Imperfections (16 page)

“The lips are a little thin but seem to work well with the rest of him,” Chester rejoined. “There is a lot here to work with. I'm a little concerned about the body though, the weight.”

“He's positively emaciated,” said an unintroduced one.

“We need an extreme counterpoint if he's to stand out,” Chester said. “Five foot eleven and one hundred and ten pounds if I had to guess. It's good now but we'll have to watch that he doesn't grow into his height. If he fills out, we could lose him. Right now, we should get him into suits and swim trunks. His broad shoulders angling to the narrow hips, that's perfect for formal ware and beach ware. He's like a walking coat hanger. He's the perfect simulacrum for the new masculinity. His ass will send the swim trunks flying off of the shelf. It's sculpted.”

“His hands are too plain, too workman,” the unintroduced piped in. “And that weird patch of hair on his stomach will have to be dealt with.”

“His hands would exclude him from product shots,” the second said.

“Come on,” Chester said. “With looks like his, I wouldn't waste him on hand modelling even if he had spectacular glamour hands. And there are ways of dealing with that stomach hair.”

This went on for half an hour. At first I was concerned by the compartmentalization of each of my body parts. After signing with the Agency, it became normal to me. It should have been all along. I was signing the health plan when I realized the treatment of a body as parts is institutionalized. The health plan was compartmentalized too. I could claim from a dentist, a dermatologist, an ophthalmologist, a psychologist for work done on my teeth, skin, eyes and brain. The accidental death and dismemberment forms showed me exactly what one foot is worth. I was insured for 50 percent of the principle amount if I lost a foot. One eye, 50 percent. Both hands and feet, 100 percent. A thumb or index finger, 25 percent given that severance happens on the closest joint to the wrist. A fingertip doesn't pay out. You can't cash in on a pinky either.

All the parts, well, Chester was ready to represent them 100 percent. Every piece of me would be marketed and cashed in on. Every last little bit.

CHAPTER 9

The Handsome Boys' Modelling Guide to Beauty, Poise and Personality

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard flight zero-four-seven to Moscow. We'd like to ask for a few minutes of your time while we outline some important safety features of this aircraft.”

Lately, life could have used a few safety features. Since signing with the Agency a year ago, I had spent most of my time strapped in the bellies of various Boeings beside beautiful co-workers. I had heard the safety speech to the point I could recite the American Airlines version, the Air Canada version, the Lufthansa version, the British Airways version. All the speeches were pretty much the same, being written by various federal transportation agencies. The words were best coming from between the lips of the most beautiful stewardesses ever to seduce the skies, those of Singapore Airlines.
 

Singapore Airlines… I had sex twice in their washroom over the Pacific Ocean. Air Canada, sex once somewhere over Saskatchewan. Lufthansa, once over the Atlantic and once over Central Europe. British Airways, just before descending into Amsterdam. It's a very short flight from Heathrow to Schiphol. American Airlines, seven times over the continental US and once over the non-contiguous states.

“This aircraft has five exits, two at the front, two over the wings and one at the rear. Please take a moment to note the exit nearest you.”

I had been driven directly from a shoot to the airport to catch flight zero-four-seven. The shoot was for Jungo undergarments. It was fabulous and took place in an abandoned parking lot downtown. A generator-powered bank of lights was the sun and a generator-powered fan was the wind. It blew my hair as I stood on a boat that sat on a trailer hooked to a tow truck. The driver sat waiting in his greasy overalls, chewing on a toothpick and tugging on a hangnail. I hung from ropes and draped myself across various pieces of nautical hardware, not knowing how any of them functioned but knowing how to look amazing with them. My skin was sticky with glycerine ocean spray. The generator had chugged and roared, not seeming to bother a guy who slept in a puddle of his own piss in the corner of the parking lot.

A photographer clicked black and white freeze-frames, stopping time's progression for an instant. Each photo captured a singular moment. Each moment held the promise of another to come and, along with it, the eventuality of celluloid immortality.

From the camera angle, I was in clear ocean air with virgin white sails billowing all around me. The line between reality and fantasy was altered merely by the way the shot was framed. Reality was a matter of perspective, what the photographer allowed the viewer to see.

“In the event of an emergency or sudden power loss, this aircraft has been equipped with in-floor lighting that will guide you to the nearest exit. In the unlikely occurrence of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the panels located above your heads. Secure the mask over your mouth and nose and tighten the elastic straps. The bag may not inflate, which is normal. We assure you that oxygen is flowing. Please don your own mask before assisting those in need around you.”

That homeless guy, the one sleeping in his own piss near the roaring generator, I thought, would I assist him? Well, it wasn't so much that I wouldn't, it was that I didn't. Which, in the long run, is the same thing because I could have assisted him. I got paid well. I could have bought him lunch or a bottle of Big Bear or something.

I fastened my seatbelt.

Not helping him was the same as not wanting to. Did that make me a bad person? Well, nobody else was helping him.

“Please take a moment to ensure your seat belts are fastened, your chair backs and tray tables are in the upright and locked position, and your carry-on baggage is stowed under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartments.”

There is a safety reason for storing all of your baggage. It can cause harm if not stowed properly. Stowing your baggage securely, out of sight and out from underfoot, is a healthy practice. I vowed not to think of the less fortunate anymore. I vowed to live in the now, for the moment, without consideration for the past or the future. I vowed to let it all slide. I would live my own life. I was independent, free and jetting all over the world. Cameras were pointed at me. People were beginning to notice the new look.

