Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  “I’m going to Milano with IMD after Hong Kong!”

  “…how? They didn’t see you in fashion week, I mean…” In my thousand things that could go wrong, this wasn’t one of them. Not yet, anyway. “It’s all Apple!” my sister grins at her. “I got booked for Spy, it’s the opening show at fashion week, and my genius agent pulled some magic and got IMD to offer me a spot!”

  “I told Giovanna that your sister shot with Maxwell Chen. Booked the opening and closing shows at fashion week, and stretched the truth a little bit about other interested Italian agencies,” Apple shrugs. These actions sound shrewder than someone wearing Hello Kitty reading glasses should be capable of.

  “See? Magic!” Jasmine grins. “One Models rocks!!”

  I’m grinning but can’t help being slightly bitter that Apple’s magic doesn’t extend to undoing YouTube failures.

  “And there’s news for you too!” My sister is one big smile. “You booked Gucci.” Apple nods. “Congratulations.”

  “I knew you would!” Jasmine hugs me. Then she spots one of the booker’s standing at the comp card wall and grabs her camera that’s been dangling from her neck. “Ooooh! Stay there! Stay there!”

  She runs off to take a picture, and Apple is suddenly looking too stern to be wearing those glasses.

  “Gucci had a last-minute scratch,” She says. And I realize that scratch has to be Damian. Something good actually came of his prostitution.

  “Boyd was firm he wasn’t going to book you, but the confirmation came straight from the Gucci head office.” She examines me out of the corner of her eye. “You must have made an impression. Somehow.”

  “I guess.” I shrug, trying to erase the memory of Boyd fawning at my genitals. This news should have me grinning but the Old Testament-style ass whooping I’ve endured of late has made me skeptical of so-called good news. I can’t help thinking that somewhere, fate is yanking on a rope, setting up a grand piano to drop on my head.

  Apple is still staring at me like she’s expecting an explanation. I remain silent, and before things can get fully awkward, mercifully, my phone rings.

  I answer and step aside.

  “Hey, dude,” a voice says. “It’s Maxwell Chen.”

  “Hi?” I say, barely able to believe it. I started to think I left him so many messages, he might have changed his number.

  “You doing good?” He asks not waiting for an answer. “I’m sure you’re fine. Listen, I got your…uh… messages, you free to do that shoot?”

  I stare at the wall unable to speak. I was starting to think he was lying just to butter my ass and get in with Jasmine.

  “Yeah! Of course!” I blurt then realize I’m sounding much too keen. “I mean, if I can slot it in somewhere.” Better.

  “Yeah, sure.” He says. “How’s opening night of fashion week for you?”

  “I think that’s free,” I say, then remember that’s the night of his party. When he’s supposed to give Jasmine her prints. “But isn’t that your party?”

  “The art comes first, dude,” he says, and my heart is thumping because he’s giving up his party to shoot me. “And don’t worry, I didn’t forget your sister. I’ll get my assistant to run her prints over to my event. Let’s you and me get together, shoot some cool fucking shit, and head to the joint later. Sounds good, dude?”

  “Sounds awesome,” I say. Maybe I’ve got Maxwell wrong. After all, most of what I know is from model rumours. If a typical rumour should be taken with a grain of salt, model rumours need to be taken with enough salt to blow your blood pressure through the roof.

  “Cool, I’ll text you the deets,” he says, and hangs up.

  Jasmine returns grinning at the LCD on the back of her camera but when she looks at me she scrunches up her eyebrows, “What happened?”

  “Maxwell Chen just called,” I say, wishing there were more models to hear me say this. “He wants to shoot with me.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Ready to rock fashion week! #LitAF

  6 people like this.

  FASHION WEEK AND I’m shooting, though the shoot is not technically at fashion week. Still, a shoot with Maxwell Chen makes up for a lot. Except—and I don’t mean to get picky on the details—Maxwell Chen isn’t actually here yet.

  “Uh… so, when is Maxwell showing up?” I say, standing on a white backdrop in front of the lights. His assistant, The Vagrant—appearing as homeless as ever in his unkempt beard and a t-shirt that looks like it was slept in—attaches a Carl Zeiss lens to his camera.

