Winning is Everything (10 page)

16 

The following morning at ten, as the front doors of the Ford Pavilion opened, Ellenor sat behind her desk scanning the day’s agenda and soon came across the excuse she needed to talk with Ron.

“Hi,” she addressed him as she entered the VIP area several minutes later. “Can we chat?”

“Sure thing,” said Ron, taking Ellenor by the arm and leading her across the corridor to where there was less traffic.

“I’ve got a dandy assignment for you today,” said Ellenor, handing him a small yellow slip of paper. “Mr. Thomason said this extra-special VIP guest must be led around by an extra-special VIP host, and I decided, against my better judgment, I suppose, to turn the assignment over to you.”

Ron looked down at the name on the VIP slip: “Darryl F. Zanuck, 5:30
P
.m.”

Zanuck!
My God, thought Ron. One of
the
golden names in all of Hollywood. Ron got so excited it was all he could do not to take Ellenor in his arms for a grateful embrace.

Instead he said calmly, “Sure, I’ll cover it for you.”

Ellenor turned to go back to her office, and just as she thought her plan might have failed, Ron tapped her on the back of the shoulder and asked, “Hey, how’d your date go with Casanova?”

“You mean Gary?”

“No, I mean Rudolph Valentino. ‘Course I mean Gary.”

“Better than I ever might’ve imagined.”

“Why?” Ron wanted to know, suddenly more than curious.

“Why not?”

“What happened?” asked Ron.

“What did Gary tell you happened?” asked Ellenor.

“He said ‘a gentleman never discusses these things.’ Isn’t that boring?”

“Boring,” said Ellenor. “But terribly loyal and sweet. Well … just because a gentleman doesn’t discuss these things doesn’t mean a lady cannot.”

“That’s quite true,” said Ron, licking his lips.
“Let’s hear it”

“Nothing much to tell. Sometimes you don’t know if these things are a matter of chemistry or whether some guys are just born to be natural lovers.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, when you’re as tender and caring a lover as Gary, I don’t suppose you can chalk too much of it up to momentary providence. I have to believe he’s sensational with every girl he’s with.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron grabbed Ellenor by the elbow again and whisked her over to a still-more-quiet corner of the VIP area. “He’s a virgin. V-i-r-g-i-n! What are you going on about?”

“A virgin?” Ellenor stifled a laugh. “Always joking around, Ron. Never coming clean. Your roommate Gary is a virgin like Catherine Deneuve is ugly. And if you got any more like him at home, please, I beg you, send ‘em around.”

Satisifed with her appraisal, Ellenor twirled her hair behind her shoulder and headed back to her office, leaving Ron stunned and confused.

Mission accomplished.

Ron had no time to think about Gary and Ellenor. There was a spring loose somewhere in the timepiece of her story, but hell, he would find it later. Right now he had his own life to worry about. He had Darryl F. Zanuck, the famous studio head, coming to the pavilion in several short hours.

The hour and a half before his lunch break went on forever. Ron stalked the pavilion seeking answers to questions no one could provide. So he found out where the nearest public library was and at two o’clock, the moment he was off on his lunch break, dashed down to 108th Street and boarded the Number 7 bus for Kew Gardens.

He had to walk eight blocks from where the bus dropped him off before he got to the library. He headed straight for the reference section, pulled out several movie almanacs, several editions of
Who’s Who,
and thumbed quickly through the heavy volumes, jotting down pertinent information.

He got back to the fairgrounds with but five minutes remaining of his lunch break, and he quickly wolfed down a fast and awful hot dog for sustenance, and then walked into the pavilion and waited the two hours for the arrival of his most VIP of VIP guests.

17 

Darryl F. Zanuck arrived exactly at 5:30, mustached, silver-haired, a fat cigar in his mouth, dark prescription sunglasses over his eyes. With him was Irina Demick, his current mistress, a beautiful French actress in her early forties with high cheekbones and streaked blond hair.

Ron spotted them the moment they headed for the information desk. Checking himself one last time in the mirror, Ron made sure his hair was still neatly combed and his smile in place. Eyes agleam, he was ready to meet his filmmaker.

“Mr. Zanuck?” said Ron, extending his right hand in greeting. “I’m Ron Zinelli, one N, two L’s, and it is my great pleasure to be your escort through the exciting Ford Pavilion. Won’t you and the lovely lady kindly follow me…?”

Ron couldn’t wait any longer for Zanuck to return the handshake, so he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand toward the VIP elevator. “This way, please.”

Head held high, MacArthur wading into the Pacific, Ron surged forward, straight to the elevator. Zanuck and his lady friend followed directly behind. No one said anything during the short ride to the second floor. Ron kept telling himself to be as charming as he knew how.
Charming is disarming
, he reminded himself. At the loading zone, Ron walked straight past the line of people who had waited their two and a half hours in the heat and signaled to the zone leader at the head of the moving ramp.

