Winning is Everything (12 page)

21 

Kip called Janet Evans’ office three times in the following two days before he finally got put through to her.

“Hello?” she asked, all business.

“It’s Kip …”

“I know. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on where?”

“What’s going on with the Vitalis commercial?” asked Kip, wondering why she was suddenly being so distant.

“Oh, right,” said Janet. “I should apologize for not getting back to you sooner. Been a madhouse around here. Clients going crazy all over the place.”

“Francesco send you the photos he took of me?”

“They’re right in front of me,” said Janet, having no idea where the contact sheets were.

“And?”

“And they came out fine. Francesco complained you were a little difficult, a little unreasonable. Does that mean you wouldn’t let him suck your cock?”

Kip looked at the receiver, surprised by her candor. “I guess that’s what it means.”

“Well, a model with principles,” said Janet with a short laugh. “You may not go very far. Still …”

“What about the Vitalis spot?”

“What about it?”

“Do I get to shoot it?” Kip wanted to know.

“Complications,” said Janet. “All kinds of complications since you were last in the office. For one thing, the clients have decided they want to go with a
real
baseball player. A Yankee, a Dodger, something like that. They’re talking to Mickey Mantle, Sandy Koufax.”

“Oh,” said Kip quietly into the telephone. “I guess that kind of lets me out, huh?”

“Not by a long shot,” said Janet. “I still pull a little weight around here, and I’ve been trying to convince them to change their minds again and go with an unknown. Someone with a pretty face. Someone like you.”

“When do they decide?”

“Hey, Kip … this is the advertising business, know what I mean? Everything that had to be decided yesterday automatically gets put off till tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“Sit tight. They’ll make up their minds soon enough. Besides, even if you don’t get the commercial, they’re apt to do some print spin-offs. Maybe you’ll get a crack at one of those.”

Tens of thousands of dollars, huh? thought Kip, his visions of sudden wealth taking flight.

“What can I say…?” said Janet, sensing his disappointment. “It’s a tough business.”

“Yeah,” Kip agreed. “That’s what I’m finding out.” He hung up the receiver and went back to the Loading Zone, wondering why he’d bothered to make the phone call in the first place.

It was three days later, while Ellenor was typing in her office, that the telephone calls started coming in from Grayson Advertising.

Call Janet Evans immediately. Urgent.

The note was handed to Kip as he was working the information booth, directing several senior citizens to restrooms. He looked at the message and stuffed it into his pocket. Of one thing Kip was certain.
Nothing
in the advertising business was
urgent.

Half an hour later, when Kip had still not returned the call, Janet Evans’ secretary called Mr. Thomason’s office again and insisted another message be delivered to Kip Bramer
at once.

Ellenor delivered the message this time personally.

“Do me a favor?” said Kip. “Tell them you couldn’t find me. Tell them I’m around somewhere but you don’t know where.”

Ellenor went back to her office, called Janet Evans’ secretary, and delivered Kip’s message. Then she went back to her paperwork. The next time the phone rang it was Madam Janet herself calling.

“What do you mean you can’t find Kip Bramer?” she wanted to know, before introductions.

“He’s … uhm, around somewhere, I’m sure. We just haven’t located him yet,” said Ellenor.

“This is an emergency,” hollered Janet. “Did he get my message?”

“You don’t have to yell,” suggested Ellenor, keeping her voice low.

“Now, listen. This is ridiculous. I can have someone call Detroit directly and have Kip Bramer in my office in twenty minutes if I so desire!”

“Why don’t you do that, then?” suggested Ellenor calmly.

“Look. I’ve got thirty people here screaming down my throat. Tell Bramer to get in touch with me at once, okay? You have the number. Tell him we want to use him.”

“For a television commercial?” Ellenor got excited.

“No,” said Janet flat out. “For some print work. But only if we can get hold of him fast. We have fittings and appointments to arrange. If we can’t find him, we’ll use someone else.”

