Once upon a time, I was what the French would call a delusional narcissist, “French” in this case referring to anyone whose head isn’t lodged firmly up his own ass, though I’m told that quality may have its uses during the cold winter months.
The year was 1996, and it was the summer of my 19th year (don’t do the math). I was halfway through my first year of college, and I had a dream. I couldn’t tell you what the hell that dream was if you paid me, not because I’ve developed some misplaced sense of privacy, I just can’t remember exactly what I was thinking at the time. But, roughly speaking and at the risk of my eternal, self-inflicted mortification, I think I got it in my head that I maybe, sorta, kinda wanted to be a male model.
Here are the facts. During the academic spring quarter of that fateful year, I was in urgent need of an elective, and, having seen “Pulp Fiction” five times during its first week of theatrical release, I had come to the conclusion that Samuel L. Jackson was one bad mother fucker, and I wanted desperately to be like him in every way, even though I knew that, though genuinely African-American, I would never actually be Black. Between classes, I rehearsed an internal monologue that had been running short laps between my cerebral cortex and occipital lobe since the previous August, in which I told off the cashier at the university book store for double charging my credit card for the Biology lab materials that had already cost more than everything I’d made in an entire year working the customer service counter at Best Buy. Full of self-righteous anger and profound indignation, that poor monologue always came to an abrupt end when it came time to quote the Book of Ezekiel, because I’d never read it, therefore stunting the growth of my imaginary diatribe before it could reach the crescendo that might justify busting a cap in that cashier’s ass with a really big gun and then going out for a Le Big Mac.
It was during one of these moments of dramatic dysfunction that I ran into one of the few friends I had on campus, and it was then that she recommended that I take a theatre class with her because it might be fun. I could not know then, as I know now, that this chance meeting was not unlike the real-life first encounter between Gandalf the Grey and Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and that like Bilbo, my life was about to change forever. If, like me, Bilbo could go back and do it all over again, knowing what he would actually have to endure before all was said and done, I’m sure he’d have busted a cap in old Gandalf’s ass as well.
Up until then, I still had it in my head – because, and my shrink will back me up on this, aliens put it there – that I would use my time at university either to finish pre-med (whatever that means), pre-law (whatever that means), or to sound British. Another one of the few friends I had on campus, and I’m convinced he was only my friend because we knew each other from high school and therefore didn’t understand that there were more interesting people to talk to, was majoring in international business. I really had no idea what that was, so, like the vast majority of my fellow freshmen at the University of Last Resort, I remained undeclared, and took comfort in the fantasy that my indecision stemmed from a conscious aversion to labels. I also fantasized that I was straight, which meant that, practically speaking, I was asexual, except for the hours I spent, daily, taking very long showers at my parents’ house, where I still lived (Hi, Mom!).
I walked into that first theatre class expecting some fun improv games, a few laughs, and a hard-won easy A that would show off my intellectual curiosity while boosting my GPA on the shiny transcript that some admissions bureaucrat at some grad school in a far away land would make sweet love to before offering me a million dollars just to consider attending the school that employed him, where the only thing missing – the only thing that had ever been missing – was me. Instead, I fell in love with arguably the second oldest profession, and relegated myself to a life of poverty. I was a thespian now, and that meant that I had to go out and get a dead-end job at the grimiest basement bar/grill(e) I could find to pay for the one room basement apartment I’d have to find and infest with rats so I could call myself an artist(e). I’d have to drink like a fish and chain smoke, but, on the plus side, I would also be required to have sex with strangers and enter lop-sided unhealthy relationships so that I’d have a well of emotional depth from which I could draw the bitter waters of traumatic devastation that would allow me to weep on cue. Being an actor, after all, means that you can cry on command. No really, ask other stupid people, they’ll tell you.
My newfound passion was already proving problematic. I’d always hated cigarettes, because they’re disgusting and addictive and worthy of a rant that might get me sued by the tobacco industry. So, chain smoking was out. As for drinking like a fish, it turns out I don’t have the gills for it. I’m a lightweight and a cheap date rolled into one, but since I like to do it with the lights on and I have no shame, I didn’t see the need to commence a full frontal assault on my liver in order to facilitate the sleeping with strangers clause of the imaginary contract I’d drawn up to bind myself to a life in the theatre. In fact, that last one took care of itself, because I was still a virgin (yes, even I was one of those once), and I was still so sexually repressed that I couldn’t figure out that me + high sex drive x zero action with girls = no problem was the equivalent of you = gay x infinity. Math is a bitch.
Working at the grimy bar/grill(e) was no problem. I’d worked retail for almost two years so I was well acquainted with the face of Satan, and shining shoes with my own tongue in exchange for spitballs would have been a step up. But I drew the line at basement living outside of Manhattan, because I liked pretty things and rodents make me scream like a little girl. No, if I was to avoid this fate, I had to think fast, draw on all the resources that years of expensive private education had provided me with, and outsmart poverty. I didn’t have enough experience to be considered for a job at the corner diner where the short order cooks sniffed glue between picking their noses and drawing fresh breath, I had zero interest in fashion, and I’d never seen the inside of a gym. So, I decided to be a model.