“Hi. I’d like a Continental, please. Just for the three of us, thank you!”

“No can do,” the zone leader told Ron. “Had a breakdown an hour and a half ago; still trying to catch up with our figures. Continentals take six, seven, eight riders. No less.”

“No, no. You don’t understand,” said Ron. “I’m carrying very special cargo.”

“Listen, Zinelli,” snapped the zone leader. “I don’t give a shit if you’re escorting Mao and Mrs. Tse-tung through these hallowed halls. You got to share your car.”

“Five bucks!” said Ron, out flat.

“You know we don’t take bribes up here.”

“Ten!” said Ron as he turned to flash a hopefully not-too-desperate smile at his guests at the elevator.

“Ten dollars?” asked the zone leader.

“You heard me!”

“Give me a fresh green ten-dollar bill and the three of you can have that fresh green Continental convertible coming up right now.”

Ron signaled to the movie mogul to join him and at the same time surreptitiously handed over the ten. Assisting his guests onto the moving ramp, Ron led them over to the Continental. “This is the Tunnel of Time,” said Ron, hoping the tape would be broken and that he could provide the narration. At the exact same moment, a husky voice intoned, “This is the Tunnel of Time. Welcome.” And Ron wanted to break the radio.

All through the dark journey, Zanuck wore his sunglasses. Neither he nor his mistress said a word to one another or to Ron for the duration of the ride. In fact, the only comment made was a sigh from the French lady when they passed the warring cavemen, exclaiming,
“Fantastique!”

As they neared the end of the ride through the freeway of the future, Ron saw his dreams of an immediate rush to success vanishing like the strange comets whizzing overhead.

He helped his VIP guests out of the Continental and led them, not back to the elevator and out of the building, as was the custom with the VIP’s, but back the long way, through the display route. It was the only way he knew to hold on to his vanishing investment a few more minutes.

“Mr. Zanuck…?” said Ron, deciding it was now or never. “I was saying just the other day to a group of film lovers like myself,
The Longest Day
must be the greatest war movie ever made.”

Zanuck chomped down harder on his cigar and grunted.

Ron wasn’t sure what such a grunt meant, but there was no stopping him now. He made a mental picture of the notes he had taken at the library and said quickly, “I couldn’t agree more with Bosley Crowther in the
New York Times
when he said, ‘There are no more worlds left to conquer.’”

“Hmmmmmm,” said Zanuck in a somewhat more agreeable grunt.

Ron went on. “And I’d have to say also that
Pinky,
so daring and ahead of its time, was a film that advanced the cause of equality.”

Miss Demick said something to Zanuck in French at this point, and as she and Zanuck chuckled lightly, Ron cursed his mother for not having insisted he take French instead of Spanish in high school.

Assisting Zanuck onto the down ramp, Ron said, “And my friends and I all agree
Citizen Kane
ranks as the best screenplay ever written.”

Ron smiled, convinced he had remembered his notes so well, and Zanuck removed the cigar from his mouth, turned to Ron, and said softly, “/ didn’t produce
Citizen Kane “

Gulp!

Five minutes later, after a fast zip around the Product Salon, Ron led Zanuck and his mistress back to the entrance. “Have a good evening,” said Ron in farewell, again sticking out his right hand.

Zanuck took the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand and with his right hand took hold of Ron’s open palm. “Thank you for the attention,” said the mogul. “You’re a bright young man; you’ll do well. Very well, indeed.”

Ron remained immobile as Zanuck left the pavilion.

Did you hear that?

You’ll do well … very well, indeed. Darryl F. Zanuck had said it to him, to Ron Zinelli, one N, two L’s. Could there be any higher endorsement, any better encouragement? Ron had spent years trying to convince himself he was different from everyone else.

“You’re one in ten million!” his mother used to tell him.

At last he was convinced. His mother had not exaggerated, after all. It was true. He
was
special.

No doubt about it, Ron would have to start thinking about a more permanent job tomorrow. Something in New York, something in the arts, something in le show business.

He stuck his hands into his pants pockets and found himself rigid with excitement.

My God, power was sexy!

18 

By the time Janet Evans arrived at the World’s Fair late in the afternoon, she was in a foul mood. A headache plus the pressures of work and the heat were all working against her. Still, she had to take her account executives around from pavilion to pavilion, so she decided she’d better shape up, and fast.

There was still another ten minutes before she had to meet the men from the Vitalis account, so she ducked into the bar at the Indonesian Pavilion and ordered herself a large dry Beefeater martini and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up.

One look in the mirror assured her she was fine. Her short blond hair was neatly in place, her makeup fresh, her gingham dress crisp and perfectly fitted to her slender body. Still, she combed her hair, added another layer of lipstick, and adjusted her belt. She was ready for her gin.