“Give me a few more minutes,” said Ellenor into the phone. “I think I can find him for you.” Ellenor looked out her office, across the hall, and saw that Kip was not at the information booth.

“You got ten,” said Janet. “In ten minutes I call the agent for the alternate model and book him. The clients wanted the proofs on this ad last week.”

“Is the advertising field always this frantic?” asked Ellenor.

“Always. Why else do you think we work in it? It’s the madness that keeps us sane.”

Ellenor hung up the phone and looked up to see Gary standing in her office.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” she said. “We have to get a message to Kip immediately. Those crazy advertising people want to use him for some print work. Do you know where he is?”

“Downstairs in the employees’ lounge,” said Gary. “He’s on a break.”

Ellenor stood up. “Let’s go tell him at once.”

“Lead the way,” said Gary.

“Oh, yes … in all this commotion, I almost forgot. Look!”

Ellenor pointed to the filing cabinets, on top of which sat four fresh photocopies of Gary’s manuscript, neatly organized into dark blue binders.

“My manuscript!” cried Gary, rushing over to take a look. “You actually did it!”

“All set to go out,” said Ellenor. “Just let me know where you want them sent and what you want the cover letter to say, and I’ll type them up and ship them from our mailroom.”

Gary ran over to Ellenor, wrapped his arms around her. “You’re the best. The best! I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“Oh, yes you can,” said Ellenor. “But not right now. We have to dash downstairs to get to Kip before that crazy lady at the ad agency decides to use someone else!”

She grabbed Gary’s hand and the two of them raced from her office.

“Where’ve you been?” Janet Evans asked Kip when he finally called her nine minutes later.

“Around,” Kip said casually.

“Don’t you know I’ve been searching everywhere for you?”

“I was right here. What’s up?”

“They want you for print work. The Armando photos came out terrific and they want to use you for some Vitalis magazine ads. One hundred dollars an hour. Session takes about five. When’s your next day off?”

“Wednesday.”

“Too late,” said Janet. “Clients wanted this work finished last week.”

“I’m working afternoon shifts these days,” said Kip. “I could give you a couple of mornings—”

“Perfect!” said Janet. “I’ll get things going. Maybe even tomorrow. I’ll get back to you. No. You get back to me. Call back here in … say, two hours?”

“Sure.”

“Fine. Talk to you then.”

Janet hung up and Kip flipped the receiver back onto the pay phone. Hey, he got himself a job! And even if five hundred dollars was not the same as tens of thousands, it was still a whole lot of money for a few hours’ work.

Kip arrived at Hap MacGhee’s studio three days later at seven-thirty in the morning. Hap was one of the best photographers in the business and Grayson often used him for their print work.

A hairdresser greeted Kip when he arrived and ushered him into the bathroom, where he washed, cut, dried, and brushed the future model’s hair. He did not use any Vitalis.

An hour later a makeup man arrived and spent two hours painting Kip’s face and torso so that his complexion seemed tanned. Kip was now ready for the stylist. She arrived an hour late and spent a long time apologizing to everyone. Then she led Kip over to a trio of mirrors facing each other and began placing various towels around his neck, towels of differing colors, patterns, textures, designs, until she came across a dark blue-green solid she was sure the photographer would just love because it was practically the same color as Kip’s eyes.

Since the photo to be taken was from the waist up, Kip needed no further costuming and was told he could wear his own pants.

The lighting director stood Kip in front of the set—a bathroom sink beneath a mirrored medicine chest—and spent ninety minutes adjusting spots, arcs, and gels. Finally, then, the hairdresser, the makeup man, the wardrobe lady, the lighting director, and the model were all ready for the photographer.

Who didn’t arrive for another hour. And immediately decided that the lighting was all wrong (too bright) the towel was not the right shade (too blue), the makeup was the wrong tint (too dark), and Kip’s hair was the wrong texture (too oily).

