Winning is Everything (19 page)

39 

The following evening, after a screening, Nora and Gary were having a late supper at the Russian Tea Room when he took out his greeting from Uncle Sam and showed it to her. Nora said nothing as she quickly read the notice. Then she said plenty.

“This is nonsense!” She slammed the letter onto the table. “You can’t go!—you just got here.”

“I’m not going anywhere, not yet,” Gary tried calming her. “It’s just a letter calling me for my physical.”

“Believe me,” said Nora, still emphatic, “it’s not too long a journey from your physical to Arlington Cemetery.”

“Who said anything about going to war?” asked Gary. “Anyway, what can I do? I’ve got to show up. I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Why not?” asked Nora.

“Why
not?”
Gary raised his voice. “Because even the Army’s gotta be better than jail, that’s why not.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Nora. “At least in jail you don’t get paid to kill people.”

“You do have a flair for the dramatic,” said Gary as their vodkas arrived.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Nora, and she and Gary toasted the United States Army with Russian vodka.

“What about your roommates?” asked Nora after her third sip. “Where do they stand with this Army business?”

“They’re both 4-F,” said Gary. “Ron because he can’t see past his nose and Kip because he screwed up his knee while wrestling.”

“What about your ankle?” said Nora. “Surely falling out of an airplane should be excuse enough to get you out of any man’s army.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I’m afraid those Long Island doctors were even better than we’d first hoped. Except for a heightened fear of heights, I came out of the experience unscarred.”

“Rats!” said Nora, and downed the rest of her vodka in one long gulp.

“Come on, relax,” said Gary. “It’s not the end of the world. Lots of guys have gone to physicals before. I’ll be all right, don’t you know that?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” said Nora. “I’m just being a little politically hysterical. Forgive me. Maybe this whole Vietnam thing will be over in three months. Maybe Washington will see the error of its folly and back off.”

“Maybe they will.”

“The real problem, Gary … The real problem …” Nora’s voice trailed off and she didn’t finish her thought.

“What, Nora? Tell me the real problem.”

Nora leaned her arm across the table and reached for Gary’s hand. Holding it tightly, with great affection, she said softly, “I guess the real problem would be how much I would miss you if you left.”

40 

Ron found the Fight-for-Sight cocktail party at Arthur a dreadful bore and was sorry he had agreed to come in early to work the charity event.

Debbie Reynolds and Esther Williams, Milton Berle, Sammy Davis, Jr.—the very middle of the B list. Underwhelmed and overworked, Ron walked around with his tray of martinis and Manhattans and made believe he was elsewhere as thrilled ladies from Baldwin and Maspeth and Huntington, Long Island, took cocktails off his tray.

It was seven-thirty before the last of the commuters staggered from the club, down to Pennsylvania Station and the Long Island Railroad’s 8:10 to Wantaugh. Ron hurried into the cramped employees’ locker area, got out of his penguin-waiter outfit, put on his sweater, his parka, and dashed from the club.

He’d been slacking off on the job of late, barely going through the motions of being there. It was time to move on to greener money pastures, and Ron had called all his contacts, in the hope of relocating upward to a job of which he needn’t be ashamed.

Although everyone had been polite to him, only Liz Bromley seemed to genuinely want to help.

A few minutes later, Ron bounded into the empty apartment, took off his parka, and tossed it onto an awaiting chair. He pulled his sweater off and left it on the floor outside the bathroom. While unbuttoning his shirt, he noticed a couple of letters sitting on the dining-room table. They were both addressed to him.

Ron removed his shirt, draped it across the back of the couch as he opened the first letter. It was from Liz:

Darling Ron:

These past two and a half weeks have been sheer agony for me. Ever since Walter returned from Kenya, I still haven’t had the heart to tell him how severely my feelings have changed. We have been merely cordial to one another and I can barely wait for him to leave on his next business trip, to Houston, at the end of the week. And so, dear Ron, even though we’ve been apart these many days, I want you to know I haven’t been idle in looking for something for you. In fact, a dear friend of mine at the Barton & Broomstead advertising agency has an opening coming up for an assistant and I told him how bright you are and what a creative asset you’d be, and—guess what?—he wants to meet with you. I’ll let you know when.

In the meantime, my assertive brute, not only will I be thinking of you, but I’ll certainly be counting the hours until we can again be together.

All my love,
Liz

Ron nonchalantly crumpled the letter and opened the second envelope.

You prick [it began]:

Now that Fm dried out and can see the typewriter keys clearly, I wanted you to know several things. First of all, I’m off the juice for good and am once again hard at work on my play. It’s going to be good, too. Damned good. Better believe it. Also, better believe I won’t easily forget your impossibly rude behavior at the Cronkites’ the other evening.

Remember this while clawing your way to the middle: Hell hath no fury like an enraged queen.

