Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  Oh shit. They both explode in laughter and one of them pulls out his phone.

  “Can we have a photo with you?”

  “Do that face where you raise an eyebrow and smile at the same time! That’s hilarious.”

  That’s my Curious-Congeniality look. And it’s not hilarious. It’s a fucking money maker. These children are going to blow my cover. “Got the wrong guy,” I say, standing to get away from them. “No, we don’t! We watched that video a million times!”

  “You’re so funny! Are you a comedian?”

  I’m walking away as the kids orbit me like annoying little moons. Then one of them jumps in front.

  “Look, he’s even walking like in the video!” The kid squeals. Then the other little dork points and starts laughing too.

  I am not walking like in the video. The video used a clip from the Custo show in Barcelona, and I was using a completely different walk than my normal one. These kids are so fashion illiterate it’s painful. I’m about to give them a demonstration on different runway walks when I glance across the street, and squinting in my direction is Taylor.

  My face is burning red. Shitty children.

  “Hi!” I wave trying to be casual in the face of pointing and laughing children. “It’s me!”

  I take a step onto the road.

  I don’t see it, but I hear the screech of the taxi braking and I sure as shit feel the deadening impact on my thigh as it takes my legs out from under me. I roll up on the red hood with a hollow clang before the car comes to a stop and I’m jettisoned onto the pavement. I land hard on the road and the air in my lungs is shoved out in a loud involuntary, “Ooomph!”

  “Oh, shit!” I hear one of the kids say. “He’s dead!” The other screams and before they scurry away I hear the digital click click of photos being taken on a smartphone. Little bastards.

  I pop up like I slipped and trot across the street.

  Taylor is covering her mouth with her hand. I stand in front of her for a second, unable to speak.

  “Did you just get hit by a car?” She says, wide-eyed. “Maybe a little bit.”

  The scratches from the pavement are hot on my right arm and I gingerly put my weight on my left leg. I can stand on it, which I think means it’s not broken. It’s mildly sore where the bumper collided with my thigh and my groin aches, which has become depressingly normal. Though I don’t think the car hit me in the crotch, I fight the urge to put my hand down my pants to make sure everything is still attached. “I’m fine.”

  Taylor stares at me in disbelief. Behind me, the taxi driver is out of the car and saying something in Cantonese.

  “I’m ok,” I smile at him and give him a big thumbs up. “No problem.” He shakes his head and returns to his cab.

  “You can’t be ok,” Taylor says, looking me up and down. “Maybe you should get checked out at the hospital or something.”

  “I’m good, really.”

  “At least sit down,” Taylor says. “There are some steps over here.”

  She brings me to a weathered cobblestone stairway leading down to Queen’s Road. I sit on the top step and she sits next to me. Finally got a one-on-one sit down with Taylor, and I only had to get hit by a car to do it.

  My one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar DKNY V-neck is ripped down the right sleeve. My dark denim slim-cut jeans are scraped and torn, but that’s okay. They’re only from Tommy Hilfiger, not from Gucci or Armani. Thankfully, everything I’m wearing is prêt-a-porter and not haute couture. All things considered this was a pretty good outfit to get hit by a car in.

  “You’re probably in shock,” Taylor says. “Nothing’s broken, right?”

  “I don’t think the taxi was driving very fast.”

  “What was up with those kids?” She asks. “I think they were drunk.”

  “But they were so young…”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s shocking.”

  I’m not sure what to say next and she’s silent. We both stare down at the green stalls lining the stone staircase. Marcel’s tequila-meddling is messing up our chemistry, because after a week of ease in Africa, things have turned decidedly awkward in Asia.

  “I owe you an apology. Again,” Taylor says, staring at her flats. “I don’t remember much about the other night but I have glimpses of it. I woke up feeling like a total idiot. Can we forget it happened?”

  “Already forgotten,” I say.

  “Cool, I’m glad you’re ok,” Taylor says, getting to her feet. “You should still think about getting checked out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The casting.” She points up the stairs. I literally just got hit by a car and it only bought me a couple minutes with her. I need to keep her from leaving.