So they started all over again. The lighting man moved lights of all sizes all around; the makeup man removed a few layers of Pan-Cake from Kip’s face and torso; the stylist changed towels for him; and the hairdresser washed his hair again, dried it, and combed it dry, this time with a blower.

Kip was returned to the set and the photographer checked out all the elements he’d been concerned about and declared that everything was now A-Okay. They were ready to shoot.

Unfortunately, not everyone else agreed.

Janet Evans had by that time dropped in with a couple of the Vitalis people for a quick hello, and the clients were not especially pleased with either the green towel or the tanned skin. So once again it was back to Wardrobe, back to Make-up.

An hour later the photographers called for quiet on the set so he could concentrate, and then, with twenty-seven people standing around ready to assist, he shot his first picture.

Kip had already been at work five hours.

But if the first five hours seemed a waste of time, they were a bright spot compared to the tedium of standing under the hot lights holding up a small bottle of Vitalis, smiling, and looking cool, confident, and relaxed for the next seven.

It wasn’t until eight that evening that the photographer was ready to wrap. Kip was tired out from the experience, but hell, he’d worked eleven and a half hours and made over a thousand dollars.

22 

Ron couldn’t decide what to do about a closing-night party. That it had to be the whoopdedoo-wing-ding finale of the summer was obvious. But how to top the guitarists, the belly dancer, the caricaturist, the red party, the white party; that was the challenge. It would be eleven in the evening before the last visitors would leave the pavilion. There would be at least a couple of hours spent being polite and pleasant at the closing party the Ford folks were throwing. So any postparty fete Ron would sponsor couldn’t even get under way until at least one in the morning. It had to be memorable. It had to be the best party ever. No doubt about it. He had to deliver. He owed it to his public.

Farewell to the Fair
88 seats—No more!

So read the first sign Ron posted on the employees’ bulletin board after putting together at least part of his plan.

Mystery Bus Ride!

Ron placed the second sign beneath the first and waited several days while people buzzed about what it might all mean before he attached his final notice to the bulletin board:

CLOSING NIGHT PARTY!
Leaves World’s Fair … 12:30 A.M.
Immediately following champagne party in the Product Salon.
Returns: Mid-Manhattan sometime before breakfast.
Mystery Bus Ride—88 seats—No more!
Tickets: $25 in advance … includes EVERYTHING!
See Ron Zinelli, Social Director.

Word of Ron’s mystery bus ride spread swiftly around the pavilion. No one knew what to expect, and twenty-five bucks was a whole lot of money to shell out for a party that didn’t even commence until the wee hours, but hell, it
was
closing night and by this time Ron’s party quotient was high enough to ensure everyone a grand time.

Even Hamilton Forsyth, who had been planning a closing-night party of his own, canceled his affair so he could attend Ron’s bash.

Ron sold forty tickets in three days and immediately put up a
“STANDING ROOM ONLY
” banner across his party sign.

That did the trick. Suddenly everyone who had only contemplated going wanted to attend. Ron explained to all comers that he’d just had a cancellation and could perhaps squeeze in an extra person or two, provided, of course, they coughed up the dough on the spot.

Ellenor Robinson had her twenty-five dollars in hand when she ran into Ron in one of the hallways. “Here.” She handed him her money. “I’d like a ticket to your brassiest of bashes, please.”

Ron looked down at the money. God, how he loved the sight of five-dollar bills. But no, sometimes even revenge must take the place of greed. Ron had no choice but to pay Ellenor back for turning him down at the door after she’d taken him to Arthur.

“Quel pity.” He sighed. “Can you believe it? Just sold my very last ticket not three minutes ago to a pair of fun-loving maniacs in the Loading Zone! Had you only caught me a moment earlier …” Smiling, he started walking away. “Perhaps some future fete , . . I’ll keep you in mind.”

Ron walked away, careful to keep his back from her, careful that she didn’t see the ten extra tickets sticking out from his pocket.

