Winning is Everything (11 page)

And Ellenor almost fell off her typing chair. She was so flustered she could only shrug and say nervously, “I was only too happy to help.”

They taxied back to the city.

Ellenor said it was far too expensive, but Kip insisted upon paying, saying it was the least he could do to say thanks for her help.

As the yellow cab scooted along Queens Boulevard, Ellenor sat in the back next to Kip, trying to overcome the tongue-tied condition that naturally occurred whenever she was around him.

Kip was staring blankly out the taxi window, watching colors from a fleet of Elmhurst used-car dealerships streaming by.

“Have you always wanted to act?” Ellenor asked at last.

“Always,” said Kip. “When I was a real little kid, I wanted to become a cowboy. Then, after I’d been in my first school play, I knew I wanted to act. It wasn’t until several years after that, when I started going to westerns on Saturday matinees, that I realized I could do both.”

When the taxi pulled off the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and turned onto First Avenue, Kip leaned forward and asked the driver to drop the young lady off first.

Ellenor’s spirits sank. She had hoped he might ask her to join him for a drink, a late bite, a walk along the avenue, her hand in marriage. She knew she was too overweight, too provincial for him, sure. But hell, lots of great-looking guys end up with far-less-attractive women. It was something Ellenor had noticed for years. The best-looking men didn’t need the validation of having to have a gorgeous girl on their arm. They cared about the emotional click, and Ellenor prayed that someday she’d be able to make herself click with Kip.

The taxi pulled up to Ellenor’s apartment house with a screeching of brakes.

“Well, I guess this is it,” said Ellenor. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Thanks for the résumé,” said Kip.

“If it’s not good enough, just let me know. I’ll be glad to type another. We can say you were in London with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts for five years, studying slapstick comedy.”

“Sounds fine,” said Kip, getting out and holding the door for her.

“Good luck tomorrow,” said Ellenor, wondering if she dared invite him up for a nightcap. Better not, she decided. Why set yourself up for disappointment?

She looked at Kip, at his smiling eyes, at the dimple in the middle of his chin, and, without thinking, stood on her toes and gave him the softest of good-night kisses. Without waiting for any reaction from him, she turned and ran into the lobby of the building.

At the elevator, she turned and saw Kip jumping back into the taxi, and then she stood very still while the cab drove down the block, until it was no longer in sight.

19 

Still not exactly sure what was going on, Kip arrived on the thirty-second floor of the Lexington Avenue skyscraper the following morning and found twenty-two other athletic-looking types hovering around the reception area. He maneuvered his way through to the receptionist’s desk, where he asked the attractive lady sitting there if she would please tell Janet Evans Kip Bramer was there to see her.

The receptionist suggested Kip take a seat.

After several minutes Kip looked up and saw Miss Evans’ secretary standing before him.

“Won’t you come with me, please, Mr. Bramer?”

Kip followed the secretary through a pair of glass double doors down a long, busy hallway to a large, beautifully furnished office.

Janet Evans greeted Kip at the door. “Here’s our young discovery now,” she said as she walked up and planted another cheerful kiss on his cheek. Then she introduced Kip to the casting director, the producer, the commercial director, the fashion coordinator, and the three account executives he had met the night before.

“Tell me, Kip,” said a large man inhaling a small cigarette. “Have you done many commercials?”

“He’s done none!” said Janet Evans at the same time Kip shook his head. “Told you that already. This is the fellow we found last night at the Ford Pavilion.”

Everyone spoke at once:

“Nice-looking!”

“About the right size.”

“Looks like an athlete.”

“He in the Screen Actors Guild?”

Janet raised her hand, calling for attention. “Yes, he looks right, and no, he’s not in SAG but can do two commercials before having to join.”

“Does he have acting experience?” someone wanted to know.

“Acting experience?” asked Janet. “He has to be a baseball player combing his hair …”

“Has he modeled?”

“I don’t know,” said Janet, turning to Kip. “Done any modeling, Kip?”

Kip shook his head, and wondered why everyone was suddenly getting so excited. They all seemed to be talking at once.

“Our people won’t go for someone without experience.”

“What’s he look like in a baseball uniform?”

“What’s he look like without his shirt?”

“What if he photographs lousy?”

“Let’s find out.”

“Ask him to smile.”

“Hey, Kip … smile for us, will you?”

“I like his smile.”

“I like his hair.”

“Good, thick sandy hair.”

“Put him in a baseball uniform.”

“Put him in a towel.”

“Put him in the other room.”

Janet walked over to Kip, took him by the hand, and led him into an adjoining office. “Sit down,” she told him, pointing to the couch. “Please.”

Kip sat down. “Are they always so thoughtful around here?”

“You’ll get used to it,” said Janet. “Advertising people think of actors as props, not people.”

“Yeah, but…”

“We have to get some pictures of you, and fast. That way, we can be ready when we meet with the top Vitalis people. Are you absolutely sure you have no glossy prints lying around?”

“Look, Miss Evans. This whole thing was your idea, remember? I did bring a recent résumé.”