  “Max has some business, he’ll be here soon,” The Vagrant says, and then points the lens at me.

  My dream shoot with Maxwell isn’t playing out how I pictured. First, Maxwell isn’t here. Second, the treatment isn’t the signature black back drop, single light source, shot that he’s known for. Sure, it’s not very creative to shoot everything looking the same, but that’s been his thing for the past fifteen years. That’s the identifying feature of his work. Without that, it’s just odd. Like buying a pair of Hugo Boss jeans with the labels cut off, or listening to Coldplay and not immediately wanting to blow your brains out.

  “Let’s try that again, this time more serious in the expression but keep that air of playfulness in the body,” The Vagrant says, getting ready to shoot. And this is the final reason the shoot sucks. I don’t know what the fuck this guy is talking about.

  Serious with an air of playfulness?

  I default to my Seriously-Sensual-Doctors-Without-Borders look, which matches the dependably stylish Ferragamo suit I’m wearing. The Vagrant hesitates before squeezing off a couple shots like he wishes he didn’t have to. “Try to relax,” he says, which makes me suck air through my teeth. I’m a professional model, I’m as relaxed in front of a camera as this jerk is in a soup kitchen. “Change your expression. Try fierce but jovial.”

  I stare at the Vagrant.

  “You know, like a happy werewolf,” he says.

  No, I don’t know. And I can’t even picture a happy werewolf, so thanks a shit load for the useful imagery.

  I don’t get this. I was supposed to test with Maxwell but for the past hour and a half, I’ve been modelling one suit while squinting and grinning and frowning and brooding. Sometimes all at the same fucking time.

  “I thought we were shooting a creative,” I say, baring my teeth like a growling dog and trying to smile. Happy werewolf. This is stupid.

  “Yeah, Max said to warm you up, get you loose,” The Vagrant says. “He’ll shoot the test when he gets here.”

  I don’t warm up when I go to the gym, I don’t need to warm up to do a fucking fashion shoot. It’s late. My sister is doing the first show of fashion week, right now. Then she’s supposed to go to Maxwell’s party and get her prints from The Vagrant, but he’s here. Warming me up.

  “All right.” The Vagrant checks his phone and pauses like he’s not sure what to do next. “Let’s really get those creative model juices flowing. Max’s shoots can get pretty out there, let’s see what you can do.”

  He says this like I’m a sports car and he’s going to take me on the autobahn and really open up. It sort of makes me feel good.

  “What if you’re jumping up and down like on a pogo stick?” And just like that, I’m back to feeling not so good.

  “A pogo stick?” I say, miming the handles in front of me, and it feels like I’m doing a prairie dog impersonation. “Like this?” The Vagrant nods and grins.

  Fuck. I mime a pogo stick and start hopping around in my suit.

  “That’s it! Ride a pogo stick like a happy werewolf!” He says, snapping off enough shots to make a degrading flip book of this moment. “Yeah!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be giving my sister her prints tonight?” I say hopping on one foot.

  “Yeah, Max will get her the pictures,” he says, firing off more shots. “Don’t sweat it.”

  But Maxwell said The Vagrant would deliver the prints. Hopping up
and down, my mouth hanging open with my teeth bared, I have a sobering thought: is this shoot a fake?

  As my hair flutters in the air with every jump, as the muscles in my face start to cramp under the strain of portraying an oddly jolly lycanthrope, I realize pawning me off on his assistant could be Maxwell’s final gambit to get my sister alone.

  This conclusion is awful enough but what’s worse is that I can’t really tell if this shoot is fake or not. As ridiculous as it is, I’ve done dozens of shoots just as ridiculous or even more humiliating. My ability to degrade myself for money and the promise of fashion fame is starting to bother me.

  The Vagrant stops shooting and I check the time. Jasmine will be walking out of the convention centre any second now.

  “All right,” he says, tugging on his beard and staring into nothing. I wait, watching the seconds tick by. Then his tired, red eyes light up. “Take your jacket off and we’ll go through the same poses. Like a no jacket option. Swap that shit up.”

  I hesitate, and the Vagrant smiles going for sincerity. His teeth a gleaming beacon of white embedded in a tangle of black facial hair. Then I know I’m a true fucking moron.

