Harvey is not Simon Cowell

I’d expected an American version of Simon. Like good looking, arrogant, rude but flirty.  Harvey I’d never notice. Even in his all black outfit, which looks like he’s wearing it for the first time, he’s grey. Like the men on the tram  heading home from the office. His hair , his skin, his eyes, his age, all grey. He jumps on the catwalk and grabs a microphone, like he’s been preparing for this moment. You gonna sing? Brenda says and rolls her eyes. He  performs a disgusting hip hop motion with his pelvis. The microphone screeches. He starts to talk.  

Girls, welcome! He drawls just like George Bush. So glad you’re here.So proud that the  day of The First American International Model Competition has finally arrived. The FAIM competition has been a dream of mine for a very long time. 

Shit. Yeah, I think. Like since High School. I just can’t stand men with short arms. 

Let me explain what we’ll be doing over the next two weeks, he says. I’ve personally secured sponsorship from Macys, Jet Blue, Estee Lauder, Hertz, Wholefood, and several other companies,  and they’ll be using you for their campaigns. For instance, daily fashion shows of your collections are scheduled at Bloomingdales. He’s so full of himself that I can barely look at him. We’ll keep very busy, he says. A press conference this afternoon, TV appearances, a live crew will be following us around for the FAIM movie, auditions for the different sponsor campaigns, and on Saturday night we have the FAIM Gala show, here in this ballroom. Tickets have been sold out for weeks. Then we’ll move on to Dallas, my home town, for more shows at Macys. The finals of the competition, with a big televised fashion show and the announcement of our winner, will be in Miami about two weeks from now! He looks around the room and takes off his leather jacket. Large sweat patches blot his black shirt. I notice that Sally scrunches up her nose. I bet she finds him repulsive too. I want to thank Brenda, he says, She’s a world class producer, who’s worked with Galliano, Stella McCartney, Top Shop, Jeffreys, Juicy Couture and many other big names. He gestures that we clap, so we applaud, Brenda curtsies and we laugh. Also a thank you to  my faithful assistant Paul. Harvey points at a man by the door. Girls meet Paul Dobbs, my best High School buddy. Paul is blond and blushes like he’s shy.  I already like him better than Harvey. And behind the screen, guys you can come out now, is our film crew. Three men in jeans and cowboy boots come running from behind a screen. One of them holds a camera and races around taking close-ups of all the girls. A few girls scream and jump up and down with excitement. They’ve watched too much TV. Like on Tyra the girls that get send home early always act trashy like that. I play aloof and sophisticated. Remember, I tell myself. You’re already a model. You’ve been to Paris, and no one here needs to know how that turned out…

Now, before the introductions, lets form a circle and all hold hands for a prayer. A prayer? Oh please. Gimme a break. For what? Ask God to bless this silly model competition? Arrogant Harvey. I take Kim Sue’s hand and Sally appears on my right, she smiles, before she bows her head everso piously.  I dont listen to what Harvey says. I say to myself: God, if you exist, and  have time to listen to this drivel, then please don’t think badly of me, standing here, thinking that I’m important enough to bother you for a blessing, but, thank you for letting me come here, its groovy. I’m sure you don’t approve of modeling competitions, I don’t  either, its just like a means to an end, and you must know what they say about you closing one window, like Paris? And opening a door, like New York? Next to me Sally says AMEN and squeezes my hand. Then Harvey points at me. I have to start the intros? I hate it. Everyone looks and I feel like I’m back at school, in front of the kids who  call me Pinocchio. I’m Esme´de Wit, I say. From  Amsterdam … My voice quivers like I’m gonna cry. Next is Kim Sue Lung and she’s shy too. The next girl says: I’m Mary O’Neill from Ireland. She’s a buxom blond girl with a happy freckled face . The next is French: Chloe Gervais de Paris. She’s s aloof and strange looking with a shaven head. The next: Tatiana Vivarelli. Milano. She’s the short one. She’ll never win. The next one: Opal Zenobia Hartley, from New York City, the greatest city in the world and happy to be here. She waves and smiles like a real beauty queen. Next: Sabrina Mavis Jones, I’m from Miami . I wonder why there are two American girls. The next one: Dianna Loos from South Africa. She has a Dutch name, but  doesn’t look very Dutch. She’s short and plain. Next: Cassandra Harris. Philippines and Hollywood. Hollywood? She must be the one in that new James Bond movie. The next girl is also shy.  Yuko, I am Yuko Chisato from Tokyo. The next: Miranda Pinto, Brazil. She looks like  Penelope Cruz. The next: Ann Tirta. Indonesia. The next: May Smith. Bahamas. Those last two don’t even look like models. The next: Bridget Bono. Canada. She’s tall and anorexic-skinny. The next: Scarlet Anderson. Australia. Harvey, how are you mate? She grins at Harvey and he winks back. She’s almost as tall as me and has wild red hair . I think she could win, if it wasn’t for Sally who stands next to me. Sally Stevens, I’m from London, UK. She’s so confident and self-possessed.