“Transport and safety regulations dictate that this is a non-smoking flight. The bathrooms are equipped with sensitive smoke detectors. It is a federal offence to tamper with or disable them. We're glad to have you aboard. If there's anything your attendants can do to make your time with us more pleasurable, please press the attendant button and one of us will be happy to help.”

I had smelled smoke when Leonard lit a cigarette on our ride from the Jungo shoot to the airport for me to catch flight zero-four-seven. He had parked the Magic Wagon beside the generator and stood there smoking while we finished. Leonard had just graduated. He got a position with the
Times
, but often had afternoons off so he drove me places. Leonard was an obituary writer. His co-workers called him names.

“Hey, Dr. Death,” I said as I approached.

“Nope, this week I am Harold, of
Harold and Maude
fame,” Leonard threw the butt to the concrete.

“Here, I found this at a used bookstore.” He handed me a copy of
The Handsome Boys' Modelling Guide to Beauty, Poise and Personality
with a shrug. “Figured you could use it.”

Leonard edged the minivan into traffic. He scratched his goatee and seemed distracted.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Oh, Kurt Cobain died and I didn't have a pre-obit done so I had to scramble,” he said.

I looked at him quizzically.

“Yeah, I write up famous people who're going to die so when they do, we can go to press quickly. It avoids rush mistakes,” he said. “Problem is, there are so many famous people you can't get them all. Some are easy to predict, the ones that have pre-existing conditions or are really old, but others…” he chewed his fingernail, signalled and changed lanes.

“Well, don't be too hard on yourself,” I chided.

“Yeah,” Leonard said in all seriousness. “I guess, but there has to be a way.”

“A way to what?”

“To guess,” he replied. “You know, when someone's going to die. There has to be a pattern or something,” he said and jammed on the brakes. Distraction caused him to miss important traffic indicators such as illuminated tail lights at stop signs.

“They're holding a vigil in Seattle,” he said. “Thousands of people are there. Cobain shot himself in the face. I should've seen it coming. I could've written so much better, made it relevant, if I had only known.”

Police investigators figured Cobain shot himself on the sixth of the month though he wasn't found until the eighth. On the sixth, a plane carrying Burundian president Cyprien Ntaryamira and Rwandan president Juvénal Habyarimana was shot down. Both died and the attack sparked the Rwandan genocide. Western headlines were too distracted by Kurt to notice. Ten years later, there would be a candlelit vigil for the half million who were murdered in the genocide.

“You should call your dad,” Leonard said as we pulled onto the freeway. “He phoned the apartment again today.”

Father had become needy since Mother left and I moved out. Every week he would want to meet for lunch or have beers in the evening. He was trying to be a cool dad but always just wound up lecturing me on the latest protein powder, creatine mixture, or how I should join him at the gym after work. He had beefed up, though. He was buff. He had nothing else to do, I guessed.

I hadn't heard much from Mother since she moved in with her boyfriend. I got an
It's not anything you've done
letter and an
It's not your fault
phone call. I thanked her and said that I knew all of that.

“Yeah,” I said to Leonard. “I'll call him when I get back.”

“And Rachel is moving in with us,” Leonard said as an aside.

Rachel was Leonard's girlfriend. They met at school. I first saw her in front of the residence building that summer I went to pick him up in the Magic Wagon. She worked for the
Times
too, reporting for the style section. I ran into her periodically at events, fashion shows and fundraisers.

Having her move in wouldn't change anything. I didn't care, I was barely ever there anyway. She was tall and pretty and natural. She might use too much time in the bathroom but she was a good cook and neither of us were.

I hadn't felt like I'd had a home in about a year, unless you counted all the hotels I stayed in for shoots and shows. They were all pretty much the same and could blur into one, stable abode if I squinted and tilted my head to the side. They all had the same bad hotel art, same lobby furniture, same big-city views from the window. When I thought about it, I realized those rooms were my home. Same linens, same tiny soaps, same hygienically plastic-wrapped glasses. The familiarity of it was home—each room was just an airplane commute away. Same bellhops, same minibar, same pay-per-view pornography. The lobby had become my living room, the hotel bar my lounge and the restaurant my kitchen.

“So, where're you off to?” Leonard asked.
 

“Moscow Fashion Week. Showing for some new designer called PG.”

And then they were serving the inflight meal. I glanced around at the other passengers, peeled the tinfoil off, and spanked my chicken with a fork. Nobody was looking yet. Maybe after supper.

The lights dimmed and the movie started, something with a bunch of rugby players crashing onto a mountain and having to survive in the wreckage of their plane. I saw it two weeks ago coming back from London. It ends with them eating their teammates and then hiking out of the Andes.
 

I pulled out the airline magazine and flipped through it. Someone had done the crossword and I read it last week coming back from a shoot in Florida. There was a fascinating article about the Duyser Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Story goes that Diane Duyser made a grilled cheese sandwich and, when she took a bite, noticed the face of the Virgin Mary staring back at her from a charred portion of toast. She and her husband, Greg, decided to save the sandwich for luck.

I glanced at the movie and then inspected my chicken for a likeness of the Virgin Mary. I could make out the outline of Vermont in one of the grill lines but that was it. I turned my focus to the woman sitting beside me thinking, perhaps, she would like to have sex. I smiled. She would do. She was something we in the industry called frumpy-chic, a seemingly homemade, loose-fitting denim dress and some kind of Third World-ugly wrap for a blouse. She was a little overweight, but that would soften the edges of the small washroom. She was approximately my age or maybe a few years older and her face had a comfortable familiarity.

“What're you reading?”

She put her book down and peeled the tinfoil from her meal.