Let’s Call Her Barbie

Welcome to the Castle

Welcome to the Castle

A few months after Ginger’s surgery, Jack enlists her help in throwing a housewarming party, despite the Castle perpetually being under construction and his having a bulldozer parked on the front lawn. He’s envisioning a luau, complete with a pig on a spit, an apple in its mouth, its skin as tan and glossy as polished leather. He invites people from the office and a handful of Hollywood celebrities, like Burt Lancaster and his next-door neighbor, Zsa Zsa Gabor. The party is a great success and Jack discovers that he loves entertaining . Who can be lonely when you have a houseful of people?

The following week he throws a barbecue, and the week after that it’s a pool party where he brings in sand—lots and lots of sand—for beach volleyball in the backyard. Before long he’s hosting two and three blowout bashes a week. Soon word on the street is that no one throws a party like Jack Ryan. People line up to get in, and no one balks at having to pay at the door. A hefty $20 covers their food, their booze and the occasional live entertainment. The drugs—mostly marijuana—cost extra and aren’t offered until after dark.

There’s a Gatsby-like quality to a Jack Ryan party. He’s never met some of his guests, and as he snakes through the crowd, he’ll hear his name tossed about: “Jack Ryan comes from oil money down in Texas.” “I hear he’s considering a run for the White House.” “You know, his first wife was Rita Hayworth…”

Jack has also recently amassed a group of young college boys from UCLA. A handful of them—surfer types, muscular and bronzed—had crashed one of his parties and simply never left. Now they live at the Castle, and in exchange for room and board, they park cars and serve food and drinks. They keep up the maintenance on the yard, the tennis courts, the swimming pool, and clean up after the never-ending parties and construction work. At last count there were six of them living at the Castle, and Jack doesn’t mind at all. It assures him that he’ll never be alone.

While the UCLA boys help out, the bulk of the party planning comes down to Ginger. Jack’s wife never attends his bashes. She and the girls stay sequestered in their wing of the estate with its own entrance and a sign out front that reads: Private. Do Not Enter . In Barbara’s absence, Ginger gladly plays the role of hostess. She doesn’t mind that in addition to her daily responsibilities at Mattel, she now also arranges for all the food, which can be anything from ribs and hot dogs on giant grills in the yard to filet mignon and lobsters. Ginger also makes sure all the bars are well stocked with scotch, vodka, bourbon, gin—all of it top-shelf—along with cases of his favorite wines. Ginger prances about like she’s the queen of the Castle and goes out of her way to let all the other women know this is her turf. If any of them so much as reaches into a cupboard for a glass, Ginger is there, saying, “I’ll get that for you.”

Jack throws so many parties, they all start to blur together in his mind. One evening he makes the hour drive from Mattel to Bel Air. Pulling up to the Castle, he sees another party—which he forgot was on the calendar—is underway. Peachy! He’d been dreading the thought of walking into a quiet house.

He gets out of his car, tosses the keys to one of his UCLA boys to park and heads inside, delighted to be greeted by the chaos, the loud music, the clouds of smoke and drunken guests. He spots Joan Fontaine and Dennis Hopper in his living room. Ginger hands him a glass of J his entire body is levitating.

Jack’s always been a big drinker, but lately he has no shut-off valve. There’s no such thing as too much in his world. People are dancing, spilling drinks on the floor, putting cigarettes out on end tables. Someone has helped themself to a bubble bath in his sunken bathtub. In the morning Jack will have the UCLA boys clean and he’ll replace whatever gets damaged. It’s a small price to pay for having a houseful of friends and people who adore him.

The hour grows later, and as the crowd thins out, Jack wanders outside, where, to his delight, more guests are hanging out by the swimming pool. Lit from underneath, the water shimmers as it laps against the tiled walls. People are relaxing on the chaise longues. Ginger appears to be passed out in one of them. The UCLA boys are gathering empty glasses, folding up the lawn tables and chairs.

Another woman in very tall, very slender heels is tottering at the edge of the pool, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She calls over to Jack, “Looks like the party’s over.” She laughs, takes one step backward and— Splash!

Water sprays all over Jack. The woman is in the pool, windmilling her arms. There’s a second splash, a third and fourth, and suddenly people are stripping off their clothes and getting down to their underwear or nothing at all before plunging into the water.

Jack kicks off his elevator shoes, shimmies out of his shirt and trousers. “Looks to me like this party’s just getting started.”