Ride the Titanic! (6 page)

Back in the 90s, with all the resources in the world at his fingertips, Imagineer Tony Baxter dreams up
Indiana Jones Adventure: Temple of Doom
.
He gets things started with a core group of one hundred Imaginers to plan scenes, create mockups and do test trials. Then he hires three hundred more Imagineers (myself included) to spend two more years building a three and-a-half minute ride that includes the
Mud Slide, Dart Room, Rat Cave
, not to mention a sixteen-foot diameter rolling ‘boulder,’ and a shaky bridge that threatens to fall but never does.

Tony’s great journey begins with a single step.

Mine does too, but on uncarpeted steps with the twins. That much we’ve got in common. The rest? Forget about it. The three Musketeers have to find their ponies and ride. And we do.

Day One

Joe, Lewis, and I form our partnership on a three-way handshake, and then everybody heads home. I make dinner for the family, talk with Geena until midnight and then go to bed. Up with twins at three. No grand revelations on the steps this time, just shaky resolve.

Day Two

With the help of my
Home Depot
credit card, Joe’s pickup truck and Lewis’s strong back, we clear the junk out of the loft above my garage to create
Ride the Titanic’s
project office: sawhorse desks for computers, drafting tables, and whiteboards. That done, we have exactly
eighty-seven days left of Geena’s ninety to get our ride off the dream table, onto the drawing boards, and developmental funding in place, according to the countdown calendar she pointedly hangs on the wall, with the first two days already crossed off.

Day Three

I appoint my father-in-law as head of HR by saying, ‘Who do you know from the Disney bone yard that can help us with the resort side of this?’

Joe continues sketching on his drawing tablet before answering. No digital stylus for this guy. His Disney concept paintings always started with charcoal sketches on paper before becoming stunningly beautiful oil paintings on canvas. Like the one he did back in the 70s for Disney’s
Astro Orbiter
ride; a canvas filled with a wild combination of neon yellows and reds exploding behind the rising shape of a space rocket heading for the stars.

Knocked them dead.

His current sketch gives me goose bumps, too, as his charcoal stick swoops and swirls, creating a vision of a bows-on view of the
Titanic
sailing straight at me, with Geena’s iceberg hotel/casino complex in the distance. Three days ago this guy was a 73 year-old geezer-in-waiting whose idea of a good time was cleaning pools, painting rocks and drinking
grappa
. Today? Move over Michelangelo.

‘Think of anybody in particular?’ I coax.

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Joe keeps sketching. ‘Just before Herbie retired, he did the build-up for
Animal Kingdom Lodge.
Ever go there?’

‘Heard it’s nice.’

He shrugs. ‘Me too. But I don’t like eating my breakfast with a – whadd’ya’ call it – reticulated giraffe staring back at me, chewing its cud.’

To this day, Herbie Gottschalk’s African safari-like lodge hotel is a landmark on Disney’s
Animal Kingdom
Orlando property. Fiona pestered me to go there when she was a kid, but I always begged off. Too late now for innocent adventures, now that adolescent Adam’s circling her runway, requesting permission to land.

‘So what’s Herbie up to nowadays?’ I say.

‘Bored stiff like the rest of them; Kenny, Jay-Jay, especially Scooter.’

‘Herbie still like golf?’

‘Smashing little white spheroids is good anger therapy, he says.’

‘None of us knows the first thing about high-end resorts. He was king of that hill. Think you could talk him into coming on board?’

With one measured, magical charcoal sweep, Joe creates the graceful arc of the
Titanic’s
promenade deck. ‘I’ll talk to him. See if he’s interested.’

‘For free, you think?’

‘For now, maybe.’

‘Good, because there’s no payroll.’

‘Yet,’ Lewis adds quietly, from where he sits at his workbench, soldering a circuit board. Grey tendrils of smoke from the melting solder claw upward like Dracula’s fingers around his shaved head. Most men’s bald heads look best covered with hats, but Lewis’s is as perfect as a billiard ball and just as smooth.

I go over and rub it for good luck – which he hates – and coo, ‘What’s my sweet little baby going to do with his first fat paycheck?’

‘Buy a cubicle and lock your ass out.’

I regard the tangle of wires and microchips on his desktop. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Done.’ Lewis tosses the circuit board aside like a potato chip. ‘Three more to go and your exterior lights on the model are good to go. Who did the original wiring on this piece of shit?’

