Gregory

Continued from last entry.

His name was Greek, but his accent sounded English. Something about an upcoming project that I might be eligible for. A client desperately needed a model for exfoliate advertising. My first gig! This sounded promising, but what was the catch?

On account of his accent and not holding the phone over his mouth, I could only pick up one out of every three words. There was, however, no mistaking these two: “drag queen.” Alarm bells. I had to get dolled up and exfoliated for my first shoot? A queen to break into the scene?

But if the client approved of my look, for my pains Gregory would give me a handsome discount on my portfolio book and prints. I was torn between giddy excitement at the sheer lunacy of a first assignment, and the doubts of drag. Still, the client had the final say, so I put the ball in his court and offered my services.

Gregory asked me to e-mail him with sample photos. “As many as you can is fine,” I heard him say. So, I stayed up into the wee hours rooting around my digital photo library for flattering and creative snapshots. In a late-night delirium, I attached 14.

I called him that morning as he was off to an Internet café to check my pictures. How many had I sent? “Good god,” he cried. Apparently I misheard “five” as “fine.” We agreed to meet the following day.

Expecting a dapper, professional photographer, I winced when a short, round balding man in cargo shorts zoomed into sight clutching a cell phone. He was walking and talking in different directions. “Sorry lae, I bookstre reading I jus los track ime.”

His piercing hazel eyes were perhaps the only vestige of youthful beauty before time and strippers took their toll. Now in his 30s, he had lost hair on the top of his head, and gained it in less desirable parts, like peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt.

“I’ve got to apologise, mate, my studio is a mess.” A mess? The place was a sty. He had trouble opening the front door there was so much crap on the floor. I took an uneasy seat in a tattered armchair facing a table groaning under the weight of books and papers piled high. He sat by a darkened computer screen smudged with fingerprints. A nearly empty bottle of extra virgin olive oil was at his feet.

Only a few clues hinted that this was a photography studio. Sagging black fabric covered fluorescent ceiling lights. A small army of spotlights stood neglected in a corner; a few wounded ones lay knocked on their side. Pink and white feathery costumes overflowed from boxes along the back wall. A few color prints were taped to the wall, including a bare-chested Samuel L. Jackson ringer. “I’m most proud of that shot.” I couldn’t imagine much success being snapped in a space like this and in a state like this.

Instead of getting down to business, he veered off topic. Without warning, tales of his strip club escapades spewed forth like we were old fraternity buddies. It sounded like he blew his every Yen on women of the night. In Tokyo, he tried luring lap dancers back to his home. Growing up, porno cinemas were good for cheap thrills when $5 blowjobs on the street were too expensive.

I couldn’t keep track of his lurid stories, starting from 14 years old. Something more recently about going to a brothel to get an hour with a girl for free in exchange for modeling shots. But when that plan failed – and five lines of coke later – he substituted a male stockbroker for “mind-blowing sex.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Come again?”

“Oh,” he stammered, realizing. “I’m straight. I have a girlfriend. But when I’m on drugs I can’t get off with a girl so I do guys. But I don’t really use drugs.”

Although I was sitting right next to it, the door suddenly felt very far away. My question seemed to snap him from a daze. It triggered an apology and an excuse for talking my ears off about his sexual depravity.

“I’m sorry, mate. I’ve just had a nervous breakdown. I’ve gone mad.” So I’ve noticed, I thought. He proceeded to explain how he rented out a room to, unbeknownst to him, a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Aww, man, that’s gotta be the worst fucking disease.” I stared back blankly.

For the past four days he undid property damage from his tenant, who ambitiously chopped away part of the door, tore up the floor, ripped out the cupboard, and injected the walls with sealing foam to scramble electronic bugs placed by the people who were following him. The sealant’s expansive qualities caused the walls to bulge. He undertook the repair work himself. He had to give up his lease, and was in the process of changing houses. In the meantime, he was living in the studio. Now it all made sense. Except for the brothel part.

“Are you Mediterranean? I am Greek, and people think I hate Turks or Arabs, but I consider them all my brothers. We all live near the same place, eat the same foods, and I don’t think we should spill blood because of religion and borders.”

“No, my heritage is Russian, Polish and Romanian,” I said.

“Are you Slavic?”

“Uhhh….”

“Muslim Russian?”

“Ehhh….Jewish.”

“Ah. Many Israelis have a weathered look. I don’t know why.”

“I’m not from Israel,” I said.

“And you are not weathered. You have young features, and a very masculine look. You aren’t the most gorgeous, but certainly aren’t the worst looking.”

“Thanks.”

“You have a USB, and I think – ”

“I beg your pardon?” He lost me again. How did we switch to electronics?

“A U-S-P, unique selling point. You don’t look like most people here. And you don’t have the blond hair, blue-eyed WASP look.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I’m sorry, can I see your forearms? Are they are hairy? The client needs a hairy subject,” he added. “But also one with feminine features. Yours are too masculine, but I think you would work for the part. The client should be lucky to find someone willing to do this. He’s just not going to find a feminine-looking hairy man. Hairy men are masculine. I’m going to recommend to him that you do this.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Now what exactly is the assignment again?”

He explained the pitch for the exfoliate product. If it could remove hair on a transvestite, it would surely leave a real women’s skin gleaming. My picture would be put in a mail order catalogue, but not widely broadcast.

“Nobody will recognize you, except for some middle-aged woman in Kyushu who wants to remove hair on her ass. I love it when girls remove hair on their ass because it means they are trying to please a man, you know?”

Silence.

“Do you mind if I snap a picture of your forearms to send to the client?” he continued. “Would you mind if hair were waxed from your arms? I know, I hear it’s awfully painful.”

Listening to him had to be more so. Jesus, what was I getting myself into here?

As it turns out, aside from a migraine and sore eardrums, nothing. The client found a better candidate. My forearms and dignity remained intact.

Rumors Were True

I was wrong. The kids were right (see previous blog). I was on TV Sunday night. My face was plastered on primetime, beamed into millions of tiny Japanese homes, including the bedrooms of middle schoolers mesmerized that their sensei doubled as a TV star.

A strange phone call from Kai at Jupiter modeling agency caused me to reverse my conviction that the kids had mistaken my identity. “Jeff-san, I need to get your bank information so that we can pay you ¥3000 in January.”

Caught so off guard, I almost played along. “Umm…actually, you don’t owe me anything. I never did a job for you.” I think I should know. I mean, how could I possibly have appeared on TV in absentia?

Apparently quite easily. All the network needed was a headshot that the agency snapped when I registered in August. Because there is no actors’ guild or modeling union, my likeness can be exploited like a cheap commodity. You play by industry rