Winning is Everything (15 page)

28 

Ray was shouting, trying to be heard over the roar of the Cessna’s engine. Even though Kip and Gary couldn’t make out what he was saying, it was obvious their jumpmaster was being emphatic.

Finally he beckoned them over to the door so they might hook up their static lines. The plane had climbed to thirty-five hundred feet and was fast approaching the jump site. Kip looked over at Gary and noticed he was the same color as his jumpsuit—gray. “Don’t be nervous,” he said with a confidence-inspiring wink.

“Why would I be nervous?” Gary shouted back.

“Just don’t make the same mistake as that other guy.”

“You bet I won’t,” said Gary, waving an acknowledgment back to the screaming, incomprehensible jumpmaster. “And by the way …”

“Yes?”

“… Just exactly what was it he did wrong?”

“When his chute didn’t open, he panicked,” said Kip. “Instead of cutting away and releasing his old chute, he went straight for the spare.”

“Not smart,” said Gary.

“Not smart,” Kip agreed. “His spare chute drifted up into his streamer and just made more of a mess.” “Right!”

“So …” Kip yelled into Gary’s ear. “If you get into trouble, remember not to panic!”

Gary couldn’t very well promise himself that if he got into trouble he wouldn’t panic. How do you know, until you are in fact mid-panic, whether or not you are panicking? And if you are panicking, does it not stand to reason that the last thing you might be when panicked is not panicky?

Ray was now shouting so loud he was turning blue. Gary and Kip could tell from the way their jumpmaster was stomping up and down, it was probably time to prepare to deplane.

“After you,” said Gary, graciously extending an open arm toward the open door.

Kip signaled back to Gary with a thumbs-up of his own and headed over to where Ray was jumping up and down.

Ray spanked Kip’s ass and Kip screamed something unintelligible and, like Icarus heading for the sun, welcomed the freedom of flight.

Gary watched as Kip’s body took leave of the premises. He saw a last flash of dark blond hair and then Kip was gone.

Gary took a step backward, instinctively retreating from the inevitable. Ray jumped up and down in place like the mad gorilla he was, and threw his arms about wildly. Gary would be late, late for his jump. He was supposed to have followed Kip, and if Gary wasn’t out the hole within another five seconds flat, he’d be falling over the garbage dump.

This was it, Gary realized.

He took three hesitant steps forward.

“Go now!”
screamed Ray, shoving Gary’s ass.

Gary looked out and down and was suddenly mesmerized by the view of farmlands and highways, towns and miniature shopping centers. He was too far up in the air, too far away from home, too sensible a person to be doing this. He turned to tell Ray that he was indeed bailing out—from the mission, not the plane—when he felt the weight of Ray’s fist, deep in the small of his back, pushing him from the Cessna.

The rules, Gary told himself. Remember the rules. Don’t panic, check your chute. Gary looked up and at the same time his all-orange chute blossomed into beauty. He felt his free-fall break as the slowing of inertia snapped him into controlled flight.

All at once it hit him. The freedom, the weightlessness, the view, the euphoria. He relished the rest of the trip until he was almost down and realized he had probably waited too long in the plane. He was coming down past the field into the parking lot. The parking lot!

He saw Kip touch down at the edge of the field and was comforted to know at least one of them would survive. He closed his eyes.

He landed in an uncluttered area, which was fortunate, on his ankle instead of the way he’d been instructed, which was not so fortunate, as he snapped the bone at the top of his foot.

It took almost three-quarters of an hour for the ambulance to return from the morgue. Kip sat with Gary the whole time, and they each compared dives, Kip going on about how much he’d loved his, Gary saying how much he’d hated his. Afterward, when they’d been to the hospital and Gary’s ankle was set in a cast, they all drove back to Manhattan. Kip kept apologizing for having had a good time, for having insisted Gary make the jump, and Gary kept apologizing for getting hurt. The Kennedy brothers were just happy to be alive.

29 

It happened in the men’s room.

After five and a quarter very dry martinis, Warren Talbot’s stomach sent up not only a white flag of surrender but also most of the gin residing there as well. He stopped babbling to his society-lady friends and—mid-story—placed his unfinished drink down on the tiny table and darted for the nearest comfort station.