“I don’t need a résumé,” Janet said. “I need photos. I know … I’ll call Francesco right away, see if he can’t get you in sometime this afternoon.”

“I have to be at work this afternoon,” said Kip, starting to feel this whole lark was getting to be more trouble than it was worth.

“Call in sick,” snapped Janet, twirling madly through her Rolodex.

“I can’t,” said Kip. “Have to be there at two. They’re paying me good money to—”

“Good money?” Janet looked up from her Rolodex. “I’m talking about tens of thousands of dollars and you’re talking diddly-squat. Come on, sonny, you’ve been blessed by some lucky bunny, and you should just be grateful I found you when I did, because we got another hundred guys coming in today, all of them wanting to go to bat for Vitalis. So don’t give me a hard time, okay? I’ll have enough on my hands having to convince those bozos in there to go with you, even though you’re inexperienced. Now, are we clear about this?”

“I haven’t been clear about anything since I met you last night. What is it you want me to do?”

“Sit for a minute and be patient, okay? Let me see if Francesco can get a couple of rolls on you. Who knows, maybe he’ll be free right away and you can zip right over there now. Howzzat sound?”

Kip realized it sounded quite good. “Whatever you say…. Do I get to keep the photos?”

“I’ll get a set to you,” said Janet as she lifted the phone and called Francesco Armando, telling him she had an emergency on her hands and asked if she could send a young model right over to him. She needed the proof sheets three days ago, could he help her out?

Francesco said he’d cut his luncheon appointment in half and told her to have the model at his studio at one.

“You’re the best in the business, Francesco. Love you!” Janet threw a big kiss into the telephone receiver and hung up. She scribbled an address onto a pad and handed the paper to Kip. “Francesco Armando’s studio,” she said. “Shouldn’t be more than two or three hours. Call in, say you’ll be late. Tell ‘em you’re sick, say you’ve been kidnapped.”

Kip looked at the address on the slip of paper. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Just go down there and do whatever Francesco tells you. He’s a genius. He could make Harpo Marx look like Cary Grant. Should be able to work wonders with you.”

“This is all rather new to me,” Kip said quietly, as he stared at the address.

“Don’t worry, fella,” said Janet. “It’ll be old hat by three o’clock.”

20 

A shriveled prune of a man, Francesco Armando welcomed Kip into his Greenwich Village studio.

“Put your things down in there,” he said, closing the front door. “My assistant’s still out to lunch; one of his three-hour jobs at the Russian Tea Room with one of my society ladies, if I’m not wrong, and we’re going to have to do everything ourselves.” Francesco looked Kip up and down. “Where are your things?”

“Things?” asked Kip, also looking around, as though he’d lost something.

“Your clothes! Your makeup! Your
things!”

“I don’t have any
things ,”
said Kip.
“I’m,
all I brought.”

“Wait a minute. You’re the kid from Grayson, right? Janet Evans sent you over?”

“That’s me.”

“Then I don’t get it. Why aren’t you prepared? Where’s your baseball jersey, your trunks, your towel?”

“I don’t think you unders—”

“God damn!” Francesco threw his arms in the air. “We haven’t time for any of this. My assistant’s not here. I’m going to have to set up everything myself and do not feel like playing Edith Wardrobe…. Hope you’re not in a hurry.”

“I am in a hurry. I have to be at work in an hour. I mean, I called to say I’d be late, but they don’t expect me much past four. I have this job at the World’s Fair, you see … and …”

“Kid, do me a favor. Tell the story of your life to someone else. I have to set up some lights. Come, you can help me.”

“Glad to,” said Kip, following the slight, frantic fellow into a brightly lit room.

“Stand over there.” Francesco pointed to a white wall. “Let me get a reading on you.”

Kip walked over to the wall and stood before it, feeling awkward.

Francesco picked up a camera, pointed it at Kip. “Do something!” he commanded.

“Like what?” asked Kip.

“How should I know? You’re the model. Be a baseball player!”

Kip wanted to turn and walk out of the studio, but Janet’s phrase “tens of thousands of dollars” reverberated inside his head, and so he decided to play along. Feeling very much the fool, he made believe he had a baseball bat in his hands and assumed the standard batter-up stance.

“Good!” said Francesco. “That light looks real good.” Francesco adjusted the lens and took a picture of Kip. He put his camera down, picked up another, and cursed, “God damn! Where is that Pan X 70 lens? I could kill that stupid kid, leaving me here alone like this.”

Francesco marched over to a large table filled with camera equipment and waded through lenses and filters and color disks and rolls of film and contact sheets and at last found what he was looking for. He turned to Kip, relaxed now in front of the wall. “Hey, you, kid! What happened to your batter-up pose? I liked that! Let’s have it.”

Kip again made believe he was about to slug the ball with his invisible bat.

“Wait a minute!” cried Francesco. “You’re not dressed yet. You’re still in your street clothes!”

“Of course,” said Kip softly.

“Well, what kind of a baseball player wears street clothes, do you suppose?”

“One who’s not working!” said Kip.