Awesome, Harvey says,  (he uses awesome like its a cool word but he’s never really said it before).  Thank you and good luck to everyone.Now back to Brenda so we can get this show on the road!

low ranking

Well. How bipolar is that Brenda? She turns into a tailwagging puppy with Sally. Sally must be some kind of star in London, not that I’ve heard of her. Thank you darling, she says. Great to see you too. Sally flicks her hair off her face and looks around the room. I stare back. Sabrina stares back. Opal gives her who-do-you-think-you-are look, and the other girls all pretend to not really look, but meanwhile they’re mesmerized. I hear Sabrina whisper. She’s done a Vogue cover. She’s hot. Bitch is brown-nosing our Cruella producer, Opal answers. She must feel threatened. Sally is stunning. That white hair is like angelic. She must’ve spent hours with the blow dryer. Her face is vulnerable like a baby bird with high cheekbones, big green eyes and narrow lips. She wears jeans – immaculate white jeans and a white tank. She’s lightly, perfectly tan and an antique Rolex hangs around her narrow wrist. She’s so super clean in every way . And I feel like a bag lady. I need my own clothes NOW. This is all wrong, so not like I imagined. I was gonna be the tallest one in the room, in my high boots, with the best legs, with the hottest self-designed red mini, the coolest tightest black tank top (laces up the back), and well styled hair, with my own mousse and spray. But nooooooo. I am dull. Dull. In flats and jeans and my fuzzy straight hair. I want to rewind. Back to Schiphol, take my bags off the belt and switch them with the V&R trunks. How I look is so much more important than how my collection looks. For now at least. For this moment where we all seize each other up and compare ourselves and create in our own minds our own jury system and our own most likely outcome. Mine: Sally #1, Opal #2, me #16 out of 16 girls. Brenda walks Sally to her empty clothes rack, unfolds a chair and with one hand on her shoulder seats her down, like she’s fragile. Is that’s how they treat you once you’re a super model? OK LISTEN, Brenda shouts. Everyone is here so let’s get started. We get closer. Here we are. Sixteen models in a circle. Some girls smile and look at each other, some avert their eyes. Sally is the blondest. There’s one red-head, one who’s really short compared to all the others, five exotic girls and three girls with short hair like me. Some have big breasts some have hardly any breasts at all. I’m the tallest, after Brenda makes us take off our shoes, and the jury in my head moves me up past the really short girls to about # 10 0r 11. OK. Brenda is back to shouting. Pay attention. I’m Brenda Franklin. I produce fashion shows. I’m whipping you into shape over the next few days. From now on you’re on time and do as I tell you or you’ll be disqualified. We have to pull this mess together. Our first show is tomorrow so let’s start by unpacking collections. They have to be steamed and we’ll establish a running order. Its hard work and everyone is expected to help out. A short man in a black leather jacket, black jeans and a black polo shirt slides into the room and stands behind Brenda with his arms folded. He winks at Opal. Opal giggles and Brenda turns around. Oh its you, she says. Girls. This is Harvey. He’s your Man, the one who has flown you all out here. He’s gonna have a word now.