Ten minutes later, relaxed and smiling, she met the executives outside the Johnson’s Wax Pavilion.

Johnson’s was exhibiting a three-screen film,
To Be Alive.
With all the billions of dollars spent on gadgetry and gimmicks around Flushing Meadow, everyone seemed to agree that the most impressive exhibit at the fair was this twelve-minute film. Janet knew it would be an excellent way to put the men in a good mood for the rest of the evening. Sure enough, the moment it ended, the three men suggested they celebrate with a drink.

Janet took them over to the bar at the top of the Port of Authority heliport for a couple of Gibson martinis. As they drank, they talked about the Vitalis commercial that was scheduled to shoot in three days. They still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory actor to play the baseball player. The Vitalis people wanted the agency to find a fresh face.

Janet assured the men they needn’t worry, something was bound to turn up, something always did. She had busted her butt to get the Vitalis account, had in fact been the person responsible for bringing Vitalis over to Grayson, and was not about to botch things by not finding them the perfect model. She had scheduled yet another cattle call for the following morning, and surely Mr. Right Field would be among those assembled.

An hour later, well-fueled and feeling better about the state of the World’s Fair, the four executives struck out to see some other exhibits.

They walked over to the General Electric carousel and watched the audio-animatronic models that would one day put human actors out of work. They went to the Vatican Pavilion and viewed Michelangelo’s
Pietà.
They wined and dined at the Spanish Pavilion and then strolled over to the U.S. Pavilion and went on the singularly unimpressive historic ride. Afterward they agreed to take in one last exhibit, but not before having another drink.

They discovered a small out-of-the-way bar somewhere in the winding streets of the Belgian Village and camped there for two gin and tonics. By then it was a little before nine and the big question was whether to make Ford, Chrysler, or General Motors their last stop.

In the end they tossed a coin and came up with Ford.

“Ladies’ room to your left, men’s room around the corner to your right.”

Kip was working the information booth when his friend Mike Kennedy stopped by to say hello.

“When’s your next break?” he wanted to know.

“In about ten minutes,” Kip told him.

“Great! I wonder if you’d do me a favor?” Mike patted Kip on the back. “I gotta get over to the Maryland Pavilion right away. Could you fill in for me in the Loading Zone till I get back?”

“What’s up?” asked Kip.

“Skydiving!” Mike announced with glee. “Me and my brother have been trying to find out where we can try it. We’ve been itchin’ to do it forever.”

“Me too!” said Kip, ever eager to accept an offer to dance with death.

“Well, there’s this place out on Long Island that shows you what to do and throws you out of a plane after the first lesson. This guy over at the Maryland Pavilion took the course last year, already has over thirty-five jumps to his record.”

“Sounds great!” said Kip.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “That’s why we figured we’d get a group of guys together and go right after the fair ends, sign up, and fly out.”

“Well, count me in,” said Kip.

“Will do.” Mike Kennedy smiled. “But first you gotta take over for me while I head over to Maryland.”

Several minutes later, Kip left the information booth and headed upstairs to the Loading Zone. On his way, he saw Gary, atop the Aurora, answering questions.

“Guess what?” Kip tugged Gary’s sleeve. “We’re going skydiving!”

“Who we?” Gary wanted to know.

“Me and the Kennedy brothers,” said Kip. “Mike’s going to get the information we need. We figured we’d try it after the fair closes. Doesn’t it sound fantastic?”

Gary thought it sounded like the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Yeah,” he told Kip. “Sounds too good to be true.”

“How’d you like to come with us?” asked Kip.

Me? Jump out of a plane? Not for a million dollars! “Sure!” Gary heard himself saying. “I’d love to!”

“I’ll tell the Kennedy brothers!” said Kip. “I can hardly wait!”

Kip headed upstairs, and Gary figured, what the hell, the end of the fair was still a couple of months off. He had plenty of time to chicken out before then.

Janet Evans and the three executives were among the last guests to use the VIP entrance that evening. They were talking business as they approached the loading zone, and it was Kip who graciously directed the four inebriated fairgoers into their awaiting Galaxie.

Kip smiled at Janet Evans as he waited for her to get into the front seat of the car. She took one look at him and knew she had found her baseball player. Instead of climbing into the car, she just stood staring.

“You’d better take your seat, ma’am,” said Kip. “We’re approaching the end of the ramp.”

As if coming out of a daze, Janet blinked several times and blurted, “But who are you? Who are
you?
”

“Is there a problem?”

“No problem!” Janet raised her voice. “I have to know!”

Kip pointed to a small blue name tag across his chest.

“Kip Bramer!” said Janet, getting at last into the Ford. “Don’t move … we’ll be right back.”

