I couldn’t wait to call them!
Gina gave me a contract to sign, and I floated out of the office and back to the Barbizon, stopping off in Saks Fifth Avenue just to look around and breathe the fragrant air of expensive stuff. It was the most beautiful store I had ever seen in my life, and I spent a couple of hours riding up and down the escalators and touching everything, fluffy cashmeres, soft Italian leather shoes and bags, not daring to try any of it on.
2
* * *
GO-SEE
Dear Baby,
Sorry to call you collect—your landlady is probably still mad at me—but I had to let you know Suzan Hartman took me! When the phone bill comes in, tell me how much it is and I’ll pay you back. I’ll have to write letters until I get my own phone.
I know I’ve only been gone a week, but I miss you so much I can’t stand it. I wish you were here to go with me on some of these crazy go-sees, as they call them (because you go to the photographers and they see if they like you), and do stuff, like movies or museums. There are so many! The Museum of Natural History has a whole dinosaur skeleton and a huge whale hanging from the ceiling! (I’m sure it’s mostly plastic. Otherwise it would stink.) I am going to the Metropolitan Museum this weekend, but it won’t be as much fun to see all the famous paintings we’ve studied in class without you.
How is the teaching job going? Are you getting any painting done? Set up an easel in class and paint when the kids are busy. They’ll get more out of watching you than painting themselves.
Is that sleazy Mr. Bachman still trying to get you to play hide-the-weenie? I hope you stay out of the supply closet when he’s around, or take a student with you, after what he tried to pull last time. You should report him, but you’re right—it would be your word against his, and he is the principal. I bet you’re not the first teacher he made a pass at, though. And him with six kids! His poor wife. What about Coach McClellan? Has he asked you out yet? I don’t know, though. He looks good now, but I bet in five years he will have a huge gut. Those athletic types always get fat when they stop working out. And he isn’t smart enough for you. You need somebody who you can talk to. Like Father Leo, only not a priest! What a waste of manhood. Have you seen him since I left? Tell him I miss him and the guys. Suzan didn’t think his pictures were really fashion shots, so I have to get a whole lot of new ones. Don’t tell him. I still love them.
Just being in New York is pretty exciting but there is so much I have to learn, including finding my way around, and I haven’t made any girlfriends yet, much less met any guys who are interesting. Most of the male models are too beautiful to even talk to. You know how I feel about pretty boys (remember Tripp?!). They’re trouble, and these ones that model are the prettiest. I’ve noticed a lot of them have really plain girlfriends—isn’t that interesting? Like they don’t want to walk down the street with someone better-looking than they are. Their girlfriends just live to wait on their every need and look at them with cow eyes, poor things. I think some of the guys might be homosexual, or gay, as they call it up here, but I’m not sure. Anyhow, it seems like most of them are too much in love with themselves to love anybody else. Like Narcissus. Remember that story from humanities class? I’m not being fair, and I could say the same for some of the girls. I just don’t feel like I fit in with all these perfect specimens. I am the farthest thing from perfect, but then some of the famous girls have their little quirks, too, so we’ll see. One of the biggest ones has sort of a weird eye that sometimes looks east when the other one looks west! But if they photograph her from the right angle you can’t really tell.
At first it felt awkward, but now I’m getting used to going out by myself to eat. Usually I take a book to the coffee shop near the hotel. For breakfast, I can get scrambled eggs and bacon for a dollar, with a buttered bagel, which looks kind of like a doughnut, but is bread that they boil and then bake, if you can believe it, and they always give you hash browns to boot. Nobody up here can understand anything I say, though, which makes it hard to even order a meal. The other day when I ordered a salad with ranch dressing, the waitress asked me if I said “French,” and I said, “No, ranch,” and she said, “That’s what I said, French,” and we went back and forth for five minutes, her screaming, “FRENCH?” at me like I was deaf, and me saying, “NO, RANCH,” until finally I just gave up and said, “Blue cheese.” I don’t have as much trouble understanding them, I guess because of TV, but I am going to go and get speech lessons to lose my accent when I get some money.
I am still at the Barbizon, but Lana, one of the models who showed me some makeup tricks, said that when she first started she lived in a house owned by an old lady in Greenwich Village who rents rooms to actors and models and people like that, and she knew of a girl who was leaving. That would be a lot cheaper than the hotel, so I’m going to try and get it this week. Lana did a great job with the makeup, and showed me how to put eyeliner on just the outside half of my lid, sweeping it up and blending it with a smoky shadow so my eyes look slanted and the green really pops. She deepened my colors, which makes me look a lot more dramatic. I am totally another girl when it is all done up—I didn’t recognize myself when she got through. AND, I have stopped plucking and am growing my eyebrows out to their original white—don’t faint. Suzan’s orders. She hates the dark neat brows for some reason.
Lana is quite a character. You would recognize her face—she’s been on the cover of Cosmo, and she is almost as gorgeous as you, black hair and amber-colored eyes like a big cat, and she moves like a cat, too, sort of lounging on furniture rather than sitting, but I never heard anybody use swears in everyday conversation like she does, and I am ashamed to even write them down, so you’ll just have to imagine the worst words you can. She goes by the one name, and when I asked what her last name was, she said, “Just Lana. The last is too hard to pronounce.” She is from Serbia (I had to look at a map to find it) but came to New York with her family and learned English when she was fourteen, so her accent is even weirder than mine. A lot of the girls use one name, like Twiggy and Apollonia and Veruschka, and now I am added to the list. They’re having me go by just “Cherry,” but I’ll use my real last name anytime I need to. I don’t think Daddy would like me giving it up, and it is too confusing when you are introduced to people if you don’t have a last name.
You wouldn’t believe the week I have had. I’ve been going out every day seeing photographers to try to get them to use me for tests, which would give me pictures to put in my book, and give the photographers a free model to try out shots or lighting or whatever. Out of about twenty photographers I saw, only one wanted to test me at all, and that was a total disaster, which I’ll get to in a minute.
I’m gradually learning the subway, and it’s not really as bad as we thought it would be. The first time I rode it I stood way back from the edge of the platform, though, in case some crazy person tried to throw me onto the tracks, but then I was so far away from the train that everyone rushed on in front of me and I had to fight to get on before the doors closed. Forget about getting a seat! I went out early in the morning and there were so many people going to work that there was hardly room to stand. We were all mooshed together like a can of Vienna sausages, pretending to read the ads above the windows, as if some stranger didn’t have his nose practically in our armpits (Aren’t you glad YOU use Dial? Don’t you wish EVERYBODY did?), and every time the train went around a curve we all grabbed at each other to keep from falling. It was amazing how many people thought my rear end was a hand-hold or something. I have had boyfriends I wasn’t that close to! Finally I got a seat when the person sitting right in front of me got off, but I couldn’t see out the window for all the people standing, so I went past my stop and had to walk back ten blocks. Even so, I was still a few minutes early for my appointment, because Lana told me you have to allow an hour to get anywhere in this !@#$%&* town, (pick your own word) and you know how I am about being on time. I wish I could just get in the VW and go, like
at home, but keeping a car in the city is a lot of trouble, with the parking and traffic and all.
The first place Suzan Hartman sent me was an ad agency on lower Fifth Avenue. I don’t really even know what kind of ad they were doing, because nobody tells you anything. You just show up. It must not have been one of the big ones, though, because it wasn’t exactly a ritzy place. Dirt-colored indoor-outdoor carpet. Plastic plant. It was so crowded with girls there was no place to sit. A woman at a desk pointed to a sign-in sheet when I came over to tell her I was there, and I signed my name. A girl came out of a door and the woman told whoever was on the list next to go in, and somebody did. Finally, after ages, it was my turn. I had to find my own way to the office; it was weird, like the place was totally deserted except for the girls and the woman in the waiting room. I went down a dark hallway, and the last door on the left was the only one open, so I went in. A chubby woman with hair dyed that purplish-red sat behind the desk. She didn’t ask me to sit down.
“Hi,” I said, big smile. “I’m Cherry from Suzan Hartman.”
