We made dinner together, then ate while sitting at the counter, side by side.
We were friends again, but things weren’t like before. Words had been said, and doors slammed. I thought of a parable I’d once read in an advice column about anger—thoughtless words were like nails pounded into a fence, and you could remove the nails, but holes would remain, weakening the fence forever.
That night, we climbed into bed together like two roommates, he in his shorts and me in a long nightshirt. After the lights went out, I thought about reaching for him, but after all the bike-riding and the stress plus tedium of shooting a commercial (“hurry up and wait” is the key phrase of the film industry for a reason), sleep had more appeal. I lay on my back with my hands crossed over my ribs, like how vampires sleep in movies. The room was so quiet, I swore I could hear Keith’s eyes blinking, and his thoughts. Two more sleeps. Two more sleeps, and I’d be gone.
Sleep eluded me, because I couldn’t shake the sensation that I could see the future, and tomorrow was going to be anything but ordinary. Out of all the props in the world, why did it have to be a trapeze?
Despite being cool to me the night before, Keith gave me a ride to the studio Tuesday morning, the commute almost starting to feel routine.
We arrived early, parked, and ate Egg McMuffins in the van. I was surprised Keith ate McDonalds, but he pointed out that he’d skipped the deep-fried hash brown patty.
As the time ticked down, my stomach started to flutter with performance anxiety jitters. “Does modeling ever feel normal?” I asked. “Like a regular job, where you just show up and make the required effort as you wait out the clock?”
He sighed.
“So, that’s a no?” I asked.
“You could measure the amount of work a model does by only counting the clicks of the shutter—the time where light is reflecting into the camera, being recorded. Looking at the time that way, most of us have extremely short careers. Maybe an hour if we’re lucky.”
I gave him a sidelong look, not sure if he was joking or not. He didn’t have his usual amused and light-hearted expression on. He looked serious, and he looked scared.
“You’re telling me I should shut up and make the most of this opportunity,” I said.
“Enjoy yourself.” He kept staring straight ahead, out the window, at something beyond the industrial buildings in the area. “Like flowers in the spring, nothing beautiful is permanent.”
I unbuckled my seat belt in preparation for getting out of the vehicle. My parents had me well-trained as a kid, and even as an adult, I don’t feel right in a vehicle if I don’t have the belt on, not even parked and eating food. Keith still had his seat belt on, too, so I guessed his parents had been the same way.
I said, “Hey, I want to take you out tonight. It’s my last night in the city, and we’ll go anywhere you like, my treat.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to, and it’ll give me something to look forward to during today’s shoot.”
“You’re done around when? Three o’clock? How about I come pick you up and we go for a drive along the coast before dinner?”
“Sounds great!” I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Break a leg.”
“Not a good thing to say to someone who’s going on a trapeze today, but thanks anyway.” Grinning, I shut the door, waved goodbye, then started toward the studio.
Strangely enough, I was already at the door! Ah, that would be my beautiful stunt double/stalker. The nerve of her, walking around looking like me. Why did it chap my ass so much? I didn’t know.
Once inside, keeping a safe distance from my double, I checked into makeup and zoned out while all of the stuff happened to my body. It’s odd how quickly you can get used to something as unsettling as a stranger putting on your mascara. The makeup girl had a long shirt over her jeans, and without seeing her lower back tattoo, I couldn’t figure out if she was the same girl who’d done my makeup the day before. This girl had short hair and a nose ring. Did yesterday’s girl have a nose ring? Not knowing itched at me, like a scratchy tag inside a new shirt.
“My new tattoo’s feeling hot,” I said, reaching to my inner hip for a light scratch. “How long will it take to heal?”
She stared at me like I was a moron. “There’s this website. It’s called Google.”
Right. No, this was not the same makeup girl from yesterday. She was nice, and this one… well, I’d have her fired if only I was more powerful. Hmm. Something to aspire to in life: having bitches fired.
I didn’t have long to ponder my revenge, and I was off to wardrobe, getting stuffed into underwear. The funny thing about the bras and panties was they weren’t the actual product. They were locally-made prototypes, as the line was only just going into production, mostly* overseas.
*When a company says their production is mostly overseas, that means it’s entirely outsourced to another country, and you might find things like dried-out husks of scorpions inside the boxes of clothing.
The sample underwear I had on for the shoot was well made and beautiful, but not quite complete. Thank goodness for safety pins and double-sided tape.
After having strangers handle my peaches for the first part of the morning, getting on a trapeze didn’t seem as unpleasant. As I did a series of simple shots leading up to the trapeze, I actually looked forward to something more challenging.
We broke for lunch, I had some yummy granola and yogurt, and got excited about the final shots.
My enthusiasm evaporated when I saw the heavy-duty winch, and exactly how high they were planning to hoist me before gently “floating” me down toward the camera. At least the trapeze was more like a kid’s playground swing than a skinny bar you could grip with a closed hand, which was probably better than having a thin bar disappear in my pillowy flesh. No complaints there.
I watched as they did a test shot with the stand-in. She did look cute spinning in the air, descending like an angel, if you ignored the tractor-like noises of the winch. There was no audio on this shot, which was understandable, as you’d never hear anything over the machinery.
Mitchell walked me over to inspect the safety net, and told me to just “go limp” if I happened to fall. I made a joke about wetting myself and ruining an underwear sample. Mitchell got a serious look and told me it wouldn’t be the first time for such an accident around there.