Yours in distaste,
Warren Talbot

Ron stood up and carried the note into the bedroom, where he carefully tucked it in a bottom bureau drawer beneath five pairs of Jockey shorts. Who knows, it was at least
conceivable
Talbot might go on to become as famous as Tennessee Williams; and if such was the case, a personal letter, however vitriolic, might be worth saving.

His clothes now carefully strewn about the apartment, Ron opened his bedroom closet to decide what to wear later that evening. He was pulling on neatly pressed charcoal flannels when the telephone rang.

“Is Kip Bramer there?” asked a female voice on the other end.

“Nope,” said Ron, studying his hair in a mirror.

“He expected?”

“How would I know?” asked Ron. “I’m his roommate. Not his social secretary.”

“Would you tell him Rhonda Gulreich’s office called? It’s important.”

Ron looked around for a pencil and a notepad, finally found one next to the telephone.

“Got it!” he said, and jotted down: “Kip, Call Brenda Goldberg.”

Then Ron quickly finished getting dressed. He and a couple of the other waiters were catching a movie on the Upper East Side before going back to work.

Kip returned to the apartment an hour later to find Ron’s clothing spread across the apartment. After popping a Swanson’s chicken TV dinner into the oven, he showered and put on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt.

Half an hour later he was relaxing at the dining-room table, the badly cooked chicken passing for food, when the phone rang.

“Didn’t you get my message?” asked Rhonda Gulreich.

“’Fraid not,” said Kip even as he lifted the phone and found beneath, on a small notepad, an illegible scrawl that suggested something about one Brenda Goldberg.

“Been trying to reach you. Got something that might be up your alley.”

“What is it?”

“It’s for some print work … Del Monte catsup.”

“Come on, Rhonda,” said Kip. “You know I don’t want to do any modeling.”

“Hold your horses, John Barrymore,” said Rhonda. “They’re using the print work for magazines, but they’re also tying in the campaign with a TV spot. So they want real ham actors to eat their hamburgers. If they like you, they’ll shoot you for both the magazine layouts and the TV spots, and you can get your SAG card and have an honest commercial credit on your résumé…. How does it sound?”

Sounded too good to be true. The Screen Actors Guild. Christ, thought Kip. The first door that had to be opened.

“Well, Rhonda …” said Kip, controlling his enthusiasm. “I usually don’t like to do print work …”

“Stop sounding like every other actor in your lousy business. Even Troy Donahue did print work to get by before Suzanne Pleshette discovered him.”

“Hardly a conciliatory notion,” said Kip. “But okay, you talked me into it. Rent’s coming up again, and it sounds like it could buy a square meal.”

“Getting smart in your old age, huh?” said Rhonda. “Okay, tomorrow morning, ten sharp. Wells, Rich and Greene. Third Avenue at Fifty-fourth. Across from P. J. Clarke’s. Twenty-third floor. Speak to Betty Galsworthy. And look athletic.”

“I’ll wear my jockstrap over my nose,” said Kip.

“Perfect!”

“Seriously, Rhonda,” said Kip. “Thanks for calling. I can really use the work.”

“Listen, kid. It’s my ten percent, too. Hope we can both get rich together.”

41 

Kip looked very athletic indeed in his dark chinos, white tennis sneakers, spankingly clean white sweat socks, and his varsity letter jacket.

The Del Monte account executives were impressed with his powerful build, his broad shoulders, his strong but not overdeveloped wrestler’s neck. They told him he looked the part and asked him to wait outside with forty-five other would-be athletes also auditioning for the Del Monte crew team.

Here’s where I blow it, figured Kip an hour later as he was called into another room to be screened by a whole new set of people. They’re going to give me a script to read and I’m going to blow it.

Fortunately, this was one audition in which voice was not a consideration. The only thing the members of the Del Monte crew had to do was row. And eat hamburgers.

Heck, even Kip could do that without gagging.

The second group of people took in Kip’s physical presence and agreed with the first batch of executives: definitely crew material. And so, without having to say a word, Kip got his first acting job.

After that the door finally opened, and Kip began finding work. Rhonda knew the commodity she had in the young actor, and sent him around to commercial auditions for all kinds of products. Casting directors soon came to know and remember him for his winning manner and his movie-star looks.

A week after the Del Monte commercial, Kip landed a job in a Kodak commercial as a member of a large family sitting around the living room cheering as they watched slides taken on Kodak film.

He was finding work. He was doing commercials. He was building credits. He had yet to recite a line.

Several workdays later, Rhonda Gulreich called Kip to say she’d gotten him three days’ extra work as a customer in the background of a restaurant scene on the soap opera
As the World Turns.

Work on the soap opera was monotonous and slow and the hours long. Whereas he had at least been active in the commercials he’d shot, he was now little more than background atmosphere, one of thirteen other people eating dinner in an Italian restaurant.

