Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  “Crazy, right?” I grin. “So, have a talk to your friend for me. Thanks, dude.”

  Sheldon looks at me, the lenses on his glasses reflecting my image. I check my hair. It looks great.

  “That’s why you wanted to meet me?” He says.

  “Also, you know, I haven’t seen you in a while,” I say, slapping him on the back. “I thought we could catch up. Me, you, my sister and… Valerie.”

  “Valina-” Sheldon exhales and pulls out his phone. “My girlfriend’s name is Valina.”

  “Right.”

  He frowns as he studies the little screen in his hand.

  “You know what,” Sheldon says. “I just got a message from work, I can’t do lunch. Babe, sorry, we have to go.”

  Valina and Jasmine stop talking and look at us. Sheldon takes the blonde’s hand.

  “Shitty,” I say, as they begin walking away. “Oh, Sheldon, about making that call?”

  “I’ll see if I have time.” He says turning back, the sun glaring off his glasses. “I’m really busy.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Network Timeout The server at www.facebook.com is taking too long to respond.

  MAINLAND CHINA IS continually the dreariest place on the planet that isn’t being ravaged by war or crippled by poverty. It’s incredible how a place with nothing outwardly wrong with it can be so shitty without fail.

  I’m standing in an alley off a noisy street in Guangzhou. The sky is the colour of boiled meat and the river we passed earlier was a wide expanse of brown that didn’t inspire the urge to swim. My outfit isn’t making me feel any better. I’m wearing a white baseball cap that is too small, an orange golf shirt that would be useful in flagging down planes, and purple pants pulled so high that I’ve got pins and needles in my left testicle. I hate shooting catalogue in China.

  The photographer motions for me, and I stand against the brick wall. I squint into the middle distance using my Sophisticated-Man-at-Dinner-Party look. I don’t think this look matches the clothes, but they showed me six reference pictures of George Clooney in suits looking pensive. I’m not sure how sophisticated Clooney at a hip restaurant gets me dressed like a golf club reject in a grimy alley, but apparently that’s the look we’re going for.

  I don’t bother to change my pose and the photographer shows his disinterested approval by machine-gunning out five shots before waving his hand at me to switch outfits. None of us are trying very hard.

  The producer, a man who looks like he’s never slept, hands me a purple shirt.

  “Change.” The cigarette dangling out of his mouth twitches when he talks. The shirt is the same shade of purple as the pants currently cutting off circulation to my already injured groin.

  “Change pants, too?” I say, hoping I don’t have to dress like a giant purple crayon. He stares at me. The circles under his eyes look like they’re running a successful invasion of his cheeks. Insomnia must be a good day for this guy. He shakes his head and a giant clump of ash breaks off the end of his cigarette, landing on his shoe. He doesn’t notice.

  I’m changing in the alley when my iPhone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. I have a message from Apple.

  Hi, just got the news from Boyd. Final list is in. He didn’t book you for the Gucci show. So sorry.

  I stare at the phone and Insomnia Man claps his hands.

  “Go. Go,” he says, giving me a little nudge toward the camera.

  There’s no more lying to myself. I’m not going to Milano. The photographer snaps off a few quick shots as I stand hunched, staring at the stained pavement.

  “Change.” Insomnia Man shoves a puke green shirt in my face. “Change.” This is my future: modelling golf wear in an alley in mainland China and getting clothes shoved in my face that I wouldn’t force on my worst enemy. This is where my modelling career will die, if I accept it. I can’t settle for Taylor’s apathetic view of the fashion world. You’re only helpless if you choose to be, I choose to take the initiative.

  I text Apple as I pull the next shirt on.

  Get me a meeting with Boyd ASAP! I need to speak to him.

  The green shirt combined with the purple pants make me look like The Joker, if he lost the eccentricity and criminal tendencies but kept his colour-blind fashion sense. The shirt has a massive crease down the front. Insomnia Man tries to pull the wrinkle out but it looks like the shirt has spent two weeks under a pile of phonebooks.