  “Look, I know you probably feel embarrassed that I rejected you,” I blurt, and realize from the way her eyes widen this was probably not the best thing to say. “I mean, I didn’t reject you. Not really.”

  “You don’t need to make excuses,” she says, her face turning red as she holds her hands up like I’ve got her at gunpoint.

  “No excuses.” I need to tell her about my injury but something about a penile fracture doesn’t lend itself to succinct explanation. Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I have a medical condition. Down there.”

  Taylor raises an eyebrow while angling her head and glancing at my crotch. I immediately realize this was yet another not optimal thing to say. I’m starting to wish that taxi had hit me harder and this conversation wasn’t happening.

  “Really?” She says, scrunching up her forehead. “I heard the rumours, but you know how models talk. I figured it was bullshit. I didn’t even know if it was another Colin or what.”

  “Yeah, because—wait, what rumours?”

  “The one about you having stuff happening… down there.” She presses her lips together.

  “Stuff?” I say, as a bunch of model girls parade up the steps past us. I continue in a lower voice, “What kind of stuff?”

  “Like shingles, blisters. One girl said penis leprosy,” Taylor rolls her eyes. “But I figured it was nothing. Models aren’t the most reliable information source.”

  Like a kindergarten game of telephone, Vogue Bitch’s ridiculous gossip has mutated courtesy of the model inability to regurgitate even the simplest information accurately.

  “I don’t have any of those things,” I say, and Taylor looks relieved. “I do have… I don’t know… a problem…”

  “Oh god.” Taylor turns away like I’m about to show her my leprosy crotch. “I guess there’s some truth in every rumour.”

  “No! Not at all,” I say, as Taylor edges away from me. “I want you to know why what didn’t happen, happened. You know?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” Taylor says, taking a few steps up the stairs towards the casting. “You feel bad. You think you crushed my confidence or something. But you didn’t, all right? You don’t need to make excuses. It’s cool. Forget about it.”

  Taylor takes a long look at me before trotting up the rest of the steps and disappearing around the corner. I’m alone on the steps, and although I’m not in debilitating physical pain, I suddenly wish I were laid up in the hospital with a morphine drip.

  CHAPTER 23

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Little bit of a slow period for work. But that’s normal. #NotWorried #Ialwayswork

  13 people like this.

  Damian Bruckman

  Bru, you always work until you’re not working. That’s modelling.

  7 people like this.

  “I HAVEN’T BOOKED anything since that noodle commercial.” Jasmine frowns looking so lost that I have to stop myself from patting her on the head to console her. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve put myself on the same diet Larissa is on. Cause she keeps booking.”

  My sister’s not the only one not working. Since getting back from Mauritius the jobs have dried up for me too. This is why we’ve both come to this fashionista and media filled launch party for D
iesel’s new collection at their flagship store on Queen’s Road in Central. In modelling when you’re not working, being seen at fashion events is as good a strategy as losing weight, which my sister is working on anyway.

  “Larissa only eats twice a day, never past 6pm and drinks, like, three litres of water a day. That’s going to be me from now on.” Jasmine says, as a waiter appears with a tray of salted caramel macarons. I scrape the entire left side of the tray onto my napkin covered hand and my sister stares at me like I’m putting a gun to my head. Ironically, eating soothes the knowledge that I’ve been overeating, which, of course, leads to more eating. It’s a vicious cycle of gluttony. I promise to get on the treadmill tomorrow and never get off. “Don’t you ever diet?”

  “No, I don’t diet,” I lie. My whole life is a diet. I want to start a fruit and vegetable juice cleanse to make amends for this past week. It’s light and cleans out the colon. They say John Wayne—famed carnivore—had twenty pounds of feces spackled to his colon when he died. That’s a potential twenty-pound shit. I don’t care how hot and sexy a model is, they would trade their Cosmo tear sheets to take a twenty-pound shit right before fashion week. “Make sure you eat enough, Jas. You don’t want to be too skinny.”

  Jasmine gives me a look and I have to dodge her eyes because we both know, in fashion, there’s no such thing as too skinny.