In trouble

Where the fuck is everyone? It’s nine-fuckin-thirty! Get me their lazy bottoms out of bed and down here! This woman in tight red pants is scary. She’s English, like cockney. She yells at no one in particular, has an unlit cigarette in right hand and a wine glass in her left. Who is she? You! She points at me. You are late! Who are you? Her red-rimmed glasses slip down her nose as she jerks her head in my direction and spills her drink. Oh fuck! She shouts and brushes the liquid off her leopard skin blouse. I’m Esme´from Holland, I say. Well, wait over by those empty racks. I look around. One lone girl sits on the edge of the half-built catwalk, working her BlackBerry, swinging her legs. I can see  more girls through the sliding glass doors, on the terrace that overlooks the Hudson. They’re smoking and talking on cellphones. I sit down by the rack. Nothing is happenin’ so I pull out my phone. I dial my home number but an English voice tells me there’s no connection and to try again later. Boxes, suitcases and trunks are scattered all over the floor. I left my collection in my room. Should I have brought it down? I can’t carry those big trunks myself. Who should I ask? Is she gonna yell at me again? A Chinese girl sits down next to me. Sorry, no English, no very good, she says. Lucky you, I say. Kim Sue Lung, she says. From Peking. She’s tall for a Chinese girl and pretty. I’m Esme´. I don’t know what else to say so I dial my mom again but I get the same stupid message. The two American girls walk in from the terrace and head straight for me. Shit, i wish my phone worked. Hi, I’m Opal, the black girl says, and this is Sabrina. They tower over me sitting like a toddler in my fold up chair. Like we just saw you in the elevator? Sabrina says. We like didn’t realize you’re one of the models? How did I know she’d try to make me feel even better. She shows her perfect white teeth. My teeth must be yellow, I miss my electric toothbrush that makes them feel pearly clean. I don’t smile back.

So you’re from Amsterdam? Opal says. My brother went there, he says they sell drugs in coffee shops like its like legal? Ah – here we go again -Amsterdam – capitol of getting stoned and having sex. They don’t know that it was a pretty boring place to grow up. And no, I don’t smoke pot, it makes me paranoia and my friends became unbearably dull. I look up at them and they look at me like they’ve just busted me for possesion and will have me disqualified. Yeah, drugs are like totally legal, I answer, Come to my room and I’ll give you like a couple of joints. Opal glares at me. Sabrina panics. No, no, we don’t smoke. …or drink, or anything. Anyway better get back to our stuff. In Paris two faced models like them made me cry but I’ve grown up, and I’m not gonna let these two get to me.

Brenda!

Good to know her name is Brenda (the angry English woman). Another, a model, Brit just walked in.

Sally, dear, you’re late!

She’s a super skinny, flat-chested girl with white blond hair that looks ironed it’s so straight and hides  her face like two curtains.
I’m sooo sorry I’m late, she says. Brenda? Can you believe my charger doesn’t work here? I had to wait for two hours to get one from housekeeping. It’s so good to see you.
She kisses Brenda on both cheeks and steps back.
You look wonderful! Have you lost weight? I love your hair cut, its very Biba!