  “Too wrinkle. Take off,” he says, the cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. I take it off and stand shirtless with my purple pants pulled up past my navel. Insomnia Man throws the shirt to a scurrying little woman with a steamer.

  My phone buzzes. Text message:

  I already spoke to him about you. He knows about IMD and Gucci. He said he doesn’t need your look. I don’t know if meeting him is going to make a difference…

  Fuck, Apple is like a teenager with her parents. She fights me on every little thing. Insomnia Man presses a bright blue argyle shirt against my chest.

  “Change.”

  I yank it over my head, mussing my hair and staining the shirt with my make-up. Normally I could finesse it on to keep my look intact, but why should I give a shit? The client obviously doesn’t.

  Insomnia Man is staring through me with a vacant look, like the lack of sleep is causing a brain cell holocaust in his head. I crank out another quick message to Apple.

  Apple please do as I say! Get me a meeting with Boyd! You’re my agent, I’m asking you to do your job.

  Pressing send, I pocket my phone as the photographer clicks a series of photos of me scowling at him. I don’t give a flying squirrel fuck about this stupid job. Ripping the argyle shirt off, I let it drop to the pavement and the scurrying little stylist lady picks it up. Insomnia Man is back with his vomit green shirt, minus the wrinkle.

  “Change.”

  Being relentless is a good trait in an FBI agent tracking a serial killer, but in a client trying to make you wear crappy clothes, it is really fucking irritating.

  My phone buzzes and I hold up my finger for him to wait.

  He’s being a pain in the ass again. He’s so high maintenance, meeting Boyd isn’t going to matter and it’s not professional to send our model for a meeting just because he’s whining about not getting the show. I’m so sick of Colin’s attitude.

  Apple must have gotten her fingers tangled up in all that Hello Kitty shit dangling from her phone because this message is clearly not meant for me, though it is about me. I have to talk to her right now.

  “Change,” Insomnia Man repeats, pressing the shirt against my shoulder like if he presses hard enough I will magically appear dressed in it.

  “Can I make a phone call?” I say. “It’ll just be a minute.”

  “No. No call.” Insomnia Man stares blankly at me. “Change.”

  “I need to use the toilet,” I say, but really, I need to call Apple. “Where is it?”

  “No toilet. Shoot first,” Insomnia Man says.

  “I really have to go,” I say, bending at the knees like I’m about to piss my purple pants.

  “No, finish shooting first,” he says. His lips are wrapped around the cigarette like it’s a snorkel. “When finish you go toilet.”

  “You want me to hold my piss for four more hours? I’ll get a urinary tract infection.”

  Insomnia Man’s mouth hangs open like his mind went for lunch and never came back. He’s on one stupid track: shooting his retch coloured shirt. If I have to piss myself for him to achieve that, then this insomnia-suffering jackass is fine with it.

  “Change.” He waves his shitty green shirt inches from my nose. I’ve had enough.

  “Get that fucking thing out of my face! I need to use the toilet!”

  I storm past him towards the cars honking at each other on the street. “We stop time! We stop time!” Insomnia Man says, running to get ahead of me. He’s pointing at his watch like he’s threatening me with it.

  “No overtime, no overt
ime.”

  It takes me a second to figure out what he’s saying. They’re going to stop the clock. This piss break won’t count as paid work time. I make a note to nominate Insomnia Man for the Slave-Driving Jerk of the Year award. If that’s not already an award it should be, and Insomnia Man’s face with his saucer size eye bags and his crooked cigarette would be on the plaque. His ridiculousness strengthens my resolve to get back to Milano.

  “Fine! Stop the clock for two fucking minutes while I piss! I don’t care!” I push past him onto the street where I turn the corner out of his sight.

  The noise of gridlocked traffic and the smell of frying oil is a welcome change to Insomnia Man’s automaton stare and the odor of impending lung cancer.

  I dial Apple. As the phone rings, I realize I’m shirtless on the street. But nobody notices—not even my purple pants get a second glance. Mainland China is a weird place.

  “Colin—” Apple sounds surprisingly conciliatory. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t care what you think of me. Make the appointment with Boyd.”