  “Ugh, I hate dieting,” She pouts, watching a waiter pass with a tray of finger sandwiches. “I’m so hungry.”

  “Then eat!” I dump some macarons into her palm and she stares at them like a handful of goat turds.

  “I need Maxwell’s prints,” Jasmine says. “I really really need them.”

  “Why doesn’t he email them to you or something? Cloud storage exists.”

  “That would be easier,” She smiles. “But Maxwell says it would be a crime to email art.”

  No wonder Maxwell preys on the young, he has to. No one over eighteen would swallow the lines he uses.

  “Let me know when you’re meeting him,” I say, trying to sound casual when, really, I’m frantic because my sister is failing in the Maxwell trap. This is why he gets away with crazy shit like whipping his balls out, urinating on people, and being an otherwise creepy motherfucker. Desperate models, like my sister, will do anything to get shots from him. “He wanted to shoot with me, I want to talk to him about it.”

  “Sure,” Jasmine nods, staring down at the macarons with a sad little face like they’re begging in their little macaron voices to be eaten. “Well, if we both get Maxwell Chen’s in our books, we’ll be killing it.” Despite the threat to my sister, despite his unbridled creepiness, the thought of adding Maxwell Chen photos to my book makes me break out a macaron smeared smile.

  “A photo, please?” A photographer motions for Jasmine and me to get closer. She grins nuzzling up to me. My hands are full of sweets, and I’m running my tongue over my teeth cleaning off macaron when the photographer snaps the shot. That photo’s not going to get me any work.

  “Even if I’m not working, modelling is exciting,” Jasmine bubbles. “It’s like being a celebrity.”

  If we were celebrities, the scoop would be my gross depression driven eating binge. Luckily nobody cares that much about me, which initially makes me feel better, but ultimately makes me feel worse. I ram the remaining macarons into my mouth.

  “Colin! Jasmin!” A voice says from the crowd. It’s Apple, followed by a woman with big, black, curly hair wearing red thick-rimmed glasses that don’t have any actual lenses in them. “I want you to meet Giovanna.”

  “Ciao, bella,” Giovanna says in an Italian accent so hard it sounds fake. She steps forward, never taking her eyes off my sister, and I’m trying to figure out who this person is while working through the macaron lump in my cheek.

  “She’s more beautiful than in the photos,” Giovanna turns to Apple. She’s grading Jasmine like cattle at the county fair. If she turns out to be some kind of high class Madame who has come to pimp my sister to banker bachelor parties or rugby teams on a Tuesday night, I’m fully prepared to drop kick her in the spleen.

  “Giovanna is a booker at IMD and is scouting for next season in Milan,” Apple says. The mention of Milano makes me promptly, with no regard for choking, gulp the lumps of half-chewed macaron down my throat.

  IMD is one of the best agencies in Milano. This woman, Giovanna—in her ridiculous vanity glasses, and hair so big she probably risks neck injury fitting into a taxi—has the power to make everything I’ve ever wanted come true.

  “How old?” Giovanna says.

  “Seventeen.” Apple says into her ear, like she’s Giovanna’s trusted advisor though I’ll bet they barely know each other. It’s fascinatingly pathetic how the social hierarchy in fashion sorts itself out naturally like a pack of wolves.

  “Jasmine,” Giovanna says. “I saw your card, you have an incredible look, but you’re still fresh and very raw. Would you be interested in coming to Milan?”

  “Oh my God!” Jasmine grins, and glances at me. “I would love that.”

  I smile but all I’m thinking is: motherfucking no! Jasmine’s got a shot at Milano, and that stupid YouTube video has killed mine.

  “Then let us see how you do in this market,” Giovanna says, and then glares at the macarons in Jasmine’s hands. “And if you’ve got the discipline for this industry.”

  My sister immediately drops the sweets onto a passing waiter’s tray. Another step towards giving my sister an eating disorder.

  “Yeah,” Jasmine nods, like a good little soldier. “I do.”

  “That means dedication. Lots of sleep, less time on your phone,” Apple breaks in, and I frown. This seems an odd thing to say. “Giovanna hates social media.”

