remaining of his lunch break, and he quickly wolfed down a fast and awful hot dog for sustenance, and then walked into the pavilion and waited the two hours for the arrival of his most VIP of VIP guests.
17
Darryl F. Zanuck arrived exactly at 5:30, mustached, silver-haired, a fat cigar in his mouth, dark prescription sunglasses over his eyes. With him was Irina Demick, his current mistress, a beautiful French actress in her early forties with high cheekbones and streaked blond hair.
Ron spotted them the moment they headed for the information desk. Checking himself one last time in the mirror, Ron made sure his hair was still neatly combed and his smile in place. Eyes agleam, he was ready to meet his filmmaker.
“Mr. Zanuck?” said Ron, extending his right hand in greeting. “I’m Ron Zinelli, one N, two L’s, and it is my great pleasure to be your escort through the exciting Ford Pavilion. Won’t you and the lovely lady kindly follow me…?”
Ron couldn’t wait any longer for Zanuck to return the handshake, so he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand toward the VIP elevator. “This way, please.”
Head held high, MacArthur wading into the Pacific, Ron surged forward, straight to the elevator. Zanuck and his lady friend followed directly behind. No one said anything during the short ride to the second floor. Ron kept telling himself to be as charming as he knew how. Charming is disarming , he reminded himself. At the loading zone, Ron walked straight past the line of people who had waited their two and a half hours in the heat and signaled to the zone leader at the head of the moving ramp.
“Hi. I’d like a Continental, please. Just for the three of us, thank you!”
“No can do,” the zone leader told Ron. “Had a breakdown an hour and a half ago; still trying to catch up with our figures. Continentals take six, seven, eight riders. No less.”
“No, no. You don’t understand,” said Ron. “I’m carrying very special cargo.”
“Listen, Zinelli,” snapped the zone leader. “I don’t give a shit if you’re escorting Mao and Mrs. Tse-tung through these hallowed halls. You got to share your car.”
“Five bucks!” said Ron, out flat.
“You know we don’t take bribes up here.”
“Ten!” said Ron as he turned to flash a hopefully not-too-desperate smile at his guests at the elevator.
“Ten dollars?” asked the zone leader.
“You heard me!”
“Give me a fresh green ten-dollar bill and the three of you can have that fresh green Continental convertible coming up right now.”
Ron signaled to the movie mogul to join him and at the same time surreptitiously handed over the ten. Assisting his guests onto the moving ramp, Ron led them over to the Continental. “This is the Tunnel of Time,” said Ron, hoping the tape would be broken and that he could provide the narration. At the exact same moment, a husky voice intoned, “This is the Tunnel of Time. Welcome.” And Ron wanted to break the radio.
All through the dark journey, Zanuck wore his sunglasses. Neither he nor his mistress said a word to one another or to Ron for the duration of the ride. In fact, the only comment made was a sigh from the French lady when they passed the warring cavemen, exclaiming, “Fantastique!”
As they neared the end of the ride through the freeway of the future, Ron saw his dreams of an immediate rush to success vanishing like the strange comets whizzing overhead.
He helped his VIP guests out of the Continental and led them, not back to the elevator and out of the building, as was the custom with the VIP’s, but back the long way, through the display route. It was the only way he knew to hold on to his vanishing investment a few more minutes.
“Mr. Zanuck…?” said Ron, deciding it was now or never. “I was saying just the other day to a group of film lovers like myself, The Longest Day must be the greatest war movie ever made.”
Zanuck
17
Darryl F. Zanuck arrived exactly at 5:30, mustached, silver-haired, a fat cigar in his mouth, dark prescription sunglasses over his eyes. With him was Irina Demick, his current mistress, a beautiful French actress in her early forties with high cheekbones and streaked blond hair.
Ron spotted them the moment they headed for the information desk. Checking himself one last time in the mirror, Ron made sure his hair was still neatly combed and his smile in place. Eyes agleam, he was ready to meet his filmmaker.
“Mr. Zanuck?” said Ron, extending his right hand in greeting. “I’m Ron Zinelli, one N, two L’s, and it is my great pleasure to be your escort through the exciting Ford Pavilion. Won’t you and the lovely lady kindly follow me…?”
Ron couldn’t wait any longer for Zanuck to return the handshake, so he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand toward the VIP elevator. “This way, please.”
Head held high, MacArthur wading into the Pacific, Ron surged forward, straight to the elevator. Zanuck and his lady friend followed directly behind. No one said anything during the short ride to the second floor. Ron kept telling himself to be as charming as he knew how. Charming is disarming , he reminded himself. At the loading zone, Ron walked straight past the line of people who had waited their two and a half hours in the heat and signaled to the zone leader at the head of the moving ramp.
“Hi. I’d like a Continental, please. Just for the three of us, thank you!”
“No can do,” the zone leader told Ron. “Had a breakdown an hour and a half ago; still trying to catch up with our figures. Continentals take six, seven, eight riders. No less.”
“No, no. You don’t understand,” said Ron. “I’m carrying very special cargo.”
“Listen, Zinelli,” snapped the zone leader. “I don’t give a shit if you’re escorting Mao and Mrs. Tse-tung through these hallowed halls. You got to share your car.”
“Five bucks!” said Ron, out flat.
“You know we don’t take bribes up here.”
“Ten!” said Ron as he turned to flash a hopefully not-too-desperate smile at his guests at the elevator.
“Ten dollars?” asked the zone leader.
“You heard me!”
“Give me a fresh green ten-dollar bill and the three of you can have that fresh green Continental convertible coming up right now.”
Ron signaled to the movie mogul to join him and at the same time surreptitiously handed over the ten. Assisting his guests onto the moving ramp, Ron led them over to the Continental. “This is the Tunnel of Time,” said Ron, hoping the tape would be broken and that he could provide the narration. At the exact same moment, a husky voice intoned, “This is the Tunnel of Time. Welcome.” And Ron wanted to break the radio.
All through the dark journey, Zanuck wore his sunglasses. Neither he nor his mistress said a word to one another or to Ron for the duration of the ride. In fact, the only comment made was a sigh from the French lady when they passed the warring cavemen, exclaiming, “Fantastique!”
As they neared the end of the ride through the freeway of the future, Ron saw his dreams of an immediate rush to success vanishing like the strange comets whizzing overhead.
He helped his VIP guests out of the Continental and led them, not back to the elevator and out of the building, as was the custom with the VIP’s, but back the long way, through the display route. It was the only way he knew to hold on to his vanishing investment a few more minutes.
“Mr. Zanuck…?” said Ron, deciding it was now or never. “I was saying just the other day to a group of film lovers like myself, The Longest Day must be the greatest war movie ever made.”
Zanuck
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