Winning is Everything (6 page)

“Hey!” Kip advised jokingly. “Stay off that punch; you won’t be able to live with your hangover tomorrow.”

“Don’t I know!” Ellenor agreed, and was about to launch into an articulate discussion of Barry Goldwater’s candidacy when one of the other girls pointed out an intense couple in a corner and asked, “Is there anything more ridiculous at a fun party than listening to people having a
serious
argument about something as dumb as politics?”

Everyone in their small circle laughed pleasantly, and Ellenor retreated to a less-crowded corner of the living room.

When she looked over and saw one of the girls, a tall, thin blond, take Kip’s hand and place it around her waist, Ellenor realized that what she really needed at that late hour, surrounded by so much negative reinforcement, was another vodka-and-punch.

By the time the two other guitarists fell asleep in different corners of the living room, the party finally started breaking up. It was almost five in the morning, and Gary had long ago retired to his bed.

Ron said good night to a final band of intrepid revelers, and then, after stepping over several snoring bodies who had fallen in the line of party duty, stumbled into his bedroom and fell onto that part of his bed which was not hanging out the window.

7 

Three moving men arrived at seven-forty-five in the morning to deliver the furniture Gary’s grandmother had sent from Cleveland.

They rang the doorbell four times before Gary tumbled out of bed and staggered into the living room, over to the front door. The movers carried in huge boxes and a small bookcase and chairs and three lamps and were careful to step over the five bodies still strewn across the living-room floor.

“All right, everybody up!” cried Ron, coming out of the bedroom and clapping his hands together. “It’s reveille. The moving men are here and it’s time for everyone else to move out. I hereby declare this cocktail party officially
over!
O-v-e-r!”

Nobody stirred.

“Where’d you want this picture, Mac?” asked one of the moving men as he held up a cheap Remington print.

“Out the window, please!” answered Ron. “Hey, Sergeant,” Ron yelled into the other room. “Where are the Picassos, the Matisses?”

“Up your ass, Zinelli. We’re trying to sleep,” came a reply from somewhere in the bedroom.

“They’re so cultured around here,” Ron said to the moving man, in confidence. “Why don’t you just lean that portrait of a cow against the wall over there? I’ll try to convince the owner to burn it later.”

Ellenor stood up from her curled-up spot on the shabby couch, holding her forehead. “What was in those drinks last night?” she asked as she stumbled toward the bathroom.

A moving man noisily deposited a large carton on the kitchen counter.

“Sssssh!” said a body lying on the living-room floor. “I’m still asleep!”

“This is not the Ford Hilton, buster,” claimed Ron. “It’s checkout time. The moving men are here. We all have to be at work in less than two hours, anyway. Off my dirty floor, and I mean
now”

“Is there any coffee?” asked a hung-over partygoer.

“Coffee! What is this, the Automat?” Ron bent down and shook awake still another sleeping young man. “Hey! You want to sleep, check into the Plaza.”

“Where’d you want these, Bud?” asked a moving man, holding a Naugahyde chair in each hand.

“On the ceiling, of course! Who do I look like, the editor of
House Beautiful?
Looking more like a dentist’s office every minute! Hey, I don’t care. Drop them on the floor. Quietly. I have to shower. I have to get dressed. I have to take some aspirin. I have to get the hell out of here “

Wakened by the racket, Kip moseyed into the living room, yawning, stretching, and combing a hand through his messed-up hair. “Looks like your furniture arrived,” he said quietly.

“Handsome
and
smart!” Ron observed.

“I thought the party ended last night,” said Kip, looking around at bodies on the floor.

“The party
did
end last night,” said Ron. “This is chapter two. Soon as I clear all the guests out of the apartment, the seven Santini Brothers and I are sitting down to a fast game of poker.”

“Count me in!” said one of the moving men.

“Is the bathroom free yet?” Kip called into the other room.

The bathroom door swung open and Ellenor, remarkably refreshed and gingery, danced into the living room. “Good morning, everyone,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, Christ,” moaned Ron. “It’s Pollyanna.”

Kip stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind him.

“Shall I make some coffee or something?” asked Ellenor, trying to be helpful.