‘You.’

‘Must have been stoned back then.’

‘Who wasn’t?’

Potential investors demand a lot more than sexy paintings before they’re sold on an idea. They love three-dimensional drama, which means re-configuring my original ship model into a land-based ride sinking in the desert. Like with any sales model, it has to have functioning parts, including miniature operating lights, which is what Lewis is doing. As for the ship itself, battered and beaten from its dip in the pool, we need professional help to bring it up to code.

I return to Joe, who by now is sketching the ship’s smokestacks in proper perspective.

‘Think you could snag Scooter to re-jigger our model? Maybe he could do the hotel model too? Dad always used to say he was one of the best.’

‘Still is – you like opera?’

‘Huh?’

‘Scooter listens to it while he works.
La Gioconda. . . Aida. . .la Boheme. . .
. Drove me nuts.’

‘Thought Italians loved opera.’

‘Not this one.’

‘Scooter can bring in a marching band for all I care, as long as he works for free.’

‘For now,’ Lewis adds.

He’s right. Dreams are free, but making them come true takes money. And finding the millions we need is why – my mouth suddenly dry – I pull out my smartphone and stare at my pitifully small list of contacts.

Lewis sneers, ‘Still got Sir Richard’s number?’

I feel my face flush in anger and embarrassment. ‘Matter of fact, I do.’

“Start at the top,’ isn’t that what you always say?’

‘Damn right.’

I rub my thumb over the cool glass surface beneath which the name
Virgin
glows invitingly.

Hard to forget that terrifying moment ten years ago, when I pitched my original ride concept to Sir Richard Branson completely ad lib at forty-two thousand feet on a
Virgin Atlantic
flight from New York to Rome. With Disney buyout money burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to soothe my broken, unemployed heart by upgrading to first class and join Geena and Fiona, vacationing at her family’s ancestral home outside Bologna; a collection of small houses and villas, half-falling into ruin but charming in their own, Hollywood-movie-set kind of way.

Seeing Sir Richard staring out the window lost in thought, I remembered a story – it may have been urban legend, but who cares – about how a flight attendant pitched her goateed, ever-charming CEO to create a chain of bridal shops called
Virgin Bride
. Enamored of the idea, in typical Branson style, he smiled at her and said, ‘Do it.’

No meetings, no fanfare, no cost analysis, just a happy command from an amiable, free market messiah to go forth into the world and do likewise. And so she did. And so did I, when I pitched him my original
Ride the Titanic
concept. After some preliminary enthusiasm, he asked a couple of astute questions, which I did my best to answer, and heard the magic words, ‘Do it.’

And so I did. But a month later, after
Virgin’s
initial commitment of a generous amount of R&D money, the housing market bubble popped and the stock market tanked, scaring off my investors. Sir Richard withdrew his support with a cheerful wave and a beaming smile. Hard not to like this man, even when he said ‘no.’

And I still like him as I take a deep breath, press ‘CALL’, fully expecting to hear a ‘not in service’ message but instead, after the first ring, Branson’s distinctive voice says, ‘Mr. Sullivan, is that really you?’

Stunned, I gasp out a flustered ‘Hello.’’

‘How’ve you been?’ Branson continues. ‘Family all right? How’s the ride business?’

‘I’m. . . I’m surprised you remembered.’

‘Hard to forget a man who wanted to sink the
Titanic.’

‘And bring it back again.’

‘Don’t we all?’

‘Funny you should mention that, Sir Richard. I’m thinking about doing it again but in a whole new light. Totally different approach, different target market, same fear of course, but. . .well. . . .I was hoping that I could. . .’

Branson’s happy laugh cut me off. ‘You know, I still remember how you pitched me that night. SUCH a grand storyteller you are.’

‘It’s a whole different story this time. I. . .’

More laughter. ‘I confess I did consider the notion of a fleet of
Virgin Titanic’s
for the briefest of moments. But you know, Mr. Sullivan, I’m afraid that remarkably brilliant idea of yours has sailed and sunk for good. At least for
Virgin
.’

‘But this is going to be a brand new concept. Totally different. Listen. . .’

I gush out my proposal in a torrent of words, not even stopping to breathe. When I finish he asks two or three pertinent questions, the answers to which I bull-shit because I haven’t done the market research yet.

‘Is this verified, or your gut talking?’ Branson says.

I refuse to lie. ‘My gut.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘I know it’ll work this time, Sir Richard. I really do.’

‘Of course it will. I can hear it in your voice, Mr. Sullivan. Core enthusiasm’s always the key ingredient. But sadly, it’s not for
Virgin
this time around.’

I swallow my desperation and make myself smile. ‘I understand. But I want you to also understand that somehow, someway I’m going to make it happen this time. And when the ride opens in Vegas, will you ride on our maiden voyage, as my guest?’

Another happy peal of laughter. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Love a good scare. Stay in touch.’

‘I’ve got your number, Sir Richard.’

He chuckled. ‘And I, yours, Sir Michael.’

A click and the cool smartphone glass stares back at me. So do Joe and Lewis. So. . . .I pretend to keep on talking. ‘Really, sir? But wait a second, I thought you just said. . .I see. . .No. . . Not a bit. . . Well, let me think. . . . A minimum of one million. . . sure. . .yes. . .thanks, I will. . . . ‘

I pretend to end the call.

Lewis clears his throat. ‘That really him?’

‘He’s going to invest in our ride,’ I lie.

Lewis leaps up as if sitting on a soldering iron. ‘Are you kidding? How much did you say?’

‘A million for starters. Seed money. Like before.’

Joe whoops his happiness, while all I can think about is the Hollywood mega-producer Brian Glazer, starting out as a lowly mail room clerk, and how he would brag to his friends that he was discussing motion picture deals with studio heads, when in truth he was delivering letters and files to their secretaries. Glazer admitted later, ‘I wasn’t lying to get stuff, I was lying to improve my self-image, to give myself the emotional apparatus so that I could continue to have hope.’

‘Glazer Hope’ is what I need now.

And if it means lying about Sir Richard being on board, then so be it. I promise myself I’ll undo the lie the instant I get some real backing.  But I quickly hedge my bets, just in case, by saying,

‘Uh. . .there’s a small hitch about
Virgin’s
money. We can’t get at it for ninety days. It’s tied up in some kind of discretionary fund that Sir Richard can’t touch at the moment. Some accounting thing about offshore taxes.’

Joe eyes me like a mafia don. ‘But the money’s there, right?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Then we can borrow against it.’

‘Geena would kill me, and Marianna would do the same to you. No, we’ve got to find another backer who’ll come up with the financing right now to tide us over.’

‘Like who?’

Mouth dry and mind empty, I absently scroll through my smartphone, looking for someone, anyone who might be able to help, but with no luck.

Joe sighs and returns to his sketching. ‘Back to square one.’

Out of nowhere Lewis says, ‘What about Robin Wright? Doesn’t he muck around with zillionaires?’

I kiss his bald head, grab my phone and scroll the name into view. On impulse I FaceTime him.

Four rings later the Sean Connery-like, handsome, craggy face of Robin Wright appears on my cellphone screen. A renowned naval architect in his own right, he designed my original, seagoing
Titanic.
The sun, wind and water have done their damndest to carve up his face with age, but only succeeded in making him more handsome than ever.

‘Michael, is that you, old salt?’ he bellows. His Sean-Connery-like accent and rugged good looks boost my spirits. I feel like I’m in a Shakespeare play.

In a crappy British accent I say, ‘It is indeed me, old sport, and just where in hell are you on this glorious day?’

‘At sea, where else?’

‘Whereabouts on said sea?’

‘Behold, I gift unto thee the beautiful Bahamas.’

The image of his face swooshes away and his phone camera reveals a distant shoreline.

‘Freeport’s just over there. My home away from home for two more weeks. Then back to Southampton, thank God, and a decent cup of tea.’

‘And whiskey.’

‘In abundance.’

The image swings back to his face. ‘Haven’t heard from you in years, my old dear. Was it something I said? If so, it was the whiskey talking, not me, I assure you.’

‘Had to make a living after the
Titanic
sank.’

‘Ah. . .’ His painful wince softens to a wistful smile. ‘She was a beauty.’

‘Thanks to you. . . So tell me, what are you up to in Freeport?’

‘Final sea trials for the damndest thing I’ve ever created. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’