  “I already spoke to him about you, to see if he could fit you into the show somewhere. He doesn’t want to use you. I can’t keep calling him, and I can’t arrange a meeting especially for you. It’s not professional.”

  On the street, a truck driver leans on his horn, blasting the idle car in front of him. It feels like that horn’s been blaring in my head since I got Apple’s message.

  “Fine, then give me Boyd’s number.”

  “I can’t give you a client’s personal number.”

  “Just give me Boyd’s number.” Insomnia Man peeks around the corner at me. He holds up his wrist and points at his watch. I give him the finger. “I won’t tell Boyd where I got the number from. I’ll say I got it off a model.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I can’t do this. If I can’t get Boyd’s number—at least have the possibility that I can work this out—there’s no way I can go back to working for Insomnia Man. It’s not just this job, it’s the prospect that all I’ve got in my future is more insomniac jerks with their cruddy golf shirts and crotch choking slacks.

  “Please, Apple,” I say, feeling weak. “You know what’s at stake for me here. I need this. Please give me that number.”

  A noodle vendor is shouting orders to the kitchen, a little hatchback is crawling into traffic to the wrath of a chorus of horns, a motorbike with a muffler that isn’t doing much muffling roars by, but on the other end of my phone Apple is silent.

  “Apple?”

  “I’ll text you Boyd’s number.”

  “Thanks,” I’m grinning. “Really, thank you.” But Apple has already hung up.

  It’s a two-hour train ride from Guangzhou to Hong Kong and by the time I’m back in Central, it’s almost eleven at night. If days could be bodily ailments, today would be a great big swollen haemorrhoid.

  Boyd didn’t answer my call, which isn’t completely unexpected with an asshole of his calibre, but I left a message. He texted back saying he would be in his Sheung Wan office late and we could meet there.

  Watching the floor numbers climb in the elevator, I realize I don’t even know what I’m going to say to Boyd to sell myself. Maybe Taylor is right and models are products that have no distinguishing selling points. This is the same trouble you would have selling your used car if every used car were a Ferrari.

  The elevator opens on a corridor with a wide set of wooden doors. I hit the buzzer and the doors click open. Even though it’s late, I expected Boyd’s office to be buzzing with production assistants, but the lights are dim and it looks empty. The only light is coming from behind a partly shut door on the rear wall.

  “Hello?”

  “In here,” says a voice from behind the door.

  I push it open and shield my eyes with my hand. Everything in Boyd’s office is a blinding white: the minimalist desk, the two trendy office chairs, the shag rug. Even the white curtains are closed to shut out the inevitable non-white influence of night. His entire office is like a photographer’s reflector, everywhere I turn light glares at me. No wonder Boyd’s perpetually pissed off. This place is like having a spotlight trained on your eyes all the time.

  “Who are you?” Boyd says, wearing a white cabbie style hat while sitting behind his desk shuffling through a pile of paperwork.

  “It’s Colin. You told me to meet you here when my job finished.”

  “Colin, Colin,” he says, and I have to stop myself from leaping on his desk and pissing my name into his fucking shag rug. “Oh yes. Yes, Colin. Of course.” I give him a second in case he wants to continue pretending he doesn’t know me.

  “What is it you need, my boy?” Boyd grins and I’m not sure if it’s his smile or him calling me my boy that makes me shudder.

  “I’ll be straight,” I say. “IMD is coming to the Gucci show-”

  “I know all about Miss Giovanna and IMD,” he says, clasping his hands on his desk.

  “Why didn’t you book me for the show, we’ve worked together so many times-”

  “I was also very forthcoming with One Models about this point. You have a look that is essential for our fashion shows, and the fact that you’ve worked with us many times attests to this. But, to be honest, we have moved to another model with a very similar look.”

  Boyd gives me a smile that’s probably supposed to be apologetic, but the way he clenches his jaw, it’s like he’s watching someone bludgeoning a seal.

  “Who looks like me?” I ask the question, but already know the answer. “Damian Bruckman.” Every syllable of that name is like a bullet fired into my gut. “Your looks are very similar, but his is a little edgier. Damian has a look that is a little more now, you understand? There is simply no room in the show for both your looks. They’re just too close.”

