Modeling Days

Yep. You read the title correctly. Once upon a star, I was a fashion model. Allow me to explain.

I was recruited in college at the age of 20 by our yearbook photographer. She was blinding me slowly by testing her flash setting as I held up a light meter for her.

"What's your name hun?" She asked, fiddling with an aperture setting on a camera so massively clunky that it was making the tripod creak and groan.

"Joshua." I replied looking into the camera—unsure if I should be—then trying to look anywhere but.

"That's a beautiful name. Joshua. I think if I ever had a son, I'd name him that." She shook her head, "But I won't. I had a hysterectomy after a really messy abortion." She said, nonchalantly snapping a photo of my suddenly horror-struck face.

"I'm really sorry to hear that..." I trailed off.

"It's okay. I think everything happens for a reason. Jesus didn't want me to have kids I guess. Maybe they would have grown up to be murderers or something. Even normal people like us can have kids that kill."

"Anything's possible I guess..." I was so uncomfortable that my back was bolt upright in the chair, as if we were in a plane that was going down, and my eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"You have excellent posture." She said, snapping a few more photos.

"Thanks. I think I'm just nervous. Usually I shamble around like Igor on a bender."

"You also have an exceptionally symmetrical face. And your eyes are gorgeous. What color would you say those are?"

"My ex called them baby-poop green. The description kinda stuck."

She shook her head. "You don't give yourself enough credit. The camera loves you. If you want to make some extra money, give me a call. I always need models for the talent gigs I shoot." She handed me her business card.

Weeks went by before I called. It took my credit card being declined at the school bookstore when I tried to buy a used copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At first she didn't remember who I was. She didn't even remember coming to my school.

"Who?" She asked irritated, as if I were a telemarketer.

"Baby-poop eyes." I said.

"Oh yeah. That guy. Come down to my studio and we'll take some portfolio shots."

And so I did. She photographed me in jackets, polos, t-shirts, sweaters, khakis, jeans, swim trunks, and lastly, underwear. After 2 hours of costume changes and photography, she showed me some digital proofs. I didn't see whatever it was she saw that made her so confident in my ability to shut up and look pretty, but I wasn't about to argue with free money. She invited me to a function she was going to the following weekend to meet the organizers of a talent agency—ProScout.

ProScout apparently was a big deal. Had I known this, I wouldn't have eaten 2 helpings of spaghetti and meatballs at the school cafeteria before arriving in my fat jeans and Frankenberry t-shirt. I was introduced to Sean and Rebecca who gave me a run-down of the event.

"Today is a big day. Hopefuls from all over New England are here to audition to become runway models." Sean said, clapping his hands together and practically skipping with delight.

"Sean and I are the judges. We pick who stays to work with us, and who goes home." Rebecca said flipping her hair and checking her Blackberry .

"That's great!" I said with all the feigned enthusiasm I could muster. "But what does this have to do with me? Mary, the photographer, said I should come and help you guys out today?"

"Mary has worked with us for 15 years. We trust her implicitly. Normally, we'd have you try out with the rest of the talent, but we want you to sit with us at the judge's table, observe, learn how a runway works, and tell us who YOU think would make good models. We want a fresh eye." Sean whispered to me while holding my shoulder.

"I'll certainly try my best, but I don't really know what to look for." I replied.

"Oh. You'll know it when you see it. Just look for star quality. Mary sees it in you, so maybe you can see it in others." Sean said in the manner of a life coach or camp counselor.

"I don't really follow that logic, but okay. I'm happy to help."

"Good." He took my hand and led me over to a curtained-off area behind a large stage.

I was handed over to a team of production assistants who, without saying a single word to me, took my clothes off, measured my torso, inseam, waist, chest, and neck, and then dressed me in a pair of tan capri pants, sandals, and a military shirt. They tussled my hair into a jumbled mess and threw in a pair of sunglasses to keep the nest together. I was then led over to a make-up artist who sprayed my face with something that burned, tweezed my eyebrows, and put on enough foundation to build a condo.

I tried speaking to the staff and offering protestations, but it didn't seem to matter. I was told I needed to look the part, not to struggle, and that I required a lot of work. Gee thanks.