“Of course make some coffee, woman!” cried Ron. “And bacon and toast. Bloody Marys. Waffles. Grits. Eggs Benedict. Whatever you can drum up. And for God’s sake, bring me some aspirin.”

“How many?” asked Ellenor.

“Eighty-two,” said Ron.

Ellenor hurried over to the bathroom, tapped on the door. “Aspirin, please!” she shouted.

The bathroom door opened and Kip’s hand thrust out, a bottle of aspirin in his fist. Ellenor accepted the bottle and delivered it to Ron in the living room. Then she went straight into the kitchen and began looking through just-delivered cartons marked “Kitchen” which sat on the counter.

When Ron walked in ten minutes later, he found her concentrating on the stove.

“Now, this girl is terrific!” said Ron. “Eggs, over easy, please. And for Charlotte Ford’s sake, don’t burn the toast.”

“There is no toast,” said Ellenor, disappointment in her voice.

“Well, then, for God’s sake, don’t burn the bacon!”

“There is no bacon,” said Ellenor.

“Well, then, for God’s sake, don’t burn the coffee!”

“The coffee’s already burned,” said Ellenor, handing a cupful to Ron.

Sipping it, he declared, “Mud, woman! What’d you do, boil it in molasses?”

“No,” snapped Ellenor. “I brewed it the old-fashioned way. In a coffeepot!”

Gary walked into the kitchen, dressed and determined. “We all have to get to work,” he said, moving toward the coffeepot. “Don’t we have to get all these people off the floor?”

“Of course we do,” said Ellenor. “That’s why I’m making breakfast.”

“Breakfast sounds great,” said Kip, coming into the kitchen. “I’ve got to be alert for the drudgery of the Loading Zone.”

“If you don’t like it in the loading area, I can have you transferred,” Ellenor told him as she poured out another cup of coffee.

“To where?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“In return for what?” Kip wanted to know.

“I’d settle for a smile,” said Ellenor, handing him the filled cup.

Kip couldn’t help but smile.

“There!” said Ellenor. “And such beautiful teeth, too. Name your favorite zone. You’ll be there first thing Monday morning.”

“Truly?” Kip was almost interested.

“Truly!” Ellenor laughed.

“You certainly are thoughtful,” said Kip.

Ellenor carried the coffeepot and several mugs into the living room to dispense caffeine among the rest of the hung-over needy..

“I like your apartment,” Kip told Ron and Gary. “You don’t have to listen to street traffic all night. My aunt lives on the second floor, practically over Union Turnpike, in Kew Gardens.”

“One of the advantages of living on the twelfth floor,” Ron suggested while pointing out the kitchen window, “is that it’s all below you, rather than beneath you.”

Kip walked over to the window, saying, “I’d sure like to find a place in Manhattan.”

“Why don’t you move in with us?” asked Gary, matter-of-fact. “We got loads of room.”

“Move in here?” asked Kip. “Why? You guys looking for a roommate?”

Ron said nothing.

“Not really,” said Gary. “But that was before we got saddled with some of these bills. New York’s so much more expensive than we ever figured.”

“What do you think, Ron?” asked Kip.

Ron took a sip of his coffee and realized having Kip move in with them might just be a good idea, after all. Ron was not only still reeling from the money he’d laid out for secondhand furniture the other day, he had yet to pay Gary the money he owed him for the rent. “Sounds like something we should talk about,” he told Kip.

“All right,” said Kip, leaning against the kitchen counter. “What about the rent?”

“Four hundred a month. Includes everything,” said Ron, banking on Kip’s gullibility.

Unfortunately for Ron, Kip was not feeling gullible. “No way,” he said. “Gary told me it’s five-fifty total. If I do sign up, I toss in a hundred eighty-three dollars and thirty-three cents per month like everybody else, and I want my own room. Understood?”

“Hey … relax,” said Ron. “The four-hundred figure was simply a conversation opener. Remember life’s golden rule: Everything is negotiable! You want to pay a third of the rent, that’s fine with me.”