Janet joined the three men already in the car and immediately called their attention to Kip, now walking back to the front of the platform, looking over his shoulder as if Janet were nuts.

Fourteen minutes later, when the four advertising people got off the ride, all they wanted to know was how to get to the manager’s office.

Twenty minutes later, Kip, off duty, was down in the men’s locker room with most of the other hosts, getting out of his bumblebee uniform and into his street clothes.

The door to the locker room opened and a voice called, “Kip Bramer in here?”

“Right here!” answered Kip, tying his shoelace.

“Thomason wants to see you in his office. Right away!”

Four minutes later Kip walked into Mr. Thomason’s office.

“These people are from Grayson Advertising,” said Mr. Thomason. “They wish to speak with you.”

“Hi, I’m Janet Evans,” Janet introduced herself, and then she introduced her three companions.

Kip smiled awkwardly.

Janet looked at Kip in street clothes and decided he looked even better than he had in his black-and-yellow Ford uniform. She was convinced he was the one to shoot the Vitalis spot.

“Shall we take a little walk?” asked Janet, and she and the three men stood up and accompanied Kip out of the pavilion.

“Have you ever been a model?” asked Janet as they passed the door of the Ford Pavilion.

“No,” said Kip. “I just finished college. I’m saving up to start acting classes in the fall.”

“Perfect,” said Janet quietly. “How would you like to make some money real fast?”

“What do I have to do?” asked Kip.

“You have to spend a few hours in front of a camera with a towel around your neck and a comb in your hand,” said one of the three men.

“It’s for a television spot,” said Janet.

Television? thought Kip. What the hell’s going on?

“Have you played baseball?” asked another of the three men.

“Everyone plays baseball,” said Kip. “This is America.”

“Yeah, but do you play well?” asked another man.

“Sure,” said Kip with a shrug. “I’m okay, I guess.”

“Where’d you get those shoulders?” Janet wanted to know.

“Wrestling team,” said Kip. “At Lehigh. I was the captain.”

“How’d you get to be captain?”

“I have an explosive temper,” Kip answered honestly.

Janet opened her purse. “Can you be in my office tomorrow morning, ten sharp?” she wanted to know.

“Sure,” Kip told her. “I don’t have to be at work until two.”

“Fine. Have you got any good pictures of yourself?”

“My graduation photos,” said Kip.

“I’m being serious,” said Janet.

“So was I,” said Kip.

“Never mind,” said Janet. “Well, at least bring a recent résumé.”

“Résumé,” Kip said softly through his teeth. He wasn’t about to tell Janet he had no résumé either. He didn’t want her to realize he was the total amateur.

Janet smiled enthusiastically. “See you tomorrow.”

She leaned over and kissed Kip’s cheek. The three men, one by one, shook his hand vigorously and said good night before they hailed a taxi and headed back to Manhattan to celebrate their discovery at their favorite pub.

Kip turned around and hurried back into the pavilion.

A résumé? Where in hell was he going to drum up a résumé between now and ten o’clock tomorrow morning?

Ellenor! Of course!

Kip hurried over to Mr. Thomason’s office and arrived just as Ellenor was leaving.

“Thank God I caught you!” said Kip, slightly out of breath.

Ellenor made sure the lock on the office door was secure. “Just closing up shop,” she said pleasantly.

“I have a problem,” said Kip.

“Oh?” Ellenor looked at him. “Can I be of any help?”

“I sure hope so,” said Kip, and he launched into a brief recap of his meeting with Janet and the Vitalis executives.

Ellenor didn’t have to think twice. She lifted the office key from her purse, unlocked the door, and stepped back into her office. “Follow me.”

They spent the next hour and a half putting together his résumé. It was not the easiest thing to do, as most everything on the sheet of paper had to be improvised.

“Don’t feel bad,” Ellenor told Kip as she handed him their seventh draft. “When it comes to listing previous acting experiences, all actors lie.”

“I know that,” said Kip, looking at the freshly typed paper. “But don’t you think mentioning I played Hamlet is stretching my credibility?”

“Certainly not!” Ellenor was adamant. “It was for your college production. No one expects you to be Sir Laurence Olivier. Not yet, anyway.”

“But what if they ask me to perform an excerpt or something?”

“Relax,” said Ellenor, taking the résumé from Kip to proofread. “Didn’t you say they just want you to stand in front of the camera and smile, your hair all gussied-up with Vitalis?”

Kip nodded.

“Then there should be no problem,” said Ellenor. “This résumé just lets them know you’ve had some stage experience. Anyway, I’ve got confidence in you. I believe you
could
perform a terrific Hamlet!”

Kip reached forward and took the résumé. “I want you to know how very grateful I am,” he said as he scanned the page. Then, leaning over the desk, Kip looked Ellenor straight in the eye and said, “If there’s anything I can do for you …”