A dismal public relations campaign had its brightest moments after a brief encounter with an amazingly gracious superstar.
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I’d just come home from the service—18 months of Army life in South Korea—and needed a job. I’d been a junior Hollywood-studio publicist before my orders came, so a job with a public relations/advertising firm was my logical choice for civilian career reentry.
The dairymen perennially sought an attractive young woman to represent them throughout the celebration.
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I was actually eager to get away from Hollywood, but Hollywood insisted on following me. The firm I joined had the California Dairy Industry account, and I was assigned to honcho my firm’s work on the annual “June Is Dairy Month” campaign. My so-called “Hollywood contacts” had made me a desirable new-hire.
Preliminary work on the campaign had already been done. As I was to learn, the dairymen perennially sought an attractive young woman to represent them throughout the celebration. As they couldn’t afford an actual model agency, the candidates they considered each year were put up by friends of family or referred by colleagues.
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The “June Is Dairy Month” queen was supposed to be attractive, voluptuous—the milk-can boys loved cleavage—and trainable. It was important that, in interviews and when making local-TV appearances, she would be knowledgeable about the health benefits of milk. And if she could actually milk a cow, so much the better.
She was forgetful, oblivious of the schedule she’d agreed to follow, and irresponsible.
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I was told that, each year, most of the candidates insisted they knew how to milk, but when put to the test, none of them actually could. And, frankly, few of them could retain anything cogent about why milk should be a major component of everyone’s diet. On TV, they mostly just smiled and tried to look sexy and glamorous.
The winning candidate was always the one who had been the most vocal in her interviews, the one with the most sparkling smile. Each of them had at least vague hopes of someday being asked “to do TV,” whatever that meant.
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Once hired, the dairy queen became my responsibility—to create a weekly schedule of interviews and appearances and also make sure she was transported to each gig safely and on time. As it would have been inappropriate for her to travel unaccompanied, it fell to me to also retrieve her each day and transport her to and from appointments.
What reserves of charm she possessed had been depleted during casting interviews.
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The young woman who made the strongest impression on me—during multiple Dairy Queen assignments—was a curly-haired blonde whose major claim to fame was that she was sleeping with one of Bing Crosby’s young sons. She often had meals with the Crosby clan and had nothing particularly kind to say about Bing’s new wife, Kathryn, (who apparently didn’t regard her stepson’s relationship too kindly).
I don’t recall this dairy queen’s name, but she was memorable in a great many ways: She was forgetful, oblivious of the schedule she’d agreed to follow, and irresponsible. She had no interest in where she was going each day, whom she would meet or what she was expected to say.
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The dairymen had wanted a compelling spokesperson with sex appeal; that year’s choice was prepared to deliver only her presence. What reserves of charm she possessed had been depleted during casting interviews. The person I worked with was mostly a pill.
The first week of our alliance was touch and go. She did behave affably when dealing with the press. But by the second week (it was a full month of duties), her approach began to harden. She grew sullen and forgetful. I was forever trying to track her down and haul her to her appointments on time. Her lack of charm became the least of my concerns.
One particular appearance was key: Some dairy industry exec had arranged to have our girl photographed elegantly. . . at a movie studio, 20th Century Fox. We had to be on the lot by a certain time, because the photographer—honoring a promise—had set aside a precious few minutes for this assignment early in the day.
I remember phoning to awaken my charge on the day of the scheduled shoot and learning—immediately—that she’d been up until 4 a.m. and was nursing a painful hangover. She was more than merely sullen when she plunked herself into my car, 45 minutes later than our schedule indicated. One look at her and I thought all was lost.
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People were leaving the photographer’s inner sanctum. One of them was Paul Newman.
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It seems she’d been at the beach at some point the day before and had fallen asleep. Her pale skin had burned to a painful deep pink, and her puffy eyes were reduced to slits. How could she be photographed looking like that? But the appointment had been made, and I knew I was not empowered to break or postpone it. Dairy Month plans were pretty much fixed.
My charge sighed deeply as we headed for West L.A. and the Fox lot on Pico Blvd. My name had been sent ahead to the gatekeeper, who admitted us quickly and directed me to the photo department. I sensed disaster as I tooled my little MGA toward the photographer’s lair.
A secretary curtly pointed out our tardiness, then said there was someone inside already and we’d have to just wait. I saw my young charge shut her puffy eyes and sink back into one of the leather sofas. This, assuredly, was a disaster in the making.
After several tense minutes, I saw a door open and heard voices. People were leaving the photographer’s inner sanctum. One of them was Paul Newman—he’d been doing a costume test, I later learned. I stood as he exited, and he greeted me. “I’m so sorry we’ve kept you waiting,” he said while grasping my arm firmly. Then he left.
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The next thing I heard was “HE TOUCHED YOU—OH, MY GOD, HE TOUCHED YOU!” My young charge was suddenly awake and alert, her eyes wide with ecstatic joy. She greeted the photographer graciously as we entered his studio, then posed in top-model manner when positioned in front of the traditional white sheet.
As we left, she thanked him grandly and continued to smile as we raced off to our next appointment—an audience-participation show on one of LA’s local TV channels. To my surprise, my dairy queen was alert and responsive on camera and even agreed to milk a cow, which she did less as a pro than as a damn good sport. (That bovine was some kind of 4H Club contest winner that was having its hour in the spotlight).
So the day ended happily, for which I remember thinking, “Bless you, Paul Newman.”
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Photo: Getty Images