first brief bitch encounter

a ringing sound wakes me from sticky sleep. the room is so hot. oh fuck. I forgot to take out my lenses last night. and i don’t have any liquid. i keep my eyes shut. i answer the phone. hello? Hello, are you Esmaay? Yes I’m Esme´! Do – you – speak – English? a stupid sounding man speaks too slowly through the phone. of course i do. (like duh). Good. (now he shouts like a Texan) I am Harvey. I am the organizer of the FAIM Competition. (First American International Model competition and a dumb pun). How are you? How was your flight? Did I wake you? (Which question to answer first) I just say yes. (to all above). Great, That’s awesome. Come and join us in the ballroom at nine for introductions. That’ll give you an hour to get ready. He hangs up before I can say that I have no clean clothes, and I need help getting my stuff in Newark. I wonder what Harvey is like, he sounds like George Bush. I hate George Bush. I love Obama. Anyway I’m like really, really starving. it must be dinner time in Amsterdam. I order the biggest breakfast on the menu – I so love room service.

I look like a fuckin’ coconut. My hair is all static from the hotel shampoo, the dry heat and the nylon carpet. I cant go down looking like this. Shit! I was ready to make a stunning entry in the red miniskirt I made specially for today. With thigh-high boots to show off my long tan legs. but of course that outfit is still flying freight somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Courtesy of the ignorance of NWKLM. Instead I’m wearing the brown ribbed tank and black jeans in which I travelled. Gross. Super-gross-so-not-super-model-me. I bet all the other girls are drop dead gorgeous, clean and pulled together. i’m not going down for any fucking introductions. not until i have my stuff. Not until I look sexy. I go down. The elevator stops and two tall girls get in. One is black and wears a white tank-dress that has a picture of Obama printed across the chest. she’s way cool and her hair is like a way cool afro from the sixties. i want hair like hers. but mine is coconut. The other girl is shorter, tan, black long hair and big boobs. Like a lot of cleavage that’ll leave little to Harvey’s imagination. They chat. They’re American. They give me a-who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are-bitch-look and turn their immaculate backs in my face.

I think he really digs me! The tall one says.Like He’s called like three times already.

Girl, he loves you, and I’m jealous!

Did you see the pictures of the other models?

You and I can nail this thing. None of them have won titles.

But that English girl was in Vogue.

But we know our pageants. We’re the only pros. Between us we have five titles!

These girls are beauty queens, or pageant junkies. They don’t have many of those  in Europe. I hope its is not gonna be like a pageant. I’m a model. Modeling is different. Its about the clothes and selling a product and not how I prance around in a swimsuit and flirt with the judges. I’ll be judged on my talent to look unique in my Viktor and Rolf collection, not how I pose and sing Puccini…
The elevator stops. They get out. I try to get out.The door shuts in my face. What the fuck? What am I a fuckin’ invisible Dutch clog dancer? Those bitches make me feel bad. I ride all the way down. To the lobby. I browse the gift shop. I buy a paper. I’m not about to follow in their slipstream looking like a crumpled tourist who got out on the wrong floor. Also I need to get a razor, its as if flying made all my unwanted hair grow faster.

no clothes…

This is totally sick. like i’m here. like i can see the Entire State building from the  terrace. i’m staying at a hotel called the Standard, which is on the Hudson river and from my huge window I can see boats and helicopters and little planes flying low and people below in an elevated park called the High Line. Sick thing number two was the big black limousine that picked me up. like i’m a movie star. and looking out of the window I saw Manhattan like a mountain range, all those tall buildings against a pale sky. so cool to be here finally. The bed’s been turned back and a turquoise mint sits on one of the pillows. I can’t wait to tell my mom. I suck the mint. my toothbrush is coming later by cheap freight. like what was i thinking to send my own bag by freight? i don’t have anything but the clothes i wore. so i had a shower and now i’m naked under the fresh sheets. a sexy feeling. the bathroom basket has all i need but no panties or clean clothes. They have room service here so I order tea and chocolate cake. i turn on the TV. they gave be a big envelope at reception. i open it as i watch a rerun of americas next top model. the one where the big girl wins just because she’s huge and there was pressure from some fat women’s group who complained that the skinny girls always won. like duh its like complaining that fat bicyclists never win the Tour de France. Tyra was so stupid to give in. like i care, i dont even like these stupid model shows. anyway. my itinerary and a list of all the other models with names and pictures are in the envelope, i’m gonna check them out, and see if i can win this thing….

