Nepean, though rumour has it they sent a girl to Paris once. I open my book to the first page, hand it over open and facing her the way we’re taught. I don’t know who the hell she is. I give her a smile, but she’s already thumbing through the pictures. In a Harry Rosen suit, serious, the young black executive, the caption MAN AT WORK. In a Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans, walking down the street, oozing boy-next-door, hand waving to an imaginary friend. On a cast-iron stool in black Paul Carville, legs wide, cigarette dangling, James Dean with a tan. Snarling in outrageous plaid, stuffed into a white corner, bare-chested except for a bead necklace and a peace sign. The last shot. Army fatigues, waist-deep in snow, opening a can of army rations with an expression of sheer glee. It made the cover of Guns and Bullets. A joke shot that my agency insists I take out, the picture I always sneak back in. So the client always leaves with a grin.
Rianne snaps my book shut. Grinless. “I’ll have to be honest. First of all, it’s obvious you don’t have much experience. More important, the market for black guys, it’s not really big here yet. Not like New York or Miami. Have you tried there?”
I shake my head, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“Anyway, we already have a couple of guys with the same look.” She points to a group of photos on the wall of men who look nothing like me. “They get pretty much all the work there is around here. Have you heard of Crispen Jonson? No? He’s going to be really big. Huge. The next Simien.”
I’ve heard whispers of Simien. The first black model on the cover of New York Life. The next Tyree.
“You know, you might want to try Maceo Power. It’s a smaller agency, more runway, less print, more overseas stuff. But they’re not bad. I’ll take a comp card.” She slips the floppy paper card with several shrunken pictures of me along with my measurements out of the portfolio sleeve. “I’ll pass it on to Chelsea. Thanks for coming all the way here...” She stands and takes my hand. I feel a pang of lust so bad it actually hurts. “There’s a party tonight at the Garage. Models, photographers, stylists, mostly. If you’re still in town, you should come out.”
Still shaking her hand, I try again. “I’m not sure...I was supposed to see Mr. Manson. He told me to come here. To work. I’m Stacey Schmidt?” Hoping my name will ring a bell.
“You’re not here for the eleven o’clock open call?”
“No. I met Mr. Manson at the Feyenoord Faces contest.”
“The contest? You mean...are you the winner?”
“No.” Trying to decide if her emphasis was on winner or you. “I was at the contest in Nepean. Mr. Manson saw me and told me he could find me work here in Toronto.”
“Modelling work?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
Rianne sits back down, swivels to a computer, and clatters at the keyboard. “There’s no note. He didn’t mention anything.” She gazes at me again. “Well, like I said, Chelsea’s lost.”
“Can I wait for him at least? If he’s just having lunch...”
She laughs. “Chelsea used to have a sign up that said OUT TO LUNCH. IF NOT BACK BY DINNER, OUT TO DINNER. Trust me. He won’t be back for a while.” Wheeling around to her computer again, she adds, “I might as well get your measurements then. Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Height?”
“Six-one.”
“Weight?”
“One seventy-five.”
“Jacket?”
“Forty-two tall.”
“Waist?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Inseam?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Crotch?”
“What?”
“Just kidding.” She grins mischievously. “Sports?”
“Tennis, skiing, rugby, volleyball, football, horseback riding...”
Rianne glances up at me, then continues typing.
“Do I have to name them all? Everything except basketball and golf.”
“Fine. Any special talents? Singing? Acting?”
I think for a minute. “Well, I play the cello. And I’m a pretty good photographer.”
“We’ll just put no. Keep your portfolio, and when you meet Chelsea, we can talk about putting together a new book, new comp cards, and everything else.”
That smacks of money.
“If you’re going to be working here, I’ll give you this.” She hands me a Feyenoord appointment book: small, white, plain except for FEYENOORD in bold black letters. I tuck it into my satchel.
“The best thing...” Rianne looks at my bags. “Where are you staying, by the way?”
“Mr. Manson said he would take care of that.”
“Figures. The model apartments are full right now. What you could do, though...I know a couple of guys who might have room. I’m sure Crispen and Augustus wouldn’t mind.”
Rianne picks up the phone. I search the wall for my would-be hosts. Crispen and Augustus aren’t hard to find. Two chocolate chips in a bowl of ice cream.
“Busy.” She hangs up. “They don’t live far.” She draws a rough map on the back of a cheque marked VOID. It’s made out to Jeanette Grenier for $2,554.35. “While you’re there, tell them Eva from Greece will be here tomorrow morning at 9:30. That means they should get here at 9:15. Make sure and tell them that. Nine-fifteen. And tell Breffni to pack a smile. He’ll know what I mean. And here.” She scribbles some numbers on the back of the cheque. “My number. In case you need anything.”
From beneath her hat it’s hard to tell if anything means a hair dryer or a hand job.
Suddenly buffeted by the nuclear winds of the subway, I sway perilously close to the pit below. Grey steel, brown pools, yellow wrappers, and I’ve heard there are rats. The subway skrees to a stop. Crowds lunge. I hoist my suitcase onto my head like an African porter, follow the surge and grab an awkward slice of the pole. Through a corner of the window I spot a mother, a child, and its balloon rising at the top of the escalator. The mother sees the train coming and starts sprinting, dragging the child, who goes limp with the instincts of a kitten. But three chimes, the doors snap, and “Osgoode next!” We lurch into the night, packed like cigarettes.
All around me, many hues and shades of Africans. The popcorn staccato of Chinese. A nun with a small beard circulates through the car selling cookies. A short bald man in a spotless baseball uniform cleans out his ear and smells his finger in disbelief.
With