Francesco stroked the cheek stubble of his three-day growth. “Okay, go into the third room back there. The tiny one with all the junk in it. Should be something athletic-looking hanging there. Get out of your button-down boredom and put on something we can sell.”

“Like what?” asked Kip.

“Hey, kid … I’m the photographer. Not the fashion coordinator. Pick something out. If it’s wrong, I’ll just keep yelling.”

Kip walked to the back of the studio into a small cubbyhole of a closet, dimly lit, with floor-to-ceiling shelves brimming over with sweaters and ties, jackets and stockings, shirts and shorts, undergarments, costume jewelry, everything but athletic uniforms. Kip searched the shelves. In the very back of the bottom shelf he found an orange T-shirt, a size too small for him, but hell, it was the only sporty piece of clothing in the whole closet.

Kip walked back into the main studio, now even more brightly lit than before. “Will this be okay?” he asked, tucking in the tight shirt.

“Fine, fine, doesn’t matter,” said Francesco. “First we take head shots, anyway. Stand over … there!” The photographer pointed to another white wall in the room.

Kip followed instructions, walked to the corner, and assumed his batter-up pose.

“No! No!” cried Francesco. “We are now trying to relax.
Relax!”
He raised his voice and then shouted, “Don’t you know how to relax?”

“Maybe if you’d stop yelling,” said Kip.

“I have to yell. It is my disposition,” said Francesco. “And now,
you
must relax. It is your job.”

Francesco moved closer to Kip with his camera, peered at him through the viewfinder, and put the camera down on the table. “You’re not relaxed … what am I going to do with you? Come. Come with me.”

Francesco walked out of the room and into a small adjoining lounge area. Hesitantly and reluctantly, Kip followed.

“We’ll try some of this,” said Francesco, pulling a bottle of white wine from a small refrigerator. “Should loosen you up. Hand me that corkscrew behind you …”

Kip handed the corkscrew to Francesco.

“Wanna know what I think of beauty?” asked Francesco, opening the wine.

“Sure.” Kip shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m bored with it. See it all day. The most beautiful women in the world walk through that door. The most beautiful men. I used to smile at the sight of a pretty face. I used to glow when something fresh and exciting came into my studio. No more. It’s all the same to me now. Here.” Francesco removed the cork and poured some wine into a glass. “Drink this.”

Kip accepted the glass of wine. “Thank you.”

“Something else. Models are dumb.”

“Not me,” said Kip, clicking wineglasses with Francesco.

“You’re not a model,” said Francesco. “Maybe by the time I finish with you today, but not yet. Come, come, drink up. Have another sip. Have another glass.” Francesco leaned forward and topped up Kip’s nearly full glass. “Drink, drink … I know what I’m doing.”

A bottle and a half of white wine later, Kip was finally relaxed. And drunk.

“That’s better!” said Francesco, snapping a head shot of Kip. “Now, give me a little more mouth. Smile with your eyes, not your teeth. Be seductive. Make believe the middle of my camera lens is a beautiful woman, a beautiful man, whatever you want to attract. Make love to the lens! Make love with your eyes. Good! That’s very good. The wine has done very well for you. You’re improving every minute. Hold that!”

Francesco went through two rolls of film one right after the other. “Okay,” he said, picking up another camera. “Take off your shirt and sit on that stool over there. Get a towel from the bathroom, put it around your neck. That’s how they’re going to shoot the commercial. But first, another glass of wine….”

Two more glasses of wine later, Kip went into the bathroom and returned with a blue towel. Francesco went through another three rolls of film, all the while being very supportive about what Kip was doing. The strange, small man seemed genuinely proud that he had gotten Kip to relax.

“And now, a little favor for me,” said Francesco, putting a fresh roll of film into a camera. “For my private collection nobody sees…. Would you mind taking off the rest of your clothes? We take some nude shots for artistic purposes only.”

Kip was relaxed, but not
that
relaxed. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “I have to get to work.”

“Just one fast roll,” said Francesco, camera in hand.

“No.” Kip smiled. “Thanks just the same. I’m not the nude-model type. I’m not even a model. You said so yourself.”

“I give you my word; they are for my very private collection only. No one will ever see; no one but me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please,” Francesco pleaded, an innocent child. “For
me.
Photographers can be very influential as to who gets jobs.”

“If I’m finished, I think I should get dressed now.”

“But you are such a beautiful young man …”

“You said you were bored with beauty, remember?”

“I may be bored,” said Francesco, just the slightest bit testy. “But I’m not
dead!”

“I’m very complimented,” said Kip, going into the dressing room. Still he was not ready to bare all; not for art, not for Francesco, not even for tens of thousands of dollars. Unfortunately, Francesco was sure he had gone into the other room to get
undressed.
Cheerfully, the photographer poured himself another glass of wine and then reset the lighting. When Kip walked back into the main studio fully dressed, the photographer was shocked.

“Wait!” cried Francesco. “Where are you going?”

“I’m late. Thanks for everything,” said Kip as he went to the door and walked out of the apartment.

Outside on Bleecker Street, he began searching for the subway which would speed him back to the pavilion and his welcome everyday job.