“Good,” said Kip. “Thing is, I had planned to stay out at my aunt’s all summer, so I could pay for acting lessons. But I wouldn’t mind saying good-bye to my savings so I can share a place with a couple of honest guys—’long as we do it
honestly “

“I understand,” said Ron. “If we weren’t suddenly so strapped for extra money ourselves, I never would’ve tried getting more out of you, and that’s the truth.” Ron lifted his mug and offered a toast. “So long, Kew Gardens … hello, sophistication. Welcome to the Upper East Side.”

Kip looked at Ron and Gary and smiled. “When can I move in?”

“How ‘bout tonight?” said Ron. “Right after work.”

Ron and Kip and Gary lifted their mugs.
“Roommates!”
toasted Gary.

While they drank their coffee, Ellenor unpacked dishes, silverware, a tablecloth, napkins, and then set the wobbly dining table for a breakfast buffet. She emptied a huge potful of hot farina porridge into a ceramic serving bowl, set it out on the table with some brown sugar, a box of raisins, a tin of pecans, two cans of Carnation milk, and a fresh pot of coffee. Then she announced that breakfast was served.

It was not your most formal of breakfasts. More catch-as-catch-can, with people serving themselves between trips to the bathroom, the bedroom, on their way out the front door.

Ten minutes later, a dozen hosts and hostesses left the apartment and piled into the elevator at once.

“Well, Ron,” asked one of the hosts, “have you counted all the money you made on last night’s party yet?”

“’Course I did,” said Ron, a playful glint in his eye.

“Now that you guys are rich,” another host told Ron, “you can take us all out for beers this afternoon.”

Everyone cheered at that suggestion.

“Certainly not,” said Ron. “John D. Rockefeller said you must reinvest your profits so your money will grow … or it’s not worth a plugged nickel.”

“What are you going to invest in?” asked still another host.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Ron. “We’re going to invest in some glassware and some booze.”

“But why?” asked Gary.

“Why do you think, birdbrain?” said Ron as the elevator arrived at the ground floor. “We’re going to throw more parties!”

8 

After that, Ron was acknowledged as the undisputed social director of the Ford Pavilion. Everyone kept asking when he would next be tossing another bash.

“It’s a lot of pressure, kid, believe me,” Ron told Gary. “Good thing I can handle it.”

Ron managed to convince Kip and Gary they should host a party
every
Thursday night. He raised the price of admission to five dollars, then six, then seven, but continued giving partygoers their money’s worth.

He borrowed from one of the Lindas-from-Seattle an old but loud phonograph, and somewhow talked the other Linda into lending out her 45-rpm collection of Beatles, Supremes, and Beach Boys.

He hired a belly dancer. He threw a party using nothing but cheap New York State champagne. He threw another party and hired a caricaturist to sketch everyone’s portrait. He threw a party with colorful helium balloons covering the ceilings. He hosted an all-white-attire party. A red party. A Dogpatch party.

He was, admittedly, the King of Swing, the Prince of Dish, the Count of Merriment, the Earl of Mirth.

Ellenor was also good as her word regarding Kip. She put through the papers necessary to have him transferred from the Loading Zone, which he loathed, to the information booth in the hospitality area—conveniently across from her office. She hoped he’d like the new spot and was thrilled to be able to spend a good portion of her workday watching him from her desk.

One morning the following week, Mr. Thomason tossed a bundle of mail to Ellenor along with instructions of which to answer, which to file, and then handed her a white envelope, saying, “I can’t use this; maybe you’d like to….”

Ellenor thanked Mr. Thomason, opened the white envelope, and read the invitation. It was for a private party being given at Arthur the following Wednesday. RSVP. Ticket good for you and a guest. Arthur! The most exciting discotheque in the entire city.

Ellenor put the office phones on hold and hurried across the hall to the information desk, where Kip was busy guiding people to the bathrooms.

“Hi,” she said, full smile. “How’s it going?”

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

“Thank you,”said Ellenor. “I think I know my way around. You’ve been at this new post for some time now, haven’t you?”

“Seems like forever,” said Kip.

“What you need is a break from your everyday routine,” she said, thrusting the coveted invitation before his eyes.

“Ladies’ room around the corner to your left, men’s room to your right,” said Kip to a young mother and son who wore such frenzied expressions he knew they had to get to the relief station pronto. Kip then read the invitation and looked at Ellenor. “So?” he asked.

