"Iron the shirt. Press the pants."
The next morning, Ronald stood in his living room, reciting the ironing mantra he had learned from Aunt Karen.
Shirts: Drag the iron back and forth to smooth the fabric.
Pants: Press down in one spot to set the crease, Never drag.
He set the iron aside and pulled on the charcoal slacks. He checked the reflection in the full-length mirror by the door. The crease was razor-sharp.
He folded the ironing board back into its wall cabinet. The apartment was designed for young married couples, efficient and compact.
In 1978 America, ironing was still largely considered "women's work," so it felt a bit strange for a young man to be so meticulous. But Aunt Karen worked double shifts, and Donna was too young, so Ronald had learned to fend for himself.
He tucked his white shirt into his belt, smoothing the front.
He ran a hand over his freshly shaven chin. Maybe someday, he thought wistfully, a gentle and beautiful woman will do this for me.
Breakfast was simple. He popped two slices of bread into the toaster. When they jumped, he topped them with sliced tomatoes, pickles, and a squeeze of mayonnaise, cutting the sandwiches into precise triangles.
It wasn't Aunt Karen's cooking, but with a mug of black tea, it beat a McDonald's breakfast.
Fed and groomed, Ronald grabbed his keys. It was time to go to New World Pictures.
The New World offices were located in Brentwood, not far from the 405 freeway. Ronald pulled his beat-up Volkswagen into the lot.
The building was unassuming, a two-story structure with a brick-red and ivory-white facade. Above the entrance, metallic numbers caught the sun.
There was no flashy logo, no neon sign indicating that this modest building churned out fifteen profitable movies a year. That was the Corman way: put the money on the screen, not the office walls.
Inside, Ronald greeted the receptionist and headed upstairs to find Gale Anne Hurd.
Gale was sitting at her desk outside Roger's corner office, chatting with James Cameron. She looked up, beaming.
"Ronnie! You look different today. Like Clark Kent. Very handsome."
Jim winked at him from the side.
"No, I just... shaved," Ronald stammered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. Did I really become more handsome overnight? Or is it just the confidence of directing?
"Roger will be here soon," Gale said. "Jim and I are going to sit in on your dailies."
"Great."
Ronald waved them off and wandered down the hall. This was his first time on the second floor since filming began. Usually, he was stuck in the script room downstairs.
The hallway was a museum of exploitation cinema. Posters for Roger Corman productions covered every inch of wall space.
Ronald found the poster for the film Roger had mentioned yesterday, his only flop, The Intruder (1962). A white man with a large head and intense eyes stared into a mirror. Ronald squinted at the credit. William Shatner, Captain Kirk?
Further down, he saw a poster for Death Race 2000. The star, wielding a machine gun with a twisted sneer, looked familiar. Sylvester Stallone.
Ronald chuckled. This cheap B-movie must have been made just before Rocky exploded. Corman had a terrifying eye for talent. If he re-released Death Race now, he'd make millions just on Stallone's face.
The doors along the hall were shut tight. Behind them, editing machines whirred. New World kept its cutting rooms running 24/7, 365 days a year.
As Ronald turned the corner toward the stairs, raised voices drifted from an open office.
"...Roger, we've already bought the rights to Zero Hour! for $2,500. We have the funding. We are making the airplane movie."
"That's great, Jerry, Truly. Once you finish the Second Unit shooting for Rock 'n' Roll High School, you can go find your investors."
It was Roger Corman. His voice was calm, immovable.
Ronald froze as it was rude to eavesdrop, but the other voice was frantic, breathless.
"Roger, please! Find someone else! We have the money now. We are going to Paramount! One of the Big Eight!"
The voice grew louder, cracking with excitement. "Do you know who we met yesterday? Michael Eisner. Michael Fucking Eisner! And his lieutenant, Jeffrey Katzenberg."
"Paramount is giving us a budget, Roger. Do you know how much? 3.5 Million. That is more than New World's entire slate for the year!"
"There is no need to shout, Jerry," Corman replied smoothly. "A contract is a contract. And I don't understand the rush. Pre-production at a major studio takes months. If you shoot for me for just five more days, you fulfill your obligation. Then you never have to make movies for me again."
"Five days?! David, Jim, and I have been working on this spoof for five years! Eisner gave the nod. We have to rewrite the script with their people immediately. Katzenberg is waiting for the green light!"
"Can you imagine? This is the moment our dreams come true! You wouldn't make us lose our shot over five days of B-roll, would you?"
"Who will complete your shots, Jerry? This is a matter of principle. You signed a deal. You should learn to respect the spirit of the contract."
"Why don't you let Joe Dante shoot it? He's always hanging around Allen anyway. Let him take over Second Unit. Please, Roger."
There was a long silence.
"Alright," Corman sighed. "I'll consider it. Let's go watch last week's dailies first."
"Okay, Roger. Thank you. The Second Unit stuff is mostly done anyway..."
Footsteps approached the door. Ronald quickly retreated down the stairs, heart pounding.
He grabbed a cup of instant coffee in the lobby and watched as Roger Corman and a short, anxious man walked toward the screening room.
"Good morning, Mr. Corman."
"Ah, Ronald. You're here. Excellent. Help us move the film cans."
Roger picked up the lobby phone. "Gale? Come to the screening room. We're starting."
Ronald helped the projectionist load the heavy reels in the booth. The cooling fans roared to life.
He hurried down to the theater.
In the aisle, Roger was talking to a sharp-looking woman in a business suit.
"Ronnie, let me introduce you. This is my wife, Julie. Julie, this is the talented young man I told you about, Ronald Lee."
"Mrs. Corman, hello." Ronald shook her hand.
Julie Corman was a legend in her own right. A producer at New World, she managed five productions simultaneously while raising three children. She was the Iron Lady of Brentwood.
The Cormans sat on the sofa in the center of the room, the power seat. Ronald sat in the row behind them, to the side.
Gale and Jim slipped in, sitting behind Ronald. Then came the producer of Rock 'n' Roll High School, taking the empty seat next to Roger.
Roger leaned over to the producer, whispering. Ronald caught fragments: "...I didn't see Mr. Eisner at all... 3.5 million is real..."
Next came the short, anxious man from the hallway. He deliberately sat on the far side of the room, away from Roger.
"Who is that?" Ronald whispered to Gale.
"That's the Second Unit Director," Gale whispered back. "Jerry Zucker."
Jerry Zucker, One-third of the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker trio. He was trying to escape B-movie hell to make a spoof called Airplane! at Paramount.
If he hadn't been at that meeting with Eisner yesterday, Ronald never would have gotten the chance to direct.
Finally, the door opened. Joe Dante walked in.
He looked tired but in good spirits. He nodded at Ronald with a conspiratorial smile. The coffee at the police station must have been decent.
"Roll yesterday's dailies," Roger Corman commanded.
The lights dimmed.
The projector whirred. A beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Ronald sat up straight, his hands gripping the armrests. His heart hammered against his ribs.
For the first time in his life, he was about to see his own vision on the big screen.
Authors Note:-
That's 16th chapter.
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