Davis and Liz Barron, the important halves of Davis-Barron Models International, said my smile would be worth a fortune in Toronto. Said it smiling, thinking of their five percent of everything. Peering at my empty appointment book, I’m skeptical. I don’t believe much at face value. I don’t accept things until I see them for myself. A glass of water drunk upside down curing hiccoughs. Energizer batteries actually lasting longer. Catalogue shoots really running more than an hour as promised. Modelling is a business built on broken pledges. They guarantee you the moon and hand you a match.
All Sharon and Liz told me before leaving was to be careful, and to be myself. Advice as useful as aromatherapy. I’m not the country cousin. I did, after all, live in Montreal for almost a year. And why would I want to be myself, anyway, when the point of leaving is to leave myself, to slough off my old life like a snake skin?
A sudden stop and I swing halfway around the pole like a stripper.
Outside, confused by the boo-blahs of angry taxis, the greasy streets sweating rivulets of people, the smell of onions and ketchup, I stand in the backwash of a bus and have to move. Left or right, I don’t know. I feel as if an invisible man is throwing sand in my eyes. Rianne said the apartment was only about two hundred yards from the bookstore. But two hundred yards is as good as a mile when you don’t know where you’re going.
There seems to be no way to cross Bloor Street. Lexuses and BMWS, distracted by falling stock prices and cell phones, ignore streetlights. I follow a small knot of pedestrians. We cross halfway against the light, straddling the painted yellow lines, until the winking of brake lights promises safety. We weave between the stopped cars like hyenas among the wildebeest, nervous, skittish, ready to evade a sudden charge until we reach the sanctuary of the sidewalk.
Everywhere bums gumming for change. Some stretched out in sunny corners. Others curled up in alleyways like withered leaves.
A woman on the corner wears a DIET BY PHONE placard over her suit like armour, a playing-card soldier from Wonderland. I’ve never seen so many young Asians. Chinese men with walkie-talkies and cell phones. Korean women in Donna Karen mini-suits, hair tinted gold or red.
I’m almost run over by a procession of squealing kids. They’re on a field trip. Arms linked with string. Behind them their teacher leads them like huskies past me through the streets.
An old turtle stands on a welcome mat strumming a banjo, croaking “H-e-e-y, J-u-u-u-d-e.” The joints of the arthritic microphone are bent at impossible angles. “Spare some change, bro?”
I shake no and smile, wondering how he can afford an amp and a speaker when he can’t, according to the crumpled placard, afford a meal.
“Nigger,” he mutters, and stretches his song toward the next passerby.
I’m genuinely shocked. Usually bums are the only strangers you ever meet who wish you a nice day. They know most people will pass by twice. I have no witty rejoinder. I have only my Feyenoord appointment book and shiny sneakers to testify on my behalf. I can’t escape. I have to wait in front of him to cross the street.
The door opens before I even have a chance to knock. He’s even bigger in real life. His pop-out chest is more impressive in 3-D than his picture on the agency wall, half-naked and oiled, posing in an old gilded mirror. His biceps bulge under a small blue Kool and the Gang T-shirt. His legs are as thick as thieves. But somehow his head seems too big for his body. And his nose looks too big for both.
“You can hear the elevator opening from inside the apartment,” he says, opening the door wide. “The buzzer downstairs doesn’t work. The elevator door’s our early-warning system.”
“In case any of his women come knocking, he has time to hide,” a voice says from inside. Two male laughs.
“G’way,” he says, smiling. “Come in. Rianne called and said you were coming.” He grabs my suitcase with one hand, and it flies upward of its own volition. “I’m Augustus.” He offers me his other hand. His grip is surprisingly soft. His voice rumbles so deep I can feel it in my ass. “But most of my friends call me Biggs. It’s Stacey, right?”
“Yeah. Stacey Schmidt.”
“Cool. Welcome to our house.” He pronounces it hoose.
The apartment is small, carpeted with clothes of all kinds. The walls are bare, and there’s no furniture except a wide white couch and a tiny TV as large as a parking attendant’s security monitor.
“There’s not much left,” Augustus says, gazing around. “Most of the crap was Simien’s, and he took it yesterday. Tour?”
The other two are sprawled behind the couch, opposite each other. Feet almost touching. A small bowl of lumpy dip between them. They’re sharing a cigarette. Everything smells of sweetgrass.
Augustus points. “The white guy’s Breffni. Negro’s Crispen.” Breffni, brown-haired, stubbled, impossibly blue eyes almost glowing. He’s naked from the waist up. A jeans commercial. Crispen, shorter, darker than I am, bald, beautiful lips, almond-shaped eyes, and a gold earring. He’s dressed as if he should be either hitting a home run or robbing a liquor store, and has a toothpick stabbing out of the side of his mouth.
“Stacey.” I put out my hand, but it seems as if neither will get up for a while.
“The fresh meat,” Crispen says, taking a drag, passing the joint to Breffni. “Want some? In there.”
I open the fridge, hoping to find more dip, but all I see is a stick of butter, some milk, and a plastic bag of what appears to be oregano. I begin to doubt it’s oregano. Without warning Breffni applies his spoon to Crispen’s face, and the two roll toward the wall in a ball.
“They’ll be all right in half an hour or so. Simien’s supposed to be out of his room by tomorrow, so until then you can throw your stuff here.” Augustus motions to a stained corner. “Shower’s in here.”
“Rules,” Crispen gurgles from the floor.
“Right,” Augustus says, barring the bathroom door with one arm. “One. When you leave the apartment, don’t lock the door. Simien has the only key. Two. When you finish the milk, don’t just put a new bag in, cut the damn top open, too. Three—” he indicates the toilet “—we’re guys. We miss. That’s fine. But either clean it up, or do it sitting down like a bitch. Got it, Pappa?”
“Sure.” There are brown mushrooms growing in the carpet behind the bowl.
“Lucky Charms!” Breffni shouts, mouth full of dip.
“Oh, yeah. Lucky Charms are Breff’s. Touch them and he’ll touch you. Of course, he only likes them ’cause they got a picture of a little Irish dude on the cover. Keeps him in touch with his heritage.”
“’Tis troo,” Crispen quips in a cartoon Irish accent. He and Breffni both clutch their sides, dissolve into a pool of laughter.
Augustus shrugs. “Like I said, they’ll be okay in a half hour or so. Shower?”
The