Two and a half hours earlier, Ron had traded stations with another waiter, when he’d first spotted Talbot and his three lady friends arriving at the discotheque. It cost him half his tips for the evening, plus a promise to switch stations or days off whenever convenient for the other waiter, but, hell, Ron figured it would be worth it to wait on the famous playwright and his three prominent friends.

Ron spent the evening being charming while delivering round after round of Beefeater martinis. And while a hit play may pave the way to Beluga caviar and Russian vodka, their consumption can prove murderous on the liver. Especially Warren Talbot’s liver. He’d always been a volatile personality, an asp-tongued heavy drinker. He’d worked as a gossip columnist, as a maître d’, as a social secretary, and all the years he worked, he wrote plays. Acts after unproduced acts.

Then fortune struck.

Overnight it was, or so it seemed, and from the day his agent called to say she’d found a producer greatly interested in his play,
Distant Barrier,
until its triumphant opening night nine months later, Warren Talbot’s life finally changed, along with his luck.

Distant Barrier
was a breakthrough play, the off-Broadway hit of ‘65, the dream of every playwright. Unraveling a carefully constructed tale of a theretofore taboo subject—five homosexual men in a Mexican jail—it was told with humor and pathos and had yet to play to an empty seat.

Talbot was suddenly not just critics’ darling, but society’s as well. The elegant dinner parties to which he was now invited were the very crème-fraîche of the A-list. Debutantes invited him to balls, dowagers to tea. There was talk of a movie sale. Talk of a second play, a bold theme pulled from the trunk of yesteryear, that was to be his next project.

Talbot had waited his whole life for his success, and damned if he wasn’t going to wallow in the sucker. New York was his oyster and he the fucking pearl. He leased a penthouse in a high-rise on East Seventy-fifth Street. He took on a valet to clean, to cook, to shlep, to dress him. He made a lot of new friends. He hired a press agent. He purchased carloads of gifts and handed them out like gumdrops to his new luncheon companions: Betsy, Babe, Nan, Phyliss. Baubles from Bulgari. Trifles from Tiffany.

Okay, Talbot told himself one bloodshot morning while looking at the rings beneath his eyes while he nursed yet another hangover,
time to get back to work
. He sat down at his typewriter with a pot of coffee, a bottle of aspirin, a headful of one-liners, a firm idea of what the scene to be written was all about, and began to type.

Then the telephone rang. And soon it was a long liquid lunch with the Contessa Larrissa de Brantes, a short nap before dinner, and now countless vodkas, all of which had left him bent over the toilet in the men’s room at Arthur.

“Could you please go and check after our friend?” Marion Javits asked Ron after calling him over to the table.

“What’s that?” asked Ron, all charm.

“I think Mr. Talbot may have had too much to drink at dinner,” said the senator’s wife. Her two girlfriends giggled over Mrs. Javits’ understatement.

“He’s in the men’s room,” said Mrs. Javits, pointing a well-manicured finger.

“Mr. Talbot?” Ron inquired sheepishly to the man whose head was dangling over the bathroom urinal.

“Enter stage left!” said Talbot, looking over at Ron. The playwright’s face was no longer reflecting his Tortola tan, but rather the dead white of the porcelain urinal.

“You all right?” asked Ron. “Mrs. Javits and the other ladies were concerned, sent me in to see if you need any assistance.”

“Dear bitches,” said Talbot, loosening his tie. “How thoughtful!”

“I see, though, you’re fine. I’ll tell them you’re A-okay and will be joining them again shortly. All right?”

“Fine,” mumbled the playwright.

“Will
you be okay?” asked Ron.

“Of course!” insisted the playwright as he weaved in place.

“Not having a good time here at Arthur?” asked Ron.

“Honey …” Talbot held his forehead. “The only thing I like about discotheques is that you can fart and no one will hear you!”

“That’s probably very true.” Ron smiled.

Talbot looked over at Ron, and even through his vodka haze was able to spot a bit of Ron’s natural charisma bouncing off the white tile walls.

“Who’re you?” Talbot asked with a slur.

“I’m your waiter,” said Ron. “I’ve been servicing your table the past hour and a half.”