  The fashionista gives Apple a look and says, “Yes, all the garbage on YouTube, Instantgram, the Snapper, is a distraction for young models who need to focus. I have no time for these… tubes.”

  Apple grins at me, and I stare back at her. Then she widens her eyes and gives a slight nod toward Giovanna. And I realize Giovanna being a technology dinosaur means there’s no way she’s seen my video. It’s time to get back in the game.

  “Ciao,” I say, wrinkling my forehead as I turn my attention to Giovanna and prepare for the mandatory two cheek kisses.

  Giovanna doesn’t move. “Who is this?”

  “Colin is Jasmine’s brother.” Apple says.

  “Oh, are you her chaperone?” Giovanna says.

  I laugh, completely ignoring that she doesn’t immediately identify me for what I am.

  “I’m a model,” I say, using my Supremely-Confident-Still-Suave-Smirk.

  “I was with Beatrice in Milano but was thinking about going in a new direction. Do you think IMD could be a good fit?”

  “Of course. You model.” She nods. “I would have to see your portfolio, dear.”

  “Colin is with One Models,” Apple says, and Giovanna remains motionless. “You saw his card this morning.”

  “I did?” Giovanna looks at Apple, and then looks me up and down. “Really?”

  Jasmine remains still, her eyes darting between the three of us. There is no bigger insult to a model than saying you don’t remember them after seeing their comp card. Giovanna certainly knows this.

  I’m sick of feeling like a urinal cake in fashion’s own private toilet, the whole industry pissing on me, whittling me away until my last remnants slip down the cold rusty drain to be forgotten. This is one urinal cake that’s not going any-fucking-where.

  “If you have trouble recognizing people, maybe you should wear glasses with actual lenses in them,” I smile. Jasmine’s hand squeezes mine as if telling me to stop, but I don’t. “Cause that’s the traditional reason people wear glasses, not just to decorate their faces.”

  I’m smiling like I’m joking when I say this last part, though my hands are trembling. Apple looks at me like she’s expecting to find my carcass shivved with a sharpened toothbrush in the communal shower late
r.

  “You have some attitude,” Giovanna looks amused in her shitty histrionic rims. “The best one’s always do. I’m leaving to scout in China but will be at the Gucci show for HK fashion week. Bello, let me see what you can do on stage for Gucci and we see.”

  As far as I know, I’m not booked for the Gucci show next week but I’ll have to be. Giovanna leans in and gives me a double cheek kiss the traditional farewell of fashionistas everywhere, before doing the same to Jasmine. Then she melts into the crowd. Apple follows, but not before she turns back and grins at both of us.

  “Oh my gosh! It would be so awesome to go to Milano!” Jasmine says. “But I’m going to have to be really strict with my diet. I bet Larissa has some other tips. She’s been modelling for a while.”

  For the moment, I ignore that my sister is seeking out what will most likely be more shockingly inept and unhealthy dieting tips from a teen under intense pressure to stay thin, and wonder if Giovanna’s being sincere or if she’s fucking with me. But it doesn’t matter. Right now, that fashionista’s dubious promise is the only hope I have of getting back to Milano. I have no choice but to play it through.

  Modelling is a self-esteem roller coaster. Going into the Diesel party, all I wanted was to check in with my sister before retreating to my room to sit in a fog of depression while gorging myself on fried chicken. But suddenly I’ve got a shot—albeit a long one—at getting back to Milano, and that coaster is out of a dip and headed to a soaring peak.

  The next hurdle is getting on that Gucci runway. Gucci is one of the most prestigious shows at Hong Kong Fashion Week and I know the choreographer in charge, which would be good, except that the choreographer is Boyd. A few months ago, getting Boyd to book me would have been cake, but fashion is a spoiled brat that casts aside models like perfectly good toys when it gets bored with them.

  I’ve got hope, and with that, anything seems possible.

  Riding this new crest of self-confidence, I step past the door people at Solas and into the Origin Models party. Inside, it’s the nightclub version of the Diesel party I just came from. Everything is darker, the music is louder, the crowd fuller of assholes—but I’m not here to do a comparison study.