  “Get the jacket off and we’ll get started,” he says.

  I take off the jacket but don’t stop there. I begin to unbutton my shirt and move to the change room.

  “Hey,” he says. “What are you doing?”

  “Maxwell’s not coming, is he?” I rip the shirt off. Expensive designer buttons, constructed for fractions of a penny and sewn on by underpaid kids, pop their stitches and patter onto the polished concrete floor. “Course he is,” Vagrant says. “Max has a bit of business to handle, you know how it is.”

  He winks.

  Did he just call my sister business?

  “Don’t just bail,” he says. “That’s not cool.”

  I stop. Fuck this guy and fuck his shitty beard.

  “No,” I say. “What’s not cool is faking a shoot to get me away from my sister.”

  The Vagrant doesn’t flinch. And I know I’ve been set up. Completely. Maxwell is probably waiting on my sister with a glass full of rohypnol.

  “Dude, how about faking that call about Candace?” The Vagrant grins, his teeth like two rows of Chiclet’s pasted onto his beard.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Give me a break. Who else was going to make that call?” He says. “You knew details about her. And you left a voice message. You didn’t think eventually we’d hear it was you? And what was that accent? Hungarian? Nigerian?”

  French, ass hat. Calling that day might have been a stupid idea, but it worked. I really don’t care if this guy liked my voice acting or not.

  “That call.” He shakes his head. “That was low. And Max and his niece. That’s one thing you don’t touch. She looks up to Max like a saint. You don’t fuck with that. You don’t.”

  I pull my pants off, and grab my clothes from the change room.

  “Max is Max,” The Vagrant is saying, as I head for the studio door. “You crossed a line. Whatever’s gonna happen now, it’s on you, chump.”

  He’s still talking as I crash through the door and onto the street. Pulling my pants up, I flag down a taxi. I need to get to Jasmine.

  The opening night show has been finished for an hour and a half by the time I’m sprinting to catch up to a group of models walking into the Hyatt. They all have their hair pulled up into faux mohawk pony tails, and wear dark stripes of mascara across their eyes. They’re going straight to the party from the show. All is right with their worlds, but nothing is right with mine because none of these girls is Jasmine.

  I shadow them past security and into the elevator. One of the Hyatt staff grins at the girls and waves a security pass at a card reader, enabling access to the Monarch Suite. No questions. No hassle. Nothing opens locked doors like a group of model girls. They’re like a battering ram of hot.

  Checking my phone as the elevator speeds to the top floor, there are no replies from Jasmine. I swear her phone is dead so often it might as well be a paperweight.

  The elevator opens and Poplar St by Glass Animals blasts from a DJ

  spinning in the corner, the suite is full of throngs of bouncing models. It’s all faux-hawks and thick eyeliner, chiselled jaw lines and defined triceps mixed in with designer dresses and extravagant pocket squares. It’s like fashion week exploded in this place.

  Slipping through the Moet lubricated crowd, I don’t see Jasmine anywhere. This gives me hope that I’ve gotten here before her. But I don’t see Maxwell either, and this makes me fear he’s conned her into a toilet or an alleyway—both equally romantic locations for the purposes of revealing his genitals.

  I’m on tip-toes searching the suite but see nothing. A brunette beside me has the same makeup and hair as the other girls from the show.

  “Hey!” I say to her. “Have you seen Jasmine?”

  The brunette scrunches her face up, “Like the tea?” Fucking useless.

  “Bro,” a hand slaps my shoulder. It’s Marek holding a drink. “I didn’t know you were coming to this.”

  “Have you seen Jasmine?” I cut to the point. I don’t have time to go through the what you been up to, how’s work, having a good night, bullshit club banter.

  “Jasmine?” Marek says. “She’s Eurasian, right?”

  “Yes!”

  “That girl is smoking hot. I saw her earlier, but if you’re trying to hook it up, bro,” Marek says. “It’s gonna be tough. She went into the bedroom with Maxwell like half an hour ago. You know what that means.”

  I look over the heads of the grinning models guzzling free alcohol like water and see the bedroom door is closed.