After about an hour of prep time, the lights were dimmed in the giant conference area which had a makeshift runway set up and big curtains at it's start. Parallel to the stage on the left-hand side was a judge's table. To the stage's right were hundreds of seated people—parents of the talent—all come to watch their children be "discovered." The show was ready to begin. An announcer introduced Sean and Rebecca as the judges, and I followed them out to join them at the table. We were all set up with sparkling water, notepads, pens, and an alphabetical roster of the evening's talent. Next to each hopeful's name were 5 columns: Age, Height, Weight, Nationality, and a large blank box for Notes.

As the announcer was psyching up the crowd and the lighting was going wild, Sean leaned over to me and whispered "Just pay close attention to how they walk, how comfortable they feel in the spotlights, and then write 'yes' or 'no' in the notes column. We'll compare all our notes after the show and the talent with two or more yes's will be given contract opportunities. Sound easy enough?"

"Yes, actually. That sounds pretty easy." I replied, starting to think that this may actually be kinda fun.

All the lights except those directed on the stage were cut off. Music you'd expect to be playing at a rave started blaring, fog machines erupted—spilling mist onto the stage, and the first girl strutted out onto the runway. She was stunning. I'll never forget how confident she looked, strutting her stuff and looking like she owned the whole building even though she must have been terrified going first. I looked down at my alphabetized roster to the first name: Libby Abraham, 19, 5'10", 125 lb, English American. I picked up my pen and started to write "yes" in the notes column at the same time as Sean wrote "no" in his. I looked down the table and saw Rebecca write "fuck NO" on hers. I was at a loss for what to do. I looked back up at the stage and Libby had begun her retreat towards the curtain. The next girl was already center stage. A third girl had begun her stage entrance.

I hadn't written a single thing down yet. I panicked and began writing "maybe" for the first three names because I'd already missed the majority of their walks. By the time I looked up again there were three entirely different girls on the stage. The one walking back towards the curtain had leopard print leggings on so I wrote "no" next to her name—at least the name I thought would be hers. The girl center stage at the tip of the runway looked like a bitch so I wrote "no" for her too, and the one barreling down the runway with wild arms and elbows looked more like a freight train than a model, so I wrote "no" again. I thought I was caught up at this point and I leaned over to Sean and whispered "That was the sixth girl on the list, right?"

"Seventh." He replied while writing feverishly but never even looking down at his roster to do so.

"Fuck." I said, and started crossing off all that I'd written down and writing arrows indicating that it should be for the name one line down instead.

"The girl with the leopard pants—Jessie Adams?" I asked, thinking I'd had it all sorted out now.

"Melanie Aclent." Sean whispered back.

"Shit." I started drawing more arrows branching off of the previous ones.

"What number are we on now?" I whispered down to Rebecca, tired of interrupting Sean.

"Fourteen." She said, never looking away from the stage.

"Jesus Christ!" I snarled, and started writing yes's and no's furiously and at random to catch up.

I whipped my head around and got the attention of the nearest staff member. "I need a fucking pencil! Fuck this pen shit!" I hissed louder and angrier than I'd meant to. I think a girl on stage heard me and stumbled.

The production assistant returned with a pencil for me and I started scribbling feverishly with it. So feverishly in fact, that the tip broke after about ten minutes.

"F-U-U-U-C-K" I mouthed to nobody in particular, but Rebecca and Sean both saw me struggling and sniggered. Sean gave my shoulder a squeeze while Rebecca snapped her fingers at a crew member and a few moments later he returned with several pencils, a pencil sharpener, and a little nip of vodka which he handed to me. Not being of legal drinking age, I wasn't sure what to do, but Rebecca gave me a nod. I looked down at the list and saw that we were only up to the letter C so I chugged it down and kept writing.

It took about three hours before we reached the end of the list. The nips of vodka kept coming the entire time, so I was feeling pretty good by then. Sean and Rebecca weren't far behind me either. After Amy Zuranakis finished her walk, the lights came back on.

"Thank GAWD!" I crowed at them, standing and giving them both a high five. "It's over! We earned our paychecks today, eh kids? I am getting paid for this right? That wasn't really discussed."

And then the announcer boomed overhead "We'll take a twenty minute intermission and begin the Men's Competition!"