“A southern girl, huh? Let me see your book.”
Everybody up here always says, “Oh, what part of the South are you from?” or something like that. I am already trying not to say “y’all” or “ma’am,” and at least not give them that satisfaction. They really treat southerners like they think we are subpar mentally. Added to that, when you say you’re a model, then they think you are a real dimwit. I just can’t stand it.
“Well, I don’t really have a book yet, but I have some pictures,” and I gave her my envelope with the beautiful shots that Father Leo took, which was all I had.
“How long have you been modeling?” she asked, squinting at me as she lit up a cigarette and tossed the match into a blue glass ashtray. I swear, every single person I have met smokes. Not to nag you, Baby, but I hope you are trying to quit.
“Actually, this is my first day and you are the first person I’ve seen,” I said brightly, like the moron she thought I was. I don’t know what I was expecting her to do—congratulate me? I can’t believe myself. Maybe we are subpar mentally.
“Really? Thank you for coming. Tell the next girl to come in.”
The appointments all week were more or less the same. Call back when you have more pictures. Drop off your card when you get one. Come around when you get some experience. Don’t call us. We’ll call you.
Then, the disaster. I went to this photographer named something Greek—I have blocked it out, but it sounded like Stasso Vendikas, or something like that. He looked kind of like Yul Brynner, bald and everything, only not as good-looking, and his place was smaller than most of the photography studios, which are usually in big open lofts. He had some framed pictures on the walls of Maud Adams and Evelyn Kuhn and Karen Graham, so I know he at least had photographed some big models—unless he just got the pictures from somewhere else and hung them up, which I didn’t think of until later. Anyhow, I was a little impressed. He looked at my pictures and asked me if I had time to do a test right then and there. I tried to act cool, like I did this all the time, and called my booker, Liz, the girl who makes my appointments at the agency, and she said, sure, go ahead. I was done with go-sees for the day anyhow.
“You’re in luck!” he said. “I’m doing a catalog. Go in the dressing room and put on the orange pantsuit hanging on the rack.”
Wow! I was so excited. This might be a real job, not even a test! I was so naïve I didn’t know you had to be booked through the agency for work. I really thought I would be in the catalog.
I had stripped off my dress and was about to put on the orange pants, when he came right into the dressing room without even knocking.
“Uh, Mr. Vendikas,” I said, “I’m not ready yet. Could you please go out until I change?” He not only didn’t go out, but he came over and took away the pants from me that I had been holding in front of myself, leaving me in my bikini panties, my pink jelly beans sticking out of my flat chest.
“Ah, you’re lovely,” he said. “So tall. Like a white long-stemmed rose. How tall are you, my dear?” He only came up to the bottom of my neck, and had really bad breath, like he had never brushed his teeth in his life. I tried to put my dress on, but he snatched it away. “Don’t be embarrassed. You have a lovely body. You’ll have to get used to showing that body off.” I tried to push him away, but he grabbed at me and tried to kiss me, getting slobbers on my face, which was really disgusting. I pushed at his arms, but he was strong, and I couldn’t get him off me.
“Stop it! Leave me alone!”
“Oh, you like it—you know you do. All of you like it.” Sweat had popped out on his bald head, which made him even more disgusting, if that is possible.
“Are you trying to rape me or something?” I said. Baby, I was really scared. We were alone in the studio. I always thought if somebody was going to rape me I could scream or kick him in the balls or something, but men are a lot stronger than girls, even big ones, and I couldn’t do anything. If I screamed, there was nobody to hear me. I would just have to get raped, I guess.
I stopped struggling and waited for him to do it. I hoped it would be quick and he wouldn’t hurt me too much.
“Rape you? I don’t have to rape girls!” he said, backing off, a little huffy. “Do you know how many women are waiting in line to have me make love to them? Did you see the pictures on my walls? Those girls are more famous than you will ever be! I have made love to every single one of them, and they beg for more!”
Yeah, sure, I thought. I just bet they did.