  “How about our walks?” I say, suddenly lightheaded. “I used a new walk at the casting but if you want me to go back to my old walk, it’s not a problem. I can-”

  “It’s not your walk, Colin. You both have attitude when you walk.”

  “Then what is it?” I say. “There has got to be a model who isn’t fitting all their outfits perfectly. Maybe I could stand in for one of them?”

  “The fittings are finished. Everyone fits their outfits just fine.”

  “I’ll work the show for free,” I say. “I don’t need the money.”

  “It’s not about money.”

  Boyd looks unusually sympathetic like he’s watching an oil-drenched pelican trying to shake its sagging wings clean.

  I cover my face and feel like my legs are turning to jelly. I wish I hadn’t come here. I wish I were with Taylor. I wish I were like her. I wish I didn’t care about this fashion bullshit anymore. “My boy, this means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?” Boyd says, rising from his desk. “We have a couple items in the swimwear section that we may decide to show on the runway.”

  I rub my eyes. Hope surges through me and puts my emotional self-destruction on hold. Boyd opens a desk drawer and pulls out a tiny pair of white thongs.

  “Put this on and let’s see what we can do about getting you in this show.” Boyd flips the swimwear to me.

  Clutching my last chance, an item of swimwear that doesn’t have enough material to make a handkerchief, I leave the office. I don’t bother with the toilet, I’m a professional model—I’ve been stripping to my underwear in parking lots, on street corners, in front of rooms full of strangers for years—stripping around the corner from Boyd’s office is no problem.

  My stomach growls and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten in at least 15 hours. At least that worked out for the best. Nothing prepares your body for a swimsuit casting like a pinch of starvation.

  I pull the little trunks over my thighs and shift everything into place. The front of my swimsuit isn’t looking as bursting full as I’d like. I shift everything again, flinching as I cup my injured penis, but it doesn’t make a difference. My crotch need
s to look perfect if I’m going to convince Boyd to put me in the Gucci Show.

  The male push-up bra.

  If ever there was a time to tie something around my testicles, now is it. But I don’t have a ribbon or a string. My Diesel shoes don’t even have laces. Then the solution hits me. My iPhone. Not that I can wrap my iPhone around my balls, but I can use the earphones.

  Soon I’m being careful to avoid the bruise on my shaft as I knot the cord of my earphones around my testicles and tuck the ear buds and excess wire into my ass crack. My earbuds will be functional, but I’m not sure I’m going to want to use them after this. Maybe I’ll give them to Damian.

  I flex my torso. I won’t stop flexing until this is over and I get my shirt back on. Everything is pulled forward into the front of my trunks, and when I cup it with my hand it all feels nice and bulging. Perfect groin. Ready.

  Entering Boyd’s office, I’m forced to squint again against the light. My vision is bleached white like I’ve stepped into Heaven. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to blink back to normal, and when my vision kicks in, I wish the light had scorched my eyes blind.

  Boyd is still wearing his cabbie hat but he’s completely naked except for a little white pair of trunks exactly like the ones I’m wearing. He’s stretched out on the shag rug, or as stretched out as a pudgy spud like him can stretch out. He looks like a Christmas ham in a Speedo.

  “Oh fuck…” I can’t help saying it. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m giving you an opportunity. Don’t pretend you didn’t know where this was going,” Boyd says, sitting up on one elbow. “You called to meet late at night. I’ve got something you want. You had to have this in mind. You’d have to be a moron not to see this coming.”

  Colour me moronic. Wait, colour me moronic with a wire tied around my balls and earphones up my ass. I never even thought about Boyd’s sexuality. Somehow, in my head, I had him classed as asexual—like those frogs that spontaneously grow penises and vaginas whenever the need arises.

  Boyd gets to his knees, his gut flap jiggling over his swim suit. His beady little eyes are thinned at me like he’s working the lens in a Prada campaign. He’s surprisingly pink all over. I can’t shake the feeling I’m being seduced by pork.