“Honey, that’s not the kind of service I’m interested in,” said Talbot, zipping up his fly.

“No doubt,” said Ron without so much as a flinch. “And by the way … I’m a big fan of yours.”

“Really?” Talbot asked, blinking bleary eyes.

“Really,” Ron lied. “I’ve seen
Distant Barrier
three times.”

“No!”

“Yes. I find the dramatic experience enhances with repeated viewing.”

That was it. Talbot was hooked. His eyes opened wider than they’d been all week and he stepped back from the urinal and staggered to the sink. He splashed two handfuls of cold water onto his face and then slurped some into his mouth. “What’s your name?” he asked Ron through the mirror before him.

“Ron Zinelli,” said the waiter. “One N, two L’s.”

“And you really like my play?”

Ron ripped a paper towel out of its dispenser, handed it over to Talbot, and said with a smile, “I think it’s a great contribution to American theater.”

“I’m going down to see the show next Friday,” said Talbot. “There’s a new fellow going in as Max. I want to check him out. Care to join me?”

Ron contemplated how best to play this hand being dealt in the men’s room of Arthur. “I work Fridays,” said Ron. “Can’t afford to take off.”

“All right, young man,” said Talbot, weaving in place. “When are you off?”

“How’s Thursday for you?”

“Thursday sounds divine. Write down your number for me. I’ll give you a call.”

“Got a better idea,” said Ron, the soul of discretion. “You give me your number. I’ll get in touch with
you.”

Talbot reached inside his suit-jacket pocket, pulled out his business card. “Pwomise?”

“Pwomise!” Ron held up scouting fingers of good faith.

“Good!” said Talbot, pleased to have sealed the deal. “You like Chinese food?”

“Can’t get my fill,” said Ron with a smile.

“Fine,” said Talbot. “We’ll go for Italian.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I think I’d better return to my friends now,” said Talbot.

“Good idea,” Ron told him. “You sure you’re all right, Mr. Talbot?”

Talbot smiled, signaled his body to thrust itself into motion, and headed out the door. “Call me Warren,” he told Ron as he tugged his lapels into place.

“Swell … Warren. Call me Ron.”

And so it was on a first-name basis that the waiter and the playwright strolled out of the men’s room.

30 

The following morning Ron sat up in bed, stared at the business card on his night table, and decided not to call Warren Talbot. He was obviously one of those people who become impossibly inarticulate after their second liter of vodka. And being seen about town with perhaps the most noted homosexual in all of NYC might not be good for Ron’s image.

Then the phone rang.

“Called Arthur and got your number/’ said Talbot. “You do remember our tête-à-tête in the bathroom last evening, I trust?”

“Certainly,” said Ron, cold as ice.

“Then I hope you don’t mind my calling …”

Ron minded plenty. “What’s up?” he wanted to know.

“Well …” Talbot paused to breathe. “Liza Minnelli and Peter Allen are in town for a few days, staying at the Sherry. They’re having a small cocktail party tonight, six to eight; the usual crowd: Warhol, Baby Jane Holzer, George Plimpton, Truman Capote, maybe even Verushka if she can snap out of her depression.”

The stargazer in Ron’s head hit three cherries in a row, overcomputed, and O.D.’d. “Sure. Why not?” he said without the blink of an eyelash.

“Super!” said Talbot. “Why don’t you come by my place, pick me up first. Sevenish. We can have a teeny-tiny dwink and be on our way. Give us a chance to get to know each other.”

No way! “I’m …” Ron fought to come up with the right excuse. “… all tied up until at least seven. Got a million errands to run.” Last thing Ron wanted to do was walk into that party with Talbot. “Why don’t I just meet you there?”

“Fine,” said Talbot, careful about not coming on too strong. “SherryNetherland. Suite Thirty-four-A. Seven-thirty. I’ll have a red rose in my teeth so you’ll remember me.”

“I’m certainly looking forward to it,” said Ron, perhaps a mite too eagerly.

I just bet you are, sonny-Jim! thought Talbot, who recognized a live one.

Ron hung up the phone and had an immediate anxiety attack over what to wear and how to make sure no one mistook him for Talbot’s trick.

He got to the hotel at seven-thirty and spent the next forty-five minutes walking around the block building up the confidence to make his entrance.