  I’m too late. Pressing my ear to the hardwood door, all I hear are shouting models and music. Fuck. I scan the suite searching for help: a fire alarm to yank, a safety axe to take the door down. But there’s nothing.

  I grab the door handle and turn, but it’s predictably locked. Clenching my hand into a fist, I pound on the wood. I wait, but nothing happens. I pound again but the DJ is now pounding some Chainsmokers remix louder than me. I’m going to have to knock the fucking thing down.

  Backing up through the partiers, knocking glasses and spilling Moet down the back of my shirt, I clear a path to the door.

  “Bro, what are you doing?” Marek says, appearing next to me, sipping his drink like he’s up late watching the stock ticker on Bloomberg.

  “Get back,” I say getting into a half crouch to get a running start at the door. I rub my legs and they feel taut and powerful. I’ve not only been blasting my upper body but also my hamstrings, quads and glutes. Working the largest muscle group in the body increases the metabolism, making it easier to have abdominal definition, but now I’m going to use this muscle for something practical. Who knew?

  “Are you trying to break the door down?” Marek says. “Bro, all for that chick?”

  “She’s my sister,” I say, as Marek continues to talk. “Bro, she’s hot but after Maxwell’s been there, bro…”

  “She’s my sister,” I repeat, my words bounce off his monologue.

  “He’s probably jiggling his testicles on her eyelids right now. That girl’s gonna be shaving her head and describing on a doll where he made her touch him. Seriously-”

  “She’s my sister!” I scream, launching myself at the door, and Marek finally shuts the futz up. My legs propel me through the crowd like boosters on a rocket. Four sprinting steps and the door is in front of me, its lock ready to splinter under my force and swing open. I grit my teeth and leap, heaving my shoulder into the hardwood surface.

  Crashing into the door something in my neck pops, and I let out an involuntary little cry that’s more high-pitched than I’d like. A cheer erupts from the crowd as I bounce to the carpet, followed by laughter. I’m curled in the fetal position on the rug, I look up. The bedroom door stares back, stoic and undamaged. That sucked. “Bro!” Marek appears over me, multiplying
the suckage. “You really went for it. Shit, you ran full speed into it—”

  Then the hardwood door opens and Jasmine bursts out. “Jas,” I wobble to my feet, and she turns.

  “Colin?” She’s got the same faux hawk hair and mascara eye stripe as the other girls. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Then she glances over my shoulder into the darkened bedroom and cranes her neck forward like she’s going to tell me a secret.

  “Maxwell is a super sleaze,” she whispers. “What happened?” I say. “Did he—”

  “It was so creepy,” she says. “One second he’s handing me a USB stick with my prints and the next he’s pulling his pants off. What the hell?”

  I’m going to totally ninja assassin that scrotum sack.

  “Seriously, it’s like he thought because he’s like mister-superstar-photographer, if he took his pants off I would, like, hook up with him or something. Who thinks that?”

  “Idiot,” I fake laugh, eyeing Jasmine. “You sure you don’t want to?” She gives me a look.

  “Colin, I’m not going to get with some moron because it will get me work, or whatever.” She shakes her head. “What kind of person would even consider that?”

  “Yeah,” I’m rolling with more fake laughter. “Probably a really shitty person.”

  “But look!” She thrusts the USB stick into the air. “I got my prints!”

  I glare into the room using my MMA-Magnificent-Brooding-Stare because I sort of want to wrestle Maxwell to the floor by his mustache. “Come on,” Jasmine pulls me away from the bedroom. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I was wondering where you went,” Maxwell says, coming out of the room, doing up the drawstring on his pants. “Why don’t you come back in here and let’s talk? How about it, Jazzy Jasmine?”

  “She’s not going anywhere with you, creep,” I say a little louder than I wanted, and now the rest of the models are watching. “And stop calling my sister that shitty nickname. It’s embarrassing. Seriously.”

  That nickname has the brain power of a toddler behind it. “Jasmine?” He offers her his hand as if I’m not here. I slap it out of the air and this draws even more attention from the models. Maxwell cradles his hand as if wronged. “I thought we were friends, Jasmine. I only shoot with my friends. If we’re not friends, I don’t feel comfortable giving you my work.”