By that time, I had managed to get my dress on, grabbed my purse and pictures, and shoved past him to the door. He followed me out to the elevator, yelling, “You are a silly little girl! Don’t you know you have to cooperate if you want to get ahead in this business? You will never make it! You, you…virgin!” It was the ugliest word he could think to call me.
I got out of there and called Liz from the phone booth on the corner. She wasn’t as upset as I thought she’d be, which kind of upset me.
“Calm down, Cherry,” she said. “You’re all right. He didn’t actually rape you, did he? Or hurt you?” I had to say no. “Good. I’ll keep an eye on him and if we get any more complaints, he’ll be out of test girls. Take the rest of the day off.”
And that was my week. So no tests. No new pictures. But at least I didn’t get raped. Please don’t say anything to anybody about this, not Cassie and especially not Mama and Daddy. I know you won’t, but I don’t want them to try to make me come home. Maybe the guy is right, that models have to sleep with photographers to get any work, but I am not going to sleep with anyone, especially an old bald guy with bad breath, to get a test picture taken! There must be somebody in this town who will want to work with me for just me. But I learned a lesson—don’t take your clothes off in some strange studio if you are all by yourself.
Have you seen Cassie? How is she doing? Has she heard anything from Lale? I asked at Suzan Hartman, and they had never heard of Lale Hardcastle, but then he’s probably with another agency, or he might have changed his name. In fact, I bet that is just what he did. He should have realized, though, that if he was going to get his picture in magazines that somebody from home was going to recognize him. Even with his face half hidden behind the girl in that shampoo ad, Cassie jumped right on it. She would have recognized him, though, if it was just his little toe! Tell her if I run across him, I’ll call her, although I have no idea what I’ll say to him if I do meet him. I’d like to punch him in the nose. Wouldn’t that be funny, to meet somebody who has never laid eyes on you, say, “How do you do?” and then punch them in the nose?!
I miss you so much. Please write soon.
I love you,
Cherry
3
* * *
830 BROADWAY
I felt like such an idiot. Of course there was an 830 Broadway. You just had to get around Union Square, walk on down a few blocks farther, and find where it started again
, which I did with a little help from a nice woman walking one of those yappy little dust-mop dogs. I wasn’t too hopeful that this Ron Bonetti meeting would turn out any better than the ones I’d had the last few days, though. After a whole week, not one person had offered to take my picture, except ol’ Stasso. I had a feeling Suzan was just itching to get rid of me, especially since Freddy went out of his way to talk to me when I was at the agency, and if I couldn’t even get a test, that would be a great excuse.
Liz was great, though, even if she had been a little casual about my almost-rape, and maybe I did overreact to that. She said not to worry, just keep plugging away, that lots of girls took a while to get going, and one day, bingo, they hit. Liz was from the Bronx with a real New York accent that I loved to listen to, had frosted hair, and chewed Juicy Fruit gum all the time. At least she and Gina seemed to like me, and while I couldn’t say Lana was a friend, she smiled and talked to me.
830 Broadway was not any different from the other buildings I’d been in all week. Old. Creaky elevators with worn linoleum floors. Not the cleanest places. That was one thing about New York—everything was old. Some of the buildings, like up on the Upper East Side, where I was staying, had doormen and were clean and fancy with polished brass, but it seemed like the farther downtown you got, the less well-kept they were. The city had many neighborhoods, vastly different from one another, as I was finding out, and I was staying in one of the nicer ones. So far, most of the photographers I had met were downtown, trying to make it to the big time but not famous, and most of them probably never would be. I was beginning to understand that I wasn’t going to be sent up to Avedon and Scavullo and Penn right away. In fact, I was beginning to get a little discouraged. Maybe I should dye my hair golden blond. I hated the thought that Suzan might be right. I tried to stay out of her way when I went in every day to get my schedule, because she always looked me up and down, like she didn’t like what I was wearing, and said something, like “When are your eyebrows growing back to normal?” In fact, the white hairs were beginning to come in, salt and pep-perish, but I brushed mascara over them to even them out. When all the dye came out I would see what they looked like then. I wouldn’t promise not to dye them again, but she didn’t know that.
Cheap Diamonds Page 3