The waiting room at Elite Models is a head trip. Ten sleek black leather and chrome chairs line one wall. Ten black framed photographs of beautiful young women decorate the other. The first time I was there I analysed those photos like a mad scientist, trying to figure out exactly what made these particular female human beings the bomb. 100% wrinkle free? Check. Swan necks? Check. Teeny waists? Check. Tiny hips? Check. Skinny arms and legs? Check, you-better-believe-it check. Smiles to make orthodontists weep with pride? Oh yes. And not only were all the teeth bright white, nine out of the ten models were white. I was either on Planet Clone or inside a top modelling agency, soaking up all the nerves, attitude and action I could: the shuffled photos, the wailing phones, the horrified whispers, the cries of "Oh my God, FABULOUS!" It was action I wanted to get a grip on.
A herd of gazelles interrupted my inspections. No, wait a minute. Those were real live models, rushing by on their stilt legs with their portfolios tucked under their twig arms. I was seeing the same cheekbones, the same blond manes and the same limbs for yards as the photos on the wall. Except the live versions seemed somehow less alive. They were tired, faded, not what you'd call vibrant … make-up bag let-down you might say.
A slim, elegant gentleman next appeared on the scene, as willowy and bone structured as the ladies. He wore a pink and silver tie and a crisp, white, button-down shirt neatly tucked into sleek black pinstriped pants. Small silver curls nestled tight to his head thanks to obviously superior hair product. Everyone around here seemed to be worth a close look. Then the man stopped right in front of me.
"Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben. Welcome to Elite. Come with me to the board room."
I jumped up and followed. More framed pictures of more women so perfect it was hard to tell them apart: there was a glamazon factory somewhere (evidently Norway) and someone had placed a very big order. A long, oak table stretched the length of the room.
"Take a chair, Ben."
The seat felt hot; I was having trouble keeping my cool. This was, after all, the big time. This was the room where deals were made with top magazine editors, advertising agents, photographers and fashion designers. A single conversation could launch a top model—or crash a career. A leading modelling agent has the power to control the images that millions of people see on billboards, magazine covers and televisions. I had dreamed of being a part of this world. And now, shocking miracle, I was.
I was sitting across a table from Elmer Olsen, vice-president of Elite Models and an industry powerhouse. And I wasn't going to blush. No I wasn't. Yes I was.
"Well, Mr. Ben, how can I help you?" he asked.
It wasn't easy but I stared him down. "Sir, I want to steal your job."