jetlag

to new york

so my mom said ok. so im goin. flying to new york on northwest. never been to new york before. been to nassau on a  swimwear job. that was way cool. the guys kept giving me free drinks and they had pot too, but i dont smoke which they thought was funny cause im from amsterdam, like everyone thinks that we’re all stoned all the time, and that women are all prostitutes. But that stuff is just for the tourists i said. like you have the casino and the cute pink cottages and we have red light district and hash cafes. So. i raced my cart ahead of my mum to the check in and the NWKLM bitch tells me i have too many bags. i say like duh, of course i have too many bags, i am representing your country, the fashion of the fatherland, in the united states of america, so i’m gonna have a few extra bags so what? (you stupid bitch). i will have to charge you. she said. so my mom has now arrived and stands behind me all angry and bossy and she says, ok, she’s not going. shut up mom. how much? I ask. well you have two bags and three trunks, she says (well counted bitch, those viktor and rolf gowns are fucking huge, anyone knows that, and they wrapped them all in tissue paper) so you’re way over the weight limit  but i’ll just charge you eight hundred euros. thats like a thousand dollars! i only have one thousand for the trip!  you can pay by credit card. i look at my mom. you’re not going anywhere she says, until i know who will be paying for this. your agency? the people in new york? this ticket is only valid today, that NWKLM bitch says. she’ll have to buy a new ticket. Fuck! You could send some of it by freight, that would cost about half, she says. ok i say. but it will get there in two days, and you’ll have to pick it up from newark. where the fuck is newark? its where we fly freight , just outside new york. okay. so i pay the price and send my own bag and the  shoes and accesory case as freight and the preciosa trunks come with me, I pay five hundred euros cash and i’m off. my mom hugs me before i go through immigration. i dont like this one bit she says, call me when you arrive, you have your phone? you have your bank card? yes mom, i’ll be fine dont worry. She kisses me. She cries. She turns away fast. I cross the yellow immigration line. I show my passport .I look around one last time but she’s  walking away. There’s something stubborn in the way she holds her head. Her defiant, vulnerable look. I want to run after her. I want to hold her and promise that I’ll never leave. But I can’t. I have to go. 

hot! me in bikini and socks in the bahamas

The International Model Competition

 

stupid model

September 8th

 

Yeah well what? if iam gonna do this thing then its my business. Like my mom says theres no there there, but there’s always a there there. I’m seventeen and  I can look after myself. No don’t love model competitions, the whole American  Tyra Banks thing is like, I agree with my mom, demeaning and humiliating, iam from Amsterdam and were just more evolved than those USA tv models, like tv dinners, they’re just too fuckin bland. But I need to get outta here. Like I’ve been sleeping on the couch too long, like all summer, like since Elite threw me out of paris cause I wasn’t walking right for perv lagerfield’s couture show, and then he pissed me off so   I pushed him, but that’s another story, anyway I went home but my little brother had moved into my room and  I sleep on the sofa, a rock hard modernist sliver that my stepfather got before he ran off with my little sister’s babysitter. so not comfortable, and now I’m forced to think of him all night as I plan my future which could be brighter. if only my mom would just let me go on this trip. This international model competition in New York, Las Vegas and Miami. There will be girls from all over. Like London, Paris, Milan, Japan, sixteen countries total.  We all have to bring a collection by a designer from our country and my agency already set me up with Viktor and Rolf. Like what is my mom so worried about? That there will be perved guys? That its not what it seems? That I’ll get lost? I’ll have a ticket back to Amsterdam. I’ll bring a thousand dollars, and I can always use my cash card. And I’l be home in three weeks. And if I win I may stay. Like do the shows in New York. Make some serious money. So why the fuck not?