Nastassja Kinski loved the photos, so the rest was easy. When Ronald asked to keep copies to display in his studio, she skimmed the release form and signed it without hesitation.
She even insisted he take two full sets of her test shots, one black-and-white, one color and paid the eighty-dollar sitting fee in cash.
With a future European movie star's portrait destined for his studio wall from day one, Ronald's headshot business was off to a brilliant start.
Backpack slung over his shoulder and tripod in his left hand, Ronald used his right to pop the Volkswagen Rabbit's rear hatch. The two-door's rear window lifted, revealing a hidden cargo well that could swallow a surprising amount of gear.
He stowed the camera bag and slammed the hatch shut. A false floor snapped into place, sitting flush with the seatbacks, leaving no clue to outside eyes that a trunk even existed.
Compact European cars were a rarity in America, where heavy, gas-guzzling V8 engines and massive sheet metal still ruled the roads.
Almost no one knew the little Rabbit had a stash spot. Ronald could leave his expensive camera gear inside without worrying about smash-and-grab thieves.
It was a valid concern.
The economy was worsening, and street crime was climbing. On TV, the President was telling America to tighten its belt and get used to a new era of limitations; a nation experiencing a crisis of confidence, he suggested, had to face reality.
Aunt Karen loathed the man. Under his watch, inflation raged, and mortgage rates were floating precariously above ten percent. Supporting Ronald and Donna on a waitress's tips was stretching her thin.
According to the talking-head economists on the evening news, the country was trapped in "stagflation", stagnant economic growth, high unemployment, and rising prices all hitting at once. Everyone was feeling the squeeze.
Ronald drove to the Wells Fargo branch on Hollywood Boulevard. He wedged the Rabbit into a metered spot, fed the meter a handful of quarters, and hurried inside.
After a short wait in line, his turn came up.
At the counter, he peeled fifty dollars in singles from the hundred and thirty he'd just earned from Demi and Nastassja.
He slid the remaining eighty in cash, plus a two-hundred-dollar paycheck, his Second Unit directing fee from New World Pictures across the marble counter to the teller.
"Ronald Lee. Deposit the check and the cash into my checking account, please."
American consumer banking offered two basic accounts: a savings account that earned minor interest, and a checking account from which you wrote paper checks to pay bills. If you wrote a check with no money in the account to back it up, you'd be hit with severe overdraft fees for a bounced check.
Wells Fargo was friendly to small fry. A steady paycheck meant you could open an account for twenty-five bucks.
Ronald lacked a traditional weekly salary, but maintaining a balance above two hundred dollars waived the monthly maintenance fee.
He had signed up shortly after arriving in Los Angeles.
He took the deposit slip the teller offered, filled it out meticulously, and handed it back with his driver's license. Times were hard and check fraud was rampant, so photo ID was strictly enforced.
With the cash deposited, Ronald sprinted outside just as a portly meter maid hovered by his Rabbit, ticket book poised to strike the moment the red "EXPIRED" flag popped up.
"I'm here! I'm here!" Ronald yelped, unlocking the door, firing up the engine, and pulling away seconds before the flag dropped, leaving the disappointed officer to stalk fresh prey.
Back at his Venice apartment, he tore a check from his book, made it out for eighty dollars to Aunt Karen, sealed it in an envelope, slapped on a stamp, and dropped it down the building's mail chute.
They had an agreement: a quarter of anything he earned went back home to Staten Island. The sums were small, but every bit helped keep the lights on.
The U.S. Postal Service was agonizingly slow. With funds tight, Western Union wire fees were out of the question, so Ronald lived with the snail's pace for personal mail. But for anything urgent, there was a new standard.
He wondered how Gale's Federal Express delivery of his college applications was faring.
The Federal Express van was a boxy Ford with cartoonish round headlights, painted in stark purple, orange, and white.
The thick envelopes bound for UCLA and USC were whisked across town by the same cheerful driver.
The purple van first pulled up at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). With the fall admission deadline only days away, applications were flooding the mailroom.
The UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television was no exception. Staff in the admissions office sliced open the envelopes, sorted the files, and delivered them to the admissions director's desk.
"Ronald Lee, Tottenville High School, Staten Island," the reader muttered. "Hmm. A recommendation from a high-school gym teacher, and... some small-time B-movie producer? Who is Roger Corman? A schlock exploitation filmmaker? And this letter is barely two sentences long. He clearly doesn't think much of the applicant and is sabotaging him on purpose." Ronald's file was unceremoniously tossed into the rejection pile.
The University of Southern California (USC) lay a little farther south, closer to the heart of the industry.
The FedEx van drove another twenty minutes and dropped off the next parcel at the School of Cinematic Arts.
The admissions chief here looked upon the file far more favorably. Roger Corman has an eye for talent, the chief thought. But the letter is so brief, it's hard to gauge the sincerity.
The other two recommendations came from a high school English teacher and a wrestling coach, hardly impressive for a prestigious film school application. Besides, Tottenville High on Staten Island wasn't exactly a Manhattan performing-arts magnet school.
"How many applications did we get this year?" the chief sighed. "Only a ten-percent acceptance rate, I'm afraid."
Ronald's fate at USC was the waitlist. He would only move up if accepted students ahead of him declined USC's offer.
Another purple FedEx truck reached LAX. Two more applications, bound for universities in New York, were loaded onto a purple-and-orange cargo jet.
The plane touched down at the FedEx super-hub in Memphis overnight, then lifted off again, bound nonstop for LaGuardia Airport.
Columbia University's School of the Arts sits in Morningside Heights on Manhattan Island, just northwest of Central Park.
The surrounding blocks are heavily gentrified and fiercely guarded by elite academic standards. Columbia prefers to recruit from pricey private academies; applicants from public high schools must survive far harsher scrutiny.
A public-school background, an undistinguished academic résumé, and cryptic recommendation letters. Ronald's folder was set aside in the first round. It sat on a desk, waiting for the rubber stamp that read REJECTED and a politely worded form letter wishing him well in his future endeavors.
The final application landed at the Department of Film & Television, Tisch School of the Arts, New York University.
Tisch occupies the other end of Manhattan, downtown, near Greenwich Village.
A short subway ride south brings you to the waterfront, the Statue of Liberty, and the Staten Island Ferry that runs straight to Ronald's hometown.
NYU's admissions office had a grittier, more egalitarian culture. Several assistants and the department director opened the envelopes together. One assistant slit Ronald's package open.
"Took a gap year after high school to reassess his direction?" the assistant read aloud. "The essay is excellent, and the grades are stellar."
They flipped to the recommendation letters. "The wrestling coach says he's tough and resourceful... but this is film school, not the athletics department. Oh, wait. This one's from the President of New World Pictures."
The recommendation was in a sealed envelope bearing the New World letterhead. In theory, the applicant had no idea what their recommender wrote.
The assistant tore the envelope open and blinked at the astonishingly short letter.
"How can a recommendation be this brief?" the assistant asked the director, handing the paper over. "Did someone make a mistake?"
The director took the sheet of heavy cardstock. The body of the letter contained just two sentences.
To whom it may concern,
In all my years producing cinema, Ronald Lee is only the second untested newcomer to whom I would entrust a directing job without reservation.
The first was your own faculty member, Martin Scorsese.
Yours faithfully,
Roger Corman
The director stared at the letter for a long moment. Then, he picked up the phone on his desk.
"Hey, Marty," the director said into the receiver. "Guess what just crossed my desk..."
Authors Note:-
That's the 29th chapter.
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