Crimes of Fashion
In Panera’s, as my wife and I share a banana-nut muffin so neither of us exceeds our points for the day, a woman approaches.
“Do you know you could be a model?”
This is not something a forty-four year old man with thinning gray hair hears every day. It’s Viagra for my ego.
“You have the print model look. Most industry work is in print. My name is Linda. I work for Choices, a scouting firm. Agencies search our internet site where we post pictures of our clients. Here is my card.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Linda Tracy.”
“This card says Karen Smith.”
“I wish I was Karen. She’s a heavy hitter. I use hers until I can get new ones. There’s an open call tomorrow night in our Montgomery office.”
“Who are you kidding?”
“Print models come in all shapes and sizes. You’re the distinguished banker type.”
Envisioning herself the wife of a male model, my wife says, “Go! Have a night out.”
How can I say no to that?
The next night I walk into the local Choices’ office. Movie posters plaster the walls. Generation X’ers fill out forms with virgin number-two pencils. A pretty young mother juggles her forms in one hand as she holds her sleepy son on her hip with the other.
An olive-skinned receptionist greets me. The plunging V-neck of her frock forces my focus to her fully-funded endowments. She smiles at me. I smile back. On her desk, a magazine is open to an article called Crimes of Fashion. A troubled Russell Crowe peers down at me from a Beautiful Mind poster. All I know is my wife sent me.
After I complete my forms, a perky older woman calls my name. She is at least twenty-five. We step into a darkened room with an illuminated background screen.
“Hi, I’m Robin G. I will weigh and measure you. Take off your shoes.”
Soon I’m in front of the screen.
The photographer says, “Let’s cut down the glare; remove your glasses.”
The room becomes a blur.
“Much better. Smile. Thanks. Next.”
He hands me a disk with my digital photograph.
“You’ll need this, don’t lose it.”
In another room crammed with rows of folding chairs, a VCR plays Zoolander. The room fills with girls in their late teens. Nervous laughter punctuates their small talk. Two parents escort a seven-year-old wearing a long mint-colored dress left over from her previous occupation as a flower girl. A proper-looking woman of forty wearing a snappy pants suit enters. I’m no longer twenty years older than everyone else.
A man dressed in black walks in and turns off Zoolander. I am grateful.
“Hi, I’m Peter T. Choices is a talent search company. Wilhelmina and many others use us. Agencies want the right look, reliability, and marketing materials.
“There are three model types: fashion, promotional, and print. Fashion models are tall, thin, and beautiful. Promotional models have good figures, an outgoing personality, and speak at least one language clearly. Print requires good teeth, good skin, and even features.
“You must be reliable. Never be late for an appointment. When you get a job, be ready to work. Don’t be on the phone; don’t be on drugs.
“Marketing materials are key. Comp cards have your picture and basic information. You send them to agencies. They hang them up. When a job comes in, they pull all the comp cards and look for a match. What happens to the cards that don’t match? They throw them out. It takes too long to sort and hang them back up. Agencies go through comps like a hot knife through butter. Who pays for these cards? You! Comp cards cost $600 for initial set-up, $1 each for reprints. If you’re listed with four agencies, each going through 50 cards a month, that’s $200 each month.
“But you don’t have this cost with us. We run the world’s largest modeling site. We put your digital comp on our site. No reprint costs. 24-7 access. Next thing you know, you’re at a shoot making hundreds of dollars a day. What does this cost you? Only $19.95 a month, if you qualify. And, if for any reason you are not satisfied after the first year, we list you for a second year for free. Now watch this video.”
For ten minutes, we see Choice success stories such as Heather F. who says, “I want to get, like, signed, get famous, and become a super model.”
The lights come back on.
Peter says, “We want to see you walk. When I call your name, walk to me, turn around, and then walk to the back.”
Runway music with sophisticated lyrics involving “shaking your thing” blasts.
I’m here for print modeling; surely he isn’t going to call me. But when the forty-year-old lady sashays about in her two-toned Bally shoes, I know my time is coming. But I somehow become preoccupied when the young ladies who meet Peter’s fashion model definition shimmy up and down with panache, but little in the way of undergarments.
“Mort Z.”
The music pulls me up; I pirouette before Peter.
In syncopation to the beat I rap, “Peter… is … my cost… only… $19.95… a month”
“There is the one time set-up fee. For only $495 we do this with that disk you have. You’re up and running in three days if you pass two interviews. Ricky S.”
The crowd emits a prolonged, “Ohhhhhh, so cute.”
Ricky, the seven- year-old flower girl, skips down the aisle.
“Questions?”
To my amazement, no one raises their hand.
Like the Pied Piper, Peter says, “Follow me to line up for your private interview.”
Robin G. leads me to an office where a rotund fellow, sitting at a faux-wood laminated desk, doesn’t bother to stand as I reach my hand out to introduce myself.
“I’m Leonard W. Are you still interested in a modeling career?”
A voice in my heads says no, but my mouth says, “Yes, but do any of you have last names?”
“My last name is Wise. Turn your head to the right, now left. Turn around in place. Smile. Not bad. I’m recommending you for a phone interview with our head office in Arizona?”
“You’re going to fly me to Arizona?”
“No, it’s a phone interview. Will you be in your office tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
He hands me a card marked Thursday June 6th, 10:30AM.
"Give me your disc so I can forward it to our head office.”
He dispenses a glossy brochure, “Read this for tomorrow. Questions?”
“What are my chances?”
“If you get your teeth whitened, and there are inexpensive ways to do this, you’re a seven.”
“I’d get print work?”
“The most successful print model is a fifty-five year old New York City judge. He gets the mature banker jobs. That’s your shot.”
The next day, at 10:30AM my office phone rings.
“Hi, I’m Bill S., your Choice interviewer. We have evaluated you and extend an offer. Do you have any questions about our brochure?”
“Yes. You have quotes from Elite and Ford inferring they hire models through your site. Careful readings shows the Elite is Elite of Taiwan and the Ford is the Sweet Ford Consulting Group in Illinois. These companies have nothing to do with the famous Elite or Ford agencies located in New York City, right?”
“True. How do you like living in New Jersey?”
“I wish I never left New York.”
Bill laughs, “I won’t hold that against you; I grew up in Elmwood Park, New Jersey.”
"I have more questions. Everything I check out says never pay up front fees in your industry. People on a Billboard chat room say you’re crooks. What about it?”
“You know how unreliable chat rooms are. Some people like the comp card system and don’t believe in the net.”
“How many hits does your site get a day?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Okay, your brochure says, ‘on average’ 80% of your models get at least one request per month. Does that mean they get an inquiry, not necessarily work?”
“Yes, it means on average 80%.”
“How can something be on average a certain percentage, either it’s 80% or it’s not?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
An hour later my phone rings.
“Hi, it’s Bill. My boss referred me to the line you read me. That’s all we can do for your request. Ready to sign up?”
“No.”
“We don’t have a payment plan, but we can work with you….”
“Bill, I’m not interested.”
“Pass on us now, and you’re ineligible to join for twelve months.”
“I can live with that.”
I hang up and call my wife.
“You know all those people you emailed that I’m a model.”
“Yes.”
“Email them my modeling career started on Tuesday but ended on Thursday.”
[This piece originally appeared in slightly different form in the Kelsey Review.]
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