“So … would you like to escort me to the party? I’ve got the perfect dress. Black, with spaghetti straps.”

“I think I’m going to the theater that night,” said Kip. “Besides, I don’t dance very well. You should ask Ron … he’s a regular Fred Astaire.”

“You don’t have to dance,” Ellenor told him. “It’s a party. You can do whatever you like.”

“Maybe some other time, huh?” he said to her. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Well, if you should decide—” They were interrupted as Kip told a family of four, “Ladies’ room around the corner to your left, men’s room to your right.”

“You really must hate this job,” said Ellenor.

“Not really,” Kip repeated.

“You’re sorry you were transferred here, aren’t you?”

“No,” said Kip. “Boring as this post may be, it’s a veritable picnic compared to packing people into Packards upstairs.”

Ellenor felt foolish. She never should have asked him. She tossed her hair back. “See you,” she said, and hurried back to her office.

“This is it!” said Ellenor an hour later, whisking the invitation past Ron’s eyes so fast he could hardly make out what it said. “It’s a private party. You want to come or not?”

“What is it?” said Ron, trying to decipher the invitation now behind her back.

“It’s a private party at Arthur’s.”

“Sure I’ll go,” Ron said with enthusiasm. “When is it?”

“Wednesday, nine o’clock.”

“Sounds great. I’ll pick you up. And it’s not
Arthur’s,
nitwit, it’s
Arthur.
It’s the name of a haircut, not a person. Let’s try to be a little chic, even if we are from Seattle, yes?”

“Fine. Why don’t you pick me up at eight-thirty? We’ll go to the party at
Arthur,
no S.”

“Sister, you got yourself a date!”

Ron had only to walk through the front doors of Arthur to realize he’d arrived at the most exciting place in the city, the country, the world. Yessiree, he was there, right there, in the center of the glamour, the excitement, the sheer glitter of it all—shoulder to shoulder with the most beautiful of the Beautiful People.

Ellenor didn’t see much of Ron at the party. When they arrived at ten after nine, there was hardly anyone else there. Still, Ron could smell excitement in the air.

Resolving never to arrive on time again, not anywhere, he headed directly over to the bar for a Jack Daniel’s. Ellenor wanted to order a sloe-gin fizz, the standard Seattle “good-girl” drink, but Ron wouldn’t hear of it. “This isn’t the junior prom, kid,” he whispered, handing her a potent gin and tonic. “This is le big time!”

Ellenor pretended to be grateful for the reprimand. “In Seattle,” she said, “any girl who drinks fast gin rather than sloe gin before she’s married is considered a floozy.”

“Better to be a floozy than a hick!” said Ron.

“Whatever you say.” Ellenor forced a smile.

“I say adjust the straps on your dress,” said Ron through clenched teeth. “Stand up straight and smile.”

Ellenor adjusted the drooping spaghetti straps, stood up straight, and forced a smile, silently cursing Ron beneath her breath.

It bothered her that she had to be told what to drink, what was considered acceptable behavior. It bothered her because she knew that beneath her low-cut black dress with the droopy straps and below her small almost-real button pearl earrings, Ron was right; there, indeed, beat the heart of a hick.

Living off the Puget Sound was not the same as living off the East River, and Ellenor knew it. She ached for the sophistication that came from living for a time in a city as varied and exciting as New York, and she was, in some strange way, actually grateful Ron took the time to let her know what she should do and what she should not. She just wished he would couch his criticisms in less-biting terms.

No doubt about it. Ellenor Robinson had ordered her last sloe-gin fizz.

To Ron’s great relief, it didn’t take long for the bar to fill up. It was a pleasant-enough affair, a publishing party for a new book from Double-day tracing the history of the Model T. That explained why Mr. Thomason had received his invitation.

Ron looked around the room trying to distinguish Madison Avenue types from Seventh Avenue types. It wasn’t difficult. He drank slowly, knowing he didn’t want to lose control of the situation or himself. You never knew who might walk in or when you might have to turn on the charm.

The private party ended at eleven o’clock, and most of the guests began to leave.

The bar stopped offering freebies and was now collecting cash. Ron plunked down a fresh five-dollar bill for a fresh Daniel’s and took a seat at a small table when Ellenor came over to him.