Modeling was the glamorous side of the dark, festering underbelly of entertainment. If entertainment was a fat, drunk fuck that had passed out, face-down in a puddle of his own piss and vomit, modeling was the one thing the sunlight hit when said fuck rolled over to pass gas and burp at the same time. After some deep meditation, I concluded that, absent a singing career, my dream was to pout for money while wearing horribly uncomfortable clothing. My colleague, Kate Moss, was getting a lot of attention for being too skinny, which would put me in high demand because I really loved to eat. “Take that, restaurant that would not hire me,” I thought. “Not only do I not need your stinking job serving onion rings to middle-aged businessmen with a cholesterol problem, but I’ll get rich dining on your wares and showing off the fruits of my gluttony to the hungry masses!” The next time the world rejected me, I’d be wearing couture.
I began, as all smart models do, by searching the classifieds in the city’s preeminent weekly paper, a hipster rag that would sell ad space to serial killers looking for dates and one-way plane tickets oversees so long as their checks cleared. I flipped past the bi-monthly insert labeled “Adults Only”, which was emblazoned with the image of a pair of ugly blonde women who were supposed to be twins but had mismatched boobs that made them look like they’d been born to different mothers in different decades. There, on page eighty-something, behind the concert announcements and double coupons for places you’d think twice about setting foot in, I found my very own star search.
“Ever Dream of Being a Model?” the ad read.
“Not til last Tuesday, but lucky for me I’m so aligned with the universe!” I thought.
Not only was my nascent modeling career off to a facile start, but this was really easy to boot! This particular modeling agency was looking for fresh faces with no experience, so I took a nap, washed up with some Clearasil, and called the number in the ad right away, especially since space was limited and I was encouraged to act fast lest I risk missing out on this once in a lifetime opportunity. A very professional receptionist answered the phone after just one and a half rings, a sure sign that my future agents were as efficient as the were discerning.
“Mas Models, how may I help you?” asked the friendly voice on the phone.
“Um, hi, I’m um…calling about the ad in the--“
“We can see you at 10 tomorrow morning.”
“Um, okay. Um, should I bring anything?”
“Just yourself,” she said, smiling through the phone. “And a checkbook.”
This was a dream come true. My first call from the first ad I found and I already had a real live interview with a real live modeling agent. This wasn’t luck, because no one is that lucky. I should know, me and my luck spent the previous nine months at my post-Best Buy horror show of a job, stocking CD’s when not dressed up as a leprechaun or the Easter Bunny, respectively, and standing with a flotilla of helium balloons outside a Circuit City in East Suburban Jesus Loving Hell, because a seventy five cent raise to work for a different big box retailer on the other side of town was my idea of a vertical career move. But, no matter, what’s a little soul searing in one’s youth compared to a brush with destiny? And as I planned my outfit for that interview with the modeling agent that would change my life by making me a star, I knew that destiny wasn’t only brushing against me, the tramp was feeling me up.
I got to the office early the next morning. I was duty-bound to start my new career by making a strong first impression. In fact, I got there so early that I found a spot right out front and had plenty of time to check my still shower-moist afro-puff in the rearview mirror. I even had time to inspect my teeth for any remnants of the morning donut (Boston Crème even though I was rolling in the ATL) that had been my breakfast of champions. And then, I waited some more. My future agents were nothing if not efficient, and rather than expend much needed funds and manpower manning the telephones that were surely ringing off the hook beyond the locked front door with the tinted glass, they chose to dispatch their receptionist to her duties mere minutes before the day’s first appointment, which was apparently me.
Around 9:55, an attractive young woman, whom I presumed was my competition, sauntered to the front door.
“It’s locked, dumbass”, I almost said to discourage my would-be rival and send her packing. I mean, she was pretty and everything, but she looked like she was somebody’s receptionist, not a high fashion model, like moi.
It turns out she was the receptionist, and she smiled as she ushered me into what I imagined would be a very fancy lobby if they ever finished construction and decorated. Someone had clearly begun painting the wall directly to my right a deep crimson, perhaps to match the three Gucci posters that hung in cheap frames above the black leather love seat where I sat waiting for about an hour. It was a quiet morning at Mas Models, and apparently all the models and the power brokers who handled them were out shooting more campaigns for Gucci. I got a little thirsty, so the nice receptionist directed me to the Blimpie sandwich shop next to the convenience shop in the strip mall next door, because they had the best slurpees this side of I-85.
Upon reflection, I now realize that I should have marched over to that Blimpie’s right then and there, and ordered the biggest slurpee I could carry, and then taken it, and myself, in my car, to the other side of I-85 where assholes fear to tread. But, I didn’t. I stayed, parched, on that cheap love seat, under the Gucci posters that hung on that half-painted wall and waited for the army of agents that all started their busy mornings at 11:30, perhaps after partaking of a delicious slurpee at an undisclosed location.
But then, the army of agents arrived - all two of them. Up front was a confident looking man who was either in his thirties or very badly lived twenties, dressed professionally enough, if he was a stock broker or a real estate agent on his lunch break. His jet black hair was slicked back in a way that made it look perpetually wet, which was fitting because he was a slime-ball. I came to know him as Doucheface McFuckwad, or, for the sake of objective diplomacy, just Le Douche. Directly behind Le Douche was his bite-sized business partner, who had piercing blue eyes, fried blonde hair, and a sense of fashion that would have made an actual Gucci designer throw up. Her name was Dracula...
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Posted by: Dating Websites | May 27, 2011 at 02:38 AM