Although Ron didn’t accept Ellenor’s twenty-five dollars, he was only too happy to take everyone else’s. Another forty-four tickets were sold in the next day, and Ron replaced the “
STANDING ROOM ONLY
” banner with his favorite message: “
SOLD OUT
!” He still even managed to sell an additional twelve standing-room spots.

Thus loaded down with $2,500 cash in his pockets, he set out to organize his closing-night bash.

Closing day of the fair was truly a breakdown in communications. Hosts began running across the street to the Lowenbrau gardens during their earliest breaks, got drunk early, and then continued drinking throughout the day. By midafternoon, things were getting pretty sloppy around the pavilion; there was confusion everywhere, and zone leaders could do little to stop on-the-job passing of small brown-paper-wrapped bottles of whiskey.

By 10:30, when the last car of visitors was finally loaded up and sent down the runway of time, all to tumultuous applause, most of the staff was too inebriated to even think of launching into a champagne party. But high spirits prevailed, and in a short time everyone descended upon the Product Salon to drink in some of the New York State nonvintage bubbly.

The party grew louder and soon Mr. Thomason, himself now three sheets to the wind, decided it was time to get up and make a speech of gratitude. He stood up on the Philco platform next to the dancing penguins and called for attention. It took some time for everyone to quiet down, but when they finally did and Thomason burped quietly and launched into his “We of the Ford Family of Fine Cars Hate to See You Go” speech, Ron knew it was time to duck out and make sure everything was set to roll.

When he returned to the Product Salon ten minutes later, he found Mr. Thomason finally winding down. As soon as Thomason stepped down from the platform, one of the engineers piped a tape of dance music into the public-address system, turned up the volume, and guests were soon dancing to songs by the Beatles as they continued drinking champagne. Eventually Mr. Thomason told the bartenders to stop pouring champagne, close up shop, and get everyone the hell out.

As the champagne was being put away, hosts and hostesses began reviving themselves for the next party. Ellenor walked up to Gary, put an outstretched hand on each of his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Thanks,” said Gary, returning the kiss.

“You keep writing, you hear?”

“Will do.” Gary smiled.

“I expect to see
Babylon, Good-bye
on the bookshelves before too long.”

“You and me both,” Gary agreed.

“Have you heard anything yet from any of the publishers we sent the book to?”

“Not a one,” said Gary. “But I’ve been told when you submit things over the transom, the way we did, without an agent, it takes a long, long time for editors to get to the material. Apparently they get a lot of junk submitted that way. I suppose that’s why they call it the slush pile.”

“No doubt,” said Ellenor. “But your writing is wonderful. You have a terrific style and a wonderful imagination. All you have to do now is live some more. The more you experience, the more perceptive you’ll become.”

“I’m mad for your optimism.” Gary smiled.

“I happen to know what I’m talking about,” said Ellenor with surprising authority, before adding, “If I write, will you write back?”

“Sure,” said Gary. “I am a writer, aren’t I? Where you headed?”

“Back to Seattle, I’m afraid,” said Ellenor. “Mary and Marcy and the Lindas are moving out of the apartment, and I just haven’t got the strength to battle New York by myself. Not just now, anyway.”

“Too bad,” said Gary. “Well, guess I’ll see you on the bus, huh?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Ellenor. “I wasn’t able to buy a ticket. By the time I’d found Ron, he’d already sold out.”

“Hey, no matter,” said Gary, reaching into his wallet, pulling out his own ticket. “Take mine. I won’t need it. I’m the one who’ll probably be collecting them.”

“All right,” said Ellenor. “But only if you let me pay you.”

“Pay me? What for? I didn’t have to pay for it. Will you stop acting crazy? Take the ticket and enjoy the ride; it’s the least I can do to say thanks for all the encouragement you’ve given me.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. You better hurry, too. Bus is going to be leaving real soon.”

Cinderella suddenly invited to the ball, Ellenor kissed her surrogate fairy godmother again on his cheek and ran off to the ladies’ room to freshen up before boarding the bus.