Kip sat around the set hour after hour while technicians lit and relit the scene, actors rehearsed their lines, the producer fought with the director, the director fought with the leading lady, the leading lady fought with her agent, and her agent fought with the technicians.

Kip loved every minute of it. He found that just by sitting around observing all this frenzied activity, he could learn something about the craft of acting.

He felt terrific. He was finally making some money, he had a few credits under his belt, and was growing more comfortable around the camera.

Two days after he’d completed the work on
As the World Turns,
Rhonda sent him on another assignment, a commercial for Greyhound bus. Kip was to play the part of a passenger—one of fifty other folks shlepping down to Florida.

The commercial was an extravaganza musical affair featuring singers, dancers, extras, even a genuine Greyhound bus.

There were two things that distinguished this commercial from the other work Kip had done.

The first was that out of the dozens of extras, the director chose to film a close-up of Kip’s face.

And the second outstanding thing to happen was that Kip met Adrienne Kent.

It happened on the first day of shooting. Equipment was being moved, fake trees were being planted, dancers stretched limbs, singers warmed vocal cords, extras got in the way; everyone was running around trying to figure out what to do next. In the middle of all this commotion, Kip spotted Adrienne.

She was quite striking, with a clear complexion and long, flowing auburn hair. Her large dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality, and the moment Kip saw her, stretching a long, lithe, beautifully shaped leg across the makeshift barre, even while smoking a cigarette, he knew he had to meet her.

“Hi, you working the spot too?”

“I am,” said the girl with warm, remarkable eyes.

“Great,” chirped Kip. “Me too!”

“You an actor?” asked the girl, with only the slightest hint of disdain, as she stretched long fingers way down to the edge of her toes.

“I am. You’re a dancer?”

“What do you think?” asked the girl, cold and direct.

Kip realized it had been a dumb question and tried to make up for it. “Musical comedy?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the girl matter-of-factly. “Ballet!”

“Ballet?” Kip was impressed. He’d never met a genuine ballerina before. “You mean like in
Swan Lake?”

“Kind of a dated reference, but yes, like in
Swan Lake”

“I’ve never been to a ballet,” said Kip, hoping to keep the conversation going.

“The loss is yours, I can assure you,” said the girl icily.

“I’m Kip Bramer. What’s your name?”

“Adrienne Kent,” she said, ignoring his overture of friendship. “Aren’t you due back on the set?”

“They’re setting up the lighting now,” said Kip, hoping to sound experienced.

“They’ve been doing that since eleven o’clock,” said Adrienne, taking a deep puff from her cigarette. “I’m taking class at six. I hope we’ll be out of here before that.”

“I can’t believe you’re smoking,” said Kip.

“Why not?” asked Adrienne. “All dancers smoke, one carton after another.”

“But it’s so bad for you,” argued Kip.

“So is being nervous,” said Adrienne.

“How long you been dancing?” Kip asked.

With thigh in hands, the girl removed her leg from the barre and faced Kip. “You really want to know?”

“Of course I want to know. Would I have asked otherwise?”

“It’s the typical opening line for a come-on,” said Adrienne.

“Hey,” said Kip. “Excuse me for taking up your valuable time, okay? I spotted you from the other side of the set, thought you looked attractive, and wondered whether you’d join me for a drink later. But you’re obviously bored, so I’ll leave you alone. It was almost nice talking to you.”

Kip turned, ready to walk away, when Adrienne said, “Practically all my life.”

“What?” said Kip, spinning around again.

“Dancing,” said Adrienne. “I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember.”

“Oh,” said Kip, trying to put the railroad car back on the tracks.

“It’s my passion,” said Adrienne.

“I envy people their passions,” said Kip, taking a step closer to this strange wide-eyed beauty. “For whom do you dance?”

“Spent the past three years with the Joffrey,” said Adrienne. “And just two months ago I joined the corps of the New York City Ballet.”

“Oh,” said Kip, completely ignorant of what any of that meant. “I don’t know much about ballet, but I can do a pretty mean Philly lindy.”

Adrienne smiled, came down a rung from her ladder, and said, “How about five-thirty, if we’re not still tied down here.”

“What’s that?” Kip wanted to know.

“You asked if I would have a drink with you after the shoot, didn’t you? I suggest five-thirty at the Blue Owl.”

“Sounds fine with me, Adrienne. I’ll pick you up soon as they let us off the bus.”

“I can only have a soda water, though,” said Adrienne. “I’m in training.”

“I’m in training too,” said Kip. “I’ll probably just have a double Scotch.”

“Cute,” said Adrienne. “And we can’t take long. I have that six-o’clock class upstairs in the Carnegie tower.”

“No problem. One quick glass of club soda, one fast Scotch and water, the story of both our lives, and we’ll be on our ways.”