brother. Remember that contingency fee? Biggs, what happened when you wanted to buy your car and you asked Manson if you could have the difference between that five percent and the actual money you owed for the couriers and the other stuff right away instead of at the end of the year?”
“He told me he couldn’t do it till the end of the year.”
“Of course he couldn’t. Because he has the money tied up in investments and mutual funds that only come due on a certain date. That’s why it seems like the end of that fiscal year is always at a different time.”
Augustus frowns. “So?”
“So that’s five percent of my money paying for his second Mercedes, his apartment in Raleigh. So tomorrow, I’m going to tell him either I get my cash now or I’m gone. He’ll hum and haw and promise to have it for me in a week or a month. But he won’t have it. And I’ll be working for Maceo Power the next day.”
“They any good?” Augustus asks. “Things are kind of slowing down with me at Feyenoord. I’ve been thinking of making a switch for a while now.”
“Maceo doesn’t do any hand modelling.”
“That’s right by me, Pappa. I’m tired of that stuff, anyway. I want to do some real modelling for a change. That’s why I came to Toronto in the first place. How can I get any real shoots if all they keep sending me on is hand modelling?”
“What’s wrong with that? You make great coin doing what you do, don’t you? Like the Egyptians say, making money selling manure is better than losing money selling musk. It’s all about selling yourself. How much you can get, how much of yourself you have to sell to get what you want in the end. That’s why I’m making moves.”
“For five percent?” I ask. “Isn’t the extra five percent worth it to be with the biggest agency in the country?”
“You don’t get it. Modelling is a means to an end. You have to know what you want in the end. Breffni wants to be in the movies. Augustus wants to be a real model. Crispen...I guess he wants to meet women. The problem with you guys is you think you know what you want, which is worse than not knowing at all. You’re all obsessed with the means, not the end.”
Somehow I feel compelled to answer the question he hasn’t asked. “I want to work overseas.”
“That’s the means. What’s the end?”
“Like I said, Europe, contracts, Hugo DiPalma, Brian Chin. Shoots in Tahiti. My own line of...anything.”
“But that’s the means. What’s the end?”
“I don’t follow.”
“See what I mean? Another lost brother. Shame.”
“You’re the only one around here who’s lost,” Crispen growls. “At least he doesn’t spread his cheeks to get shoots.”
“I almost feel sorry for you, Crispen. You can’t stand to see another black man succeed. But, of course, you’re too green to be black, anyway. Don’t worry. When I’m gone, you’ll be the man at Feyenoord. As they say in Ghana, if there were no elephants in the jungle, the buffalo would be a great animal.”
“Well, like they say in North Carolina, fuck you. And get the hell out my house.”
Simien smiles, picks up his last box, and closes the door behind him.
I hold my breath until I hear the elevator door slam. “Well, he seemed nice enough before you guys showed up. What’s up?”
“With Soul Brother Number One?” Augustus says. “Two years ago when we met him he was cool.”
“Great guy,” Crispen says. “Loved him like a brother. Then he started getting big, with all the ad campaigns and contracts and whatnot. And slowly he turned into the back-to-Africa-preaching, ass-kissing fag you saw before you today. But on the positive side, at least you have your own room now.”
“He’s gay?”
“A friend of mine who went to Milan with him said he caught him and a photographer together in the washroom,” Breffni says.
“Caught them doing what?”
“Put it this way. There were two pairs of shoes inside one stall.”
“But how do you know that’s true? People used to make stuff up about me all the time.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me with Simien,” says Augustus. “All that weirdass African shit. He’s not African at all. He’s from Victoria, B.C.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make him gay.”
“Well, we’ve never seen him with a woman,” Augustus says. “You got a woman, right?”
He seems to be eyeing me suspiciously.
“I told you last night. Ex-girlfriend.” Then I remember. “I have to make a call. Is this the only phone?”
“Yep,” Breffni says.
I scoop up the phone and take it as far away from them as the network of extension cords allows. Five rings later I get a flat recorded voice.
“Your call has been forwarded to an automated answering service.” Then a pause, and her own voice, “Melody Griffin,” softly, ending on a high note, a question. Then the voice again: “Is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.” The tone.
“Hi, it’s me.” I try to make whispering sound amorous. “Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you. Had my first audition today...” I’m not sure what to say to a girl who halfheartedly slashed a wrist because I left her for another city. The others are pretending they’re not listening, but the television’s on mute. “Well...bye. Call me when you get a chance.” I leave my number.
I shuffle back with the phone, expecting to field questions.
Breffni’s first. “Your ex?”
“Yep.”
“White girl?” Crispen probes.
“How’d you know?”
“The way you talk to her.”
“How’s that?”
“The tone of your voice.”
“And besides,” Augustus adds, “a black woman would’ve already had your new phone number by now.”
They all laugh.
“Don’t tell me you guys have a problem with me dating a white woman.”
“On the contrary,” Crispen says. “I highly recommend it.”
“It can be very beneficial,” Augustus agrees.
Jerking his thumb at Augustus, Breffni says, “Angie paid his rent last month.”
“And