I fell back into my chair. I was crushed. Despondent. Defeated. My fellow judges saw me on the verge  and offered their condolences.

"Don't worry, it's almost over. The Men's Competition is much shorter."

Needless to say, it was one of the longest days of my life. But, when it was over and I was thoroughly shitfaced, I had a check for $1,000 in hand as well as a modeling contract from ProScout. Sean and Rebecca thought I was not only funny, but "totally adorable." I disagreed entirely but for money like that, I was going to do whatever was required of me.

My first few gigs were as a "promotional model," which is a nice way of saying "meat puppet." Basically, you are hired to attend high brow events, looking your absolute best, and attempt to draw more people into attendance out of sheer fabulousness. One event was the opening of a Mercedes dealership. Another was the unveiling of a new line of perfumes and colognes at Neiman Marcus.

I can't possibly explain how bad I was at these jobs. Not only did I look incredibly out of place amongst my model brethren, but our personalities clashed like the cymbals at an elementary school band. Every event was composed of the same ratio of models—three or four tall, thin, beautiful women between the ages of 18 and 30, three or four incredibly buff, gym-obsessed men between the ages of 23 and 35, and myself. I was told that I was the epitome of the "boy next door." Just attractive enough to fit in with the other models, but not so attractive as to appear unobtainable or make people uncomfortable. I took this to mean that I was basically hired to be the fat girl who is kept around by her skinny friends to make them seem even thinner and prettier. Nevertheless, I was incredibly flattered. It's sort of like being told that you're upper-middle class. I was deigned upper-middle pretty.

It wasn't until after several years of working with the same agency that I transitioned into fashion modeling. In 2007, I was offered a spot in a Fall Fashion Show in New York City. I was asked to model an upcoming line of Kenneth Cole clothing and accessories to bigwig retail distributors who would hopefully like the line and carry it in their stores. My agent, Kim, was the one who told me about the offer.

"It's potentially a career highlight." She squealed excitedly over the phone. "There will only be about 20 models total. They've been hand-picked by Kenneth's own people!"

"A career highlight? I have a career—and it's not modeling. This is just to get by. And why me? I've never done fashion before. Let alone runway. I don't know what I'm doing." I fretted.

"Because with the bad economy, high fashion is changing to accommodate the masses. You represent the masses. You're the boy next door."

"Ugh! Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. You have a very likable face and you're tall and thin—but not too thin as to look like an addict—so stuff looks good on you. Plus, pale is very 'in' right now. People aren't spending money on tanning anymore."

"Gee. Thanks Kim."

"Now, let me go over the details of the contract with you. There's some things you should be aware of first."

"Such as?" I sensed her nervousness at telling me everything.

"Well... for starters the show is in less than 2 months."

"Okay... so what?"

"That gives you only a month before your fitting—before which you need to drop about 12 pounds." She said solemnly.

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah. They want you at 150 lb or less."

"You just said I was thin but not too thin! What happened to that?"

"Don't take it personal. It's just business. There's more."

"What else?" I snapped.

"You can't cut your hair between now and the show."

"Okay."

"You can't bite your nails."

"Okay."

"You can't shave for at least two weeks before the show."

"Okay."

"They will be sending you a skin care package. You have to use everything in the package prior to the show."

"Okay."

"If you go outside between now and then, you have to wear SPF 50 or higher. You can't be tanned."

"Okay."

"You have to go to New York one month before the show for a fitting."

"Okay"

"You have to attend an after party following the show wearing a designated outfit from the line and mingle with the retailers."

"Okay"

"At the after party, there will be an open bar and h'orderves. You cannot eat or drink while in attendance."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Is that ALL?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom.

"Yes. That appears to be everything."

"You can tell Kenneth Cole to FUCK HIMSELF!" I screeched.

"It pays $5,000 and you get to keep the clothes." She chirped.

"Sold."

For the next month I was a hermit. I didn't leave the house except to go to work and back—for fear of the sun. I didn't cut my hair. I didn't shave towards the end of the month. I spent hours putting on all the lotions and creams and vials that were shipped to me. And, I was a raging bitch to everyone around me because of my soup-only diet. I was miserable. I would step on the scale every morning and fly into a frenzy when it wasn't going down fast enough. I would burst into tears at the drop of a hat. I became hated and feared by friends and coworkers alike. They all wanted to hear specifics about the show and thought it was all very exciting—which in hindsight is true—but in my current state I would just complain sourly.