“Shall we leave?” she asked.

“LeaveV
⁹

“Yeah. Go home. The party’s over.”

“Darling”—Ron tried to be patient—”the party is over when the social director says it’s over. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Ellenor. “I just wondered what we’re going to do in an empty discotheque.”

“It took me twenty years to get into this place. Didn’t you see that line outside waiting to get in? You think I’m going to leave after only two hours?”

“But—”

“No
buts.
Make yourself comfortable. The regulars should start arriving any minute.”

Obediently Ellenor sat down. She hoped Ron knew what he was talking about.

He did. The place was packed in no time. Ron almost developed a sprained neck from stretching to see who walked in, who sat where, who danced, who ordered what to drink, who knew Sybil Burton
personally;
who spoke with Jordan Christopher; what clothes people were wearing; how well they danced the frug; what was cool and what was not.

The celebrities started arriving around midnight. Jean Shrimpton and David Bailey and Joan Collins and Leigh Taylor-Young with her husband, Ryan O’Neal.

The merriment peaked a little after two-thirty, and Ron watched Ahmet and Mica Ertegun leave the nightclub and decided if the big cats were taking off, he would too. He scooped up Ellenor with a tug around her waist and they were gone.

Outside, Ron stopped for a moment to stare at the crowd assembled for half a block waiting to get in. Ron had stood on that line before and knew it was no picnic. He removed a five-dollar bill from his wallet and walked up to the big man at the rope. Hey, he convinced himself. This is big-investment time. Don’t fuck it up with a five. Le big time, remember. Give him a tenski….

Though it stung him to the quick, Ron replaced the fiver with a ten-dollar bill, which he then handed the tall fellow behind the rope.

“Here,” he said. “Thanks for everything. I was here tonight with Jean Shrimpton and that crowd. Had a real good time. I’ll probably be back soon … like tomorrow night. Name’s Ron. Ron Zinelli, one N, two L’s, ha-a-ha-a.”

The man at the door pocketed the ten spot without even looking at it (damn!) and winked at Ron. “Keep my eye out for ya, buddy.”

Ron turned and pushed Ellenor toward the corner. No taxi tonight, he told her. They were walking home. He was flying too high to sit still.

Ron and Ellenor walked home together, but they may as well have been in different cities. Lost in thought, Ron wondered if the bruiser at the front door would remember him. Keeping your eye out for someone was not the same as letting him in, was it? And, dummy, you forgot to find out the bouncer’s name. All right, so they don’t know you as a regular customer. Not yet. Give it time. They will.

Ellenor walked alongside Ron, wondering if her behavior had been okay. She hoped Ron hadn’t been embarrassed to be with her. She now realized the black dress that had been so warmly received in Seattle was, here in the big city, outdated evening wear.

Women looked different in New York; used more makeup; paid more attention to their hair. They dressed differently, too; danced differently; were disciplined about eating, drinking.

As Ellenor walked up the street, she realized she had a lot of learning ahead of her, a lot of catching up to do.

When they arrived at her apartment, Ron looked down at Ellenor and realized she’d been his opening-night ticket. He would not have seen Norman Mailer if it hadn’t been for her. He would not have sat on the bar stool next to William Holden if she hadn’t taken him there; would not have brushed shoulders with George Hamilton’s Italian Brioni tweed jacket.

Without a word, Ron took the key to the front door out of Ellenor’s hand, flashed a knowing seductive wink, and let them both in.

Hopped up and jazzed, the Prince could certainly extend himself into an intense fifteen-minute make-out session with Ellenor. Keep the woman on her toes. Keep her interest alive. Make sure the next time she got invited somewhere chic she invited him
first.

The apartment was dark as they stepped into the foyer. Ron took Ellenor firmly by the hand and was about to lead her into the living room when she realized what he was up to and placed her hand on his chest, kissed him once quickly, and said, “Thanks. I had a lovely time … I’m so glad we decided to become
friends.”

Then, her hand still pressed against his chest, she gently eased him out the door, back into the hallway.

“Hey!” Ron stuck his foot in the door. “Don’t you want to invite me in for … oh, I don’t know … perhaps a bit of neck wrestling?”