into the wall. Thankfully it’s padded with a blue mat. I peel myself off, leave a vertical pond of sweat on the plastic. Lucky for me the poster Punch Cola hastily taped to the wall doesn’t come down. Bruised, ashamed, I trot to the back of the line. If I weren’t brown, I’d be red. I don’t get another attempt.
“Schmidt, Battis, thank you very much. Everyone else I call, please grab a blue script from the table. The rest, take a white one.”
Battis, the other first-round cut, is lanky and pale. He’s the only model on whom my crossover move actually worked. It’s a long walk out of the lineup to the wall with the watercolors where our bags are lying. The other models try not to look at us; some are already reading through the script and practising the line. It’s at moments such as these that one wishes for the existence of transporter beams. Spontaneous combustion. I don’t even bother to change. I stuff my bag and hoist it onto my shoulder. Behind me the man with the big clipboard shouts, “Please slate for the camera! Your name, agency, look left, look right. Then read the line. And keep your shirts off, please.”
The wood lice are hiding, and the mushrooms under the bowl toilet have been harvested. I’m alone in the bathroom, waiting for the others to come home. The longer they’re at the audition, the more aware I become that I’m not.
I haven’t cried since the day my father gave us his new phone number, and I chuckle as the tears snail down my face. I didn’t expect to land the role. After all, what are the chances of a rookie grabbing a speaking part in a national soft-drink commercial? A commercial worth hundreds up front, thousands in residuals. Why Shawna sent me out for an audition casting for basketball players is beyond me. It reminds me of my humbling high-school gym class, being picked by substitute teachers to demonstrate basketball drills. They always looked baffled when I said I couldn’t play, as if I’d told them I couldn’t walk. Being embarrassed on the basketball court this morning isn’t the thing that hurts—I’m used to that by now. Nor is it being rejected for the role. What’s bugging me is being denied the chance to say the line. I don’t know what the line is. I don’t even know if I’d have been any good. But they’ll never know, because they didn’t even give me a shot. I feel like a kid watching his helium balloon drift over rooftops and telephone poles. At the audition the rope slipped through my fingers, and right now it seems like the single biggest injustice in the world.
My razor’s still lying in a puddle on the counter, covered in grains of black beard and drifts of shaving cream. I pick it up. I’m even lighter in this mirror. My pelt, even more noticeable than I thought. It would be so easy. I’d be reborn, hairless as a chick. Smooth as the top of my feet. A Samson in black-and-white negatives, empowered by the trimming of my hair. Lightly I pass the razor over my chest, millimetres from my skin, not close enough to cut. Over the nipples, the lubrasmooth strip angled low. I listen to the snick, snick of the blades catching each hair. Again and again the razor lowers, a scythe through a black veldt.
“If you’re going to do it, at least use some shaving cream, brother.”
I whirl, brandishing my blade. A tall man stands in the bathroom doorway, smiling. Either he’s Simien or a helpful burglar.
“But I wouldn’t do it if I were you. I did it once when I was starting out. It was fine for a couple of days till the hair began growing back. Ever had chicken pox?”
I nod, still holding the razor.
“This was worse. Man, the itch when it started to grow back. And the stubble rubbing against the shirt. It was like wearing a steel-wool vest. Like I said, it ain’t worth it.”
I drop the razor into the sink.
“You must be the new guy.” He grins and leans against the door. “I’ve got to hand it to them. You’re the one thing they were missing. Now they’ve covered the spectrum.” He puts his hand to his mouth, holding an invisible microphone. “Black and bald? Big and black? You want ’em, we got ’em. Too dark? Don’t worry, we got mocha. Fifty-one flavours of Negro.” He laughs. “You know, they won’t hire any other black models now that their collection’s complete. Now that they’ve got their light-skinned brother, their mulatto, tragic or otherwise, they don’t care, as long as you reflect those brown light waves, brother. Ever wonder what the world would be like if the word light were called dark? But that’s another story.”
I sense that he’s stopped talking. I wasn’t really listening. I’ve been looking at his eyes. They’re green. He’s black. He doesn’t need them to be the most unusually beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His eyes are long and sad. His nose is narrow and hooked. You could rappel down his cheekbones. I’ve never seen a Moor before, but he’s everything I’ve imagined one to be—tall, regal, Solomonic. Like those Spanish paintings of a black Jesus.
“So what’s your story?” he asks.
“My story?”
I follow him into his bedroom—my bedroom—and tell him about the contest, my move, my first go-see, my first audition.
“Don’t sweat it,” he says, pitching clothes from the closet into a cardboard box. “You could have read that line like James Earl Jones and they still wouldn’t have cast you because your nose is too long or your eyebrows are too dark. If there’s one thing about this business, it’s that you get used to rejection.”
That’s about as comforting as the thought of eventually getting used to a bad smell.
He grabs the cardboard box and tosses it into the living room. Snatches another and begins to empty drawers. “I can’t believe you came here without a contract. You didn’t even try the market first. The Ashanti have a saying—’You don’t test the depth of a river with two feet.’ But you’re here now. Best to make the best of it.”
Just then I hear the chunk of the elevator thumping shut, and seconds later Crispen is through the front door.
“Stace, man, my shoes! You took off with my shoes!”
I’m out of the bedroom. “Your shoes?”
“Well, the shoes we were sharing. Come on, man. I had to play Africanstyle. You know how hard it is to jump barefoot?”
Breffni and Augustus troop into the apartment behind him.
“So did you get the part?” I ask Crispen.
“That’s not the point. You can’t just pull a Houdini like that and leave a brother swingin’ in the breeze. Shoeless Joe and shit.”
Simien steps out of the bedroom, carrying the last of his cardboard boxes. He looks through Breffni, Crispen, and Augustus as he heads for me. “I know none of these guys will give me any messages, but if you get one for me, call me at this number.” He hands me a business card. Simien in black italics, and two phone numbers. “The second one’s my pager. That’s only for emergencies. Like the Bat Signal. Please call me if someone calls me. Because of these jealous, petty people I missed out on two shoots already.”
“Why would we give you messages about Feyenoord shoots when you’re switching to another agency?” Crispen asks. He doesn’t move when Simien brushes past him with a box. If push came to fight, it would be hard to pick a winner. Crispen looks more like a fighter, but Simien seems more dangerous.
“I need my messages because I haven’t officially left yet. I’m not telling Manson
