October 21, 2008

to the girl with golden hair, I know your man he's a millionaire

I went to meet a booker this afternoon who contacted me about working for some trade show for shoes today. I didn't feel like going. I didn't feel like doing a lot of anything today actually. The same way I don't feel like going to that go-see tomorrow.
She had long blond hair, long blond fingernails and couldn't be more than 5 years older than me. She offered me fruit-flavored gum when I sat in front of her desk, which I later regretted because chewing gum always gives me a headache and it did. I also never saw the point of fruit-flavored gum. Either chew minty gum or chew tobacco. Anything else is obnoxiously pointless.

She took a personal call in front of me and by the amount of times she called the person on the other line "babe" I'm assuming it was a boyfriend of some sort. She spoke to me irreverently and I didn't care because I responded irreverently. I don't think I've ever gone into any professional situation with less regard for the outcome.

"I like your look," she said to me, matter of factly. I hadn't even taken off my scarf or jacket. "And we don't have many Asians here. Maybe like ten or twelve. We'll have lots of castings for you."
I think I said something like Thanks. Probably.

I left the office with a non-exclusive modeling contract in my hand and no idea what to do with it. I stuffed it in my bag, telling myself I'd read it over carefully later before signing anything. It is sitting on the corner of my desk where things sit and rarely get picked up again.

As soon as I stepped out onto sixth avenue and walked to the end of the street, a woman in a crisp-looking black cardigan and well-tailored trousers stopped me in my tracks. "Hold on, please," she said as she fished through her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. Something like a business card.
"Listen," she said, her brow furrowed, "I'm a reader and I had to talk to you. Something in your face. You look so anxious, something is worrying you. You could be smiling like any other girl on the street, but you have a heavy heart right now. You have a lot of questions, I can tell. I'd love to do a reading for you."

I glanced at the paper in my hand. Spiritual Psychic Reader & Advisor, it read. Her name was Polly. No surname. Just Polly. It stated that she has successfully advised politicians and celebrities. She specializes in reuniting lovers. She lives in Jersey.

"I'll get back to you," I stammered, indicating the phone number on the paper. She threw up her hands and walked away. I wondered if I really looked all that troubled. Or maybe she was just trying to sell me. I figured, if I was in any real danger, and if she was a good person as well as a genuine psychic, it'd be her moral duty to tell me that I was in grave danger, would it not?
I wouldn't say she was terribly far from some truth though.

After that alienating encounter, I hopped the F downtown to pick up a jacket in Soho. Taking the long underground tunnel to the further exit at Broadway-Lafayette, a bald black man in a beige suit sidled up beside me and said, "Excuse me, but I must ask you something." He sounded like he was about to ask me where I got my hair done and immediately try to sell some bullshit promo package to some overpriced salon probably in the meatpacking district or anywhere I would never go.

"Where are you from?" he asked. I knew what he meant, but because I am always annoyed by the wording of this question, I answer, "New York."
"No, I meant, what's your ethnicity?"
I had half a mind to say, None of your business why are you annoying me by preventing me from buying a jacket I want. Instead, I said, "Half Chinese and Korean."
"I should have gotten off at 34th street. I should be there right now. But I had to introduce myself to you..." He trailed off, I assume waiting for some response, instead of actually just introducing himself. He was very annoying. I was in a strange mood all day, prone to being easily annoyed, I suppose.

"Um ok." I said to fill space.
"I saw you get on that train and everything about you... you took my breath away. I just thought to myself, DANG! Are you married?"
"No," I retorted. I still think that's a weird question to hear.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Uh yeah," I lied.
"And how long have you had that problem?"
"What problem?"
"The boyfriend!"
"Oh ha ha."
I let him go on. I don't know why. I was tired and in my head and not listening. He told me about his exgirlfriend who cheated on him and lied to him and asked me about my exboyfriend.

"What did he do? He must be kicking himself so hard!" Richard exclaimed. His name was Richard. He was an Optometrist by day, a stand-up comedian by night.
"I highly doubt it," I deadpanned.

"Can I see you again?" he pleaded, after chewing my ear off about how he's so emotionally distraught from his cheater/liar exgirlfriend.
"I don't know, man. I don't usually pal around with strangers who approach me on the subway. And you know, that whole boyfriend thing I've got going on..."
He wrote his phone number down on the back of an ATM receipt.
"Don't give me that, man," I told him. I called him man a lot so he would stop thinking of me as feminine. It's an old trick that sometimes gets the message across. "That's your bank info. I could rob you blind."
He gave it to me anyway. His balance read $4,070. Which was pretty unimpressive for an optometrist. I spit out my gum in it and flicked it into a bin on the corner when I exited the subway finally. It was too late though. I had already been chewing it for 20 minutes longer, by which I mean long enough to develop this vice around my temples of a migraine. Damn you, Richard.

I got to the store and the jacket I wanted was completely sold out in my size. Oh well. After further inspection, it would've been a poor purchase anyway. I took the train back uptown with a headache and a heavier heart than I had arrived with. I wasted two Metrocard swipes. Epic fail.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

dude, you know he wanted to give you the ATM receipt because he knew you would check the balance.