What if Talbot wasn’t there yet? What if they wouldn’t let him in? What if someone recognized him from Arthur and asked him to serve drinks?

“Remember, honey—you are special
/” Ron heard his mother’s voice and was reminded of how often his old lady used to pump his spirits. Making up his mind, Ron flung himself into the revolving doors of the SherryNetherland.

When he rang the bell, George Plimpton opened the door.

“Get yourself a drink,” said Plimpton, pointing toward a makeshift bar across the room.

Ron thought he heard himself say thank you as he glided across a celebrity-laden carpet. Trying to be nonchalant in that crowd was not so easy.

Should he join Leonard Bernstein, distinguished and just three feet away, standing at a nearby window with Stephen Sondheim, the two of them having a heated discussion about Benjamin Britten? Since Ron had no idea who Benjamin Britten was, he decided not to.

Should he ease on over to the other side of the salon, insinuate himself between Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta, the two of them dashing from thread to thread? No, the fashion designers were talking shop and Ron sensed from the intensity of their chatter they would probably not be more interested in the life story of a former host from the Ford Pavilion.

As Ron stood uncomfortably trying to decide which group to try to crash, a voice behind him said, “I see you got yourself a drink.”

He turned and saw Talbot. “Can I get you one?”

“One, two three; it’s all the same to me. Gotta start somewhere. The evening is young and my circulatory system is screaming for stimulus.”

“Don’t go away,” said Ron. He was back a moment later with a double vodka martini, figuring the sooner he got the fellow tanked and inarticulate, the sooner he’d be able to strike out on his own.

“Come,” Talbot said, grabbing Ron by the wrist. “Let’s say hello to Tuesday Weld.” Talbot and Ron crossed the crowded room and said hello to Tuesday Weld. And Mike Nichols and Diana Vreeland and Margot Fonteyn and Angela Lansbury and Josh Logan. Ron was convinced he’d died and gone to celebrity heaven.

In the hour which followed, Talbot had cocktails and canapés, washed dry martinis down with wet clam dip, and slowly segued from slurred conversation into oblivion.

By nine o’clock the noted playwright was incapable of even considering going on to dinner. Too looped. It was decided by a general consensus that Ron should escort the failing playwright back to his place and make sure the future hope of American drama was put safely to sleep.

The party drifted uptown to Elaine’s, and Ron was saddled with Talbot, a deadweight leaning against him, as the two of them taxied over to the playwright’s penthouse apartment.

“I don’t think it’s the best idea for us to remain friends,” said Ron to Talbot, once he’d deposited him at his front door.

“Why in Godshshname not?” Talbot wanted to know, forcing open one eye at least partially, for dramatic emphasis.

“Not a good idea,” said Ron, forcing open the lock in the door with Talbot’s key.

“I embarrassssh you,” Talbot pouted.

Ron opened the door and turned to his drunken companion. “You embarrass yourself. Look at you. It’s nine-thirty in the evening and you can’t even stand up straight.”

Talbot rolled his eyes up and looked down. “I had a tough day.”

“So did everyone else. Good night.” Ron signaled for Talbot to walk through the door.

“I’m having a little trouble accepting the disease that is my sshuckshess,” said the playwright.

Ron looked over at Talbot, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “Trouble? With success? Christ …” Ron waved both hands in the air and turned to head back to the elevator. “May I be bitten by your dreaded germ and never, ever recover!”

He stepped into the elevator, and Talbot held on to his front door for support.

“See you Thursday!” said Talbot with a wave. “Right now I think I should take a wittle nap.”

“Thursday?” asked Ron, jabbing the “Open” button on the elevator panel. “I just told you we’re not going to be friends anymore. What the hell is Thursday?”

“Thurshday …” slurred Talbot, “just happens to be the Emilio Pucci fashion show at Saks, followed by dinner at Anne Ford’s. But if you can’t, you can’t. I understand.”

“Thursday, huh?” Ron snapped his fingers. “What luck. That’s my night off. Pick you up at seven.”

Ron headed down to the first floor in the full realization that he couldn’t do this much longer; he was going to have to find another ticket to the good life, someone other than Warren Talbot.