never saw it, anyway. All he did fear was selling out, not for the cash, but to please people. And he hated to admit it, but he feared Burt, too.

  “Poor little kid.” Burt tossed the journal at Clay. “No one cares what you have to say. Why should you? You’re an actor, not a writer!”

  “And you’re a loser!”

  Burt made a fist, but there were too many people backstage. “Now where did you hide it?” Burt opened a box searching for the hat. He removed a Halloween mask.

  “What the hell is that?” Clay asked, clenching his journal in his hand.

  “Looks just like you.”

  “If I were still eight!” Clay said.

  “We got boxes full of this shit,” Burt said. “We have to empty the warehouse.”

  “Get some marshmallows. I’ll make a bonfire.”

  Burt looked at Clay exhausted. “They pay me to make sure the people out there don’t know the real you! If they only knew.”

  Clay ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about the court papers his new lawyer was filing this very day. “Disaffirmance,” the right of a new adult at age eighteen to renege on any contract signed on his or her behalf. As part of one contract, Clay’s likeness, his very being, was sold for a dollar. Other deals had him working on a summer movie for scale while his managers got a kickback. After an emergency appendectomy, the lawyers even developed an elaborate health plan that drained funds from his so-called protected Coogan account. But the worst deal of all he wouldn’t even speak about. During the second season, when cancellation loomed, Clay’s mother essentially sold him to his managers for $150,000. Hard to believe but it was true. And he saw it happen to other child stars, performers and athletes. His managers took control of everything. They said it was in Clay’s best interest, that they could do more for him than his single mother could, but she should have known better. Mothers are supposed to protect their children, especially if they never had a father. Some give them away because they have to. Others inflict emotional damage, even physical abuse on their children. But who sells their own son?