Three days before my fitting in New York City I was having a tantrum in my tiny bathroom in Somerville, Massachusetts. I had stepped on the scale again—156 pounds. I had only lost 6 pounds during my diet and was expected to lose another 6 in three days. I had never felt fat or ugly in my life before then. Strange how being selected for something that was supposed to be an honor—a testament to your looks—only made me feel hideous and ashamed. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself with scraggly, long hair, beard stubble, and a sunken, paler-than-usual face. It was then that I decided this would be my last modeling venture. It simply wasn't worth it.

In the meantime, I was determined to see my contract through. I had come this far and wasn't going back. Plus, the money had already been spent. I stopped eating altogether and was only drinking water until my fitting. Occasionally I would switch it up by drinking a diet soda or lemonade. It was a wretched experience but I made it down to 152 pounds by my fitting. I figured that was close enough.

The drive to New York City from Boston was riddled with traffic so I was an hour late for my fitting. When I arrived, there was a squad of stylists and irritated tailors at the ready.

"Hi!" I chirped at the sour-looking group. "I'm really sorry I'm late. The traffic was awful and I couldn't find any parking so I had to use a valet. I've never used a valet before in my life. I Don't suppose you guys validate?"

A man in black with a headset and clipboard held up his hand to silence me and grunted "Name?"

"Josh." I said. "Degregorio." I quickly added when he scowled at me.

"Ah yes. Here you are. At the very bottom of the list." He said smugly, and implying that the bottom of the list was somehow fitting.

"So... what do I do now?" I asked.

"Nothing." He replied, turning his back to me and assessing several racks of clothing. "It's what you people are good at."

The man in black—I never did learn his name—was so surly and rude during my entire fitting that at one point I had to excuse myself to the bathroom just to cry in a stall for a while. When I returned, I was greeted with another dig.

"I hope you were throwing up in there. You need to fit into these corduroys."

There were a million insults I wanted to hurl at this odious man, but none of them were worth five-thousand dollars so I kept my mouth shut. I was also paranoid that he would purposely ruin whatever I was supposed to wear and send me down the runway in pajama jeans and a windbreaker.

The man in black and four minions all took my measurements—being extremely careful to call me fat at every opportunity—and then began tailoring whatever I was supposed to wear for the show. After my measurements were taken, my confidence shattered, and the tailors had set to work on altering the clothes, I was sent to the lounge to wait for my fitting. In the lounge there were about fifteen beautiful models relaxing in chairs and on couches, all chatting up a storm. Until I came in.

A hush fell over everybody when I entered the room. I thought I was in trouble when they set their scrutinizing gaze upon me, but it only lasted a few seconds. Then they were all smiles and eager to welcome me into their clan. Apparently, I was deemed "not a threat" to their careers and they could all relax again. My mediocre boy next door looks had put people at ease once more.

The hotel that we were in was kind enough to leave out a tray of finger sandwiches while we waited for our actual fitting. The platter of sandwiches was completely untouched. As was the tray of cookies. The only thing my model kin were consuming was bottled water for the girls and some foul-smelling protein shakes for the guys. I felt terrible that somebody went through the trouble to arrange all this food and it was all being wasted. Not to mention that I hadn't eaten in days. I walked over to the table and picked up a large peanut butter chip cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. There was a collective gasp as I took a bite of it, and stunned silence as I devoured it before their very eyes.

When we were called back into the conference room to try on our freshly tailored outfits, I was excited to see what was laid out for me. I was completely giddy when I saw the tailored jacket, jeans, cardigan, cute suede boots, and messenger bag. The second and third outfits I was to wear were also cute. Relief flooded over me. The Man in Black hadn't screwed me over.

Tailors and seamstresses helped me get dressed and pinned everything in place because it was ridiculously tight. I was warned that I should drop some more weight if I didn't want to look like a summer sausage in the getup. When I asked why they didn't simply tailor the clothes to fit me, I was told, quote:

"We would run out of fabric trying to work around those hips."

I spent the remaining month before the show on the Atkins diet. I managed to drop down to an all-time low of 148 pounds (not bad for someone that's 6 feet, 2 inches). I was determined not to give any of the horrible production crew reason to call me fat or have some sort of "costume malfunction" on the runway and make the local news.

The runway show was to begin at the W Hotel in Times Square at 7 pm. You might think that we had to show up an hour or two before-hand to get changed. In fact, we had to show up at 7 am. Because we had to be on-site so early and I lived far away, they put me up in the hotel the night before. It was beautiful and even though I had to share my room with a frat boy hick from Tennessee, I enjoyed myself. A beautiful breakfast platter was delivered to the room at 5 am. I was so nervous about the day's events that my stomach roiled at the sight of food and I threw up for twenty minutes after the room service man left. I've always wondered why the production staff sent us food knowing that we weren't allowed to eat anything. Was it all pure spite and malice? Was there a hidden camera in the room? I bet the Man in Black got a big kick out of me heaving up peanut butter cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. Emphasis on chunks.

When we all stumbled down to the giant hotel conference room, we were introduced to Trevor and Dee. They were our runway coaches for the day. In the conference room there was a 50-foot long, 6-foot wide runway set up. We were informed that for the next 4 hours we belonged to Trevor and Dee and that we had to get our walks perfect. To do this, we had to make sure the conditions would be identical to how they would be that night.

The curtains were drawn completely closed and we were plunged into darkness. Stage lights were turned on to illuminate the runway. At the beginning of the runway in front of gold curtains, Trevor and Dee appeared suddenly in a plume of smoke. They glided down the stage towards us, like a pack of Nosferatu, reached the end, backed up several steps, turned around sharply, and glided back to the starting point, struck one last pose, and disappeared behind the curtains.

Most of the models clapped and applauded the display. I was dumbstruck. To me, it looked completely ridiculous and I was dreading it.

We broke out into groups for the next few hours. First we were handed over to tailors for final fittings and to put on an outfit we would be wearing this evening. Then we were given to stylists for hair and makeup preparation. And finally, when looking just as we would for the show, we were given over to Trevor and Dee for more private runway lessons.

The morning got progressively worse as I went through these stages of preparation. The final fitting was awful and nothing fit quite right. The tailors lamented and chastised me for losing weight since the last fitting—even though I was told to—because now everything had to be reworked.

When I went to styling, I was informed that my hair was going to be cut shorter. This, I was happy about. Until the stylist started cutting and moussing and gelling and brought out a mirror to show me what remained—a fauxhawk. For those of you that don't know what a fauxhawk is, it's like a mohawk except instead of being shaved on the sides of your head, the hair is gelled flat to your skull while a longer, middle patch of hair is left tussled and un-gelled. It looked awful. Tears started to rise, but I pushed them back down, knowing that I could get it all cut tomorrow when I was rid of this place.

"There. Now you're the boy next door with an edge!" The stylist said, admiring her work.

"I'm a monster." I retorted.

She just chuckled and sent me over to Trevor for runway lessons.

Unlike the majority of the production people, Trevor was a kind and patient teacher. Locked away in the dark conference room, he taught me the best ways to walk on the narrow runway, how to not be blinded by the lighting, how to walk in rhythm to the music that would be playing, and how to be pose more subtly than he had demonstrated earlier. I'd like to point out how difficult it is to walk a straight line in bright lighting, on a runway covered in mist, and keep time to techno music all the while. My cute, but exceedingly large boots didn't help matters and it was a struggle to not make noise stomping around in them. The trickiest part, however, was actually passing the oncoming model as you are entering and exiting the stage. Why they don't make runways wide enough to accommodate two people side by side is a mystery, but they don't. You both have to sort of fold yourselves up and make room so you don't smash into each other in passing. This is when I had my first collision.

I was doing fine until The Man in Black arrived to witness everyone's progress. I knew something insidious was coming when he actually complimented me on my walk.

"It's really coming together Josh. You're doing an excellent job with them Trevor."

Trevor beamed at this.

"Uh... thank you." I stammered from the stage.

"But there's something not quite right here...your messenger bag. It looks flat and lifeless. See how it swings as you walk on the stage? We need to weigh it down a bit. We need it to look full and utilitarian—like you're a student on the way to class."

"Want me to put some books in it?" I asked.

"No...something more weighty but not so big as to make it look like its bursting..." He pondered aloud.

"I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "I'll be back. As you were."

A few minutes later the Man in Black returned with 2 bricks stolen from a construction site down the block.

"Put these in your bag." He handed them to me. "It will calm the bag down without it looking too full."

"Bricks? Really? This seems excessive." I worried aloud.

"It's perfect." The Man in Black was grinning at me.

At the first runway rehearsal with everyone outfitted and walking in order of actual appearance, I slammed into another model with my wrecking ball of a bag and he went tumbling off the stage. Thankfully, he was mostly unharmed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you dude?" He shouted from the ground. "Are you fucking retarded?"

"Well I must be—walking around with a bag full of fucking bricks!" I yelled back.

"Calm down boys. Let's start over." Trevor said from the sidelines, shaking his head.

We did 10 full rehearsals before everyone got it right. Not only is it a combination of everyone walking properly and without conflict on the stage, but it's also a task for the production crew to strip everyone naked as soon as they get back behind the curtains and change them into their second and third outfits without messing up hair and makeup. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, cursing, sweating, and yelling to be heard over the music. If you're ever wondering why the music is so loud at fashion shows—it's so you don't hear the shouting behind the curtains and clomping of heavy shoes on the runway.

The actual show went off without a hitch and was well-received. The clothes were beautifully designed and well-made. A lot of work went into everything, and it showed. There was much applause from the crowd as we were backstage. Trevor was behind the curtains clutching a crucifix necklace and praying silently. Admittedly, I was praying too.

Before the after party began, I had to go up to my room and take a shower because I was drenched in sweat. I don't think I have ever been so nervous in my life. I thought for sure that I was shaking as I was walking the runway, but nobody said anything if I was. I was just so incredibly thankful the show was over that I was actually looking forward to the party. It was supposed to be a chance to relax a bit and give retailers a closer look at the articles of clothing they liked. Relaxing it was not.

Maybe for those people who could eat and drink it was a fun time. For the rest of us, it consisted of being poked and prodded like mannequins. I had several drunk men and women cop a feel with the claim that they wanted to see  how the clothes "breathed" in the crotch and ass area. The poor female models had it the worst. Horny old men were blatantly grabbing their breasts and asking how the clothes offered "support."

I had one middle-aged woman with gin on her breath shove a martini in my face and tell me to drink because I "looked like I needed to loosen up." Three polite refusals later, she was still pushing a drink on me and when I pushed it back towards her she spilled it all over herself and stormed off in a huff.

By 10 o'clock the party was still going on and I was getting light-headed with hunger. Watching everyone eat and drink when your stomach is empty is torture. I decided that eating something was crucial to not passing out in the middle of the party—regardless of the rules, I'm sure they wouldn't want that on their hands. When I was sure nobody was looking in my direction, I stole a tray of vegetable tempura with dipping sauce and ran into the bathroom. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and devoured the entire platter, washing it down with the sauce. I left the empty tray in the bathroom, gargled with some tap water so I wouldn't be accused of—dare I say it—eating, and quickly hurried back out to the party.

By midnight, the party was winding down and we were excused to our rooms. I insisted on not spending the night and just wanted to drive home. I was given the remaining clothes I wore in the show and my choice of several other designer items in my size and ran out the door.

Before I started the long ride home on I-95, I stopped at the first restaurant open late—McDonald's—and ordered a 50-piece chicken nugget, 3 Big Macs, 2 large fries, a chocolate shake, large Coke, and 2 apple pies. The cashier didn't even bat an eye as the boy slathered with makeup, a fauxhawk, and wearing Fall clothes in the middle of Summer devoured a meal meant for 5. That's one thing I love about New York City—no matter how crazy you look, people have seen worse.

Several weeks later, I got my $5,000 check in the mail. Along with the check was a 1099 form indicating I had to file the wages on my taxes, as well as a dry cleaning bill for $135 from the old bat who spilled a drink on herself. By this time, none of the cute clothes I'd received from the show even came close to fitting. I gave most of them to Goodwill and was glad to be rid of all remnants of the  experience.

Anybody want an autograph from The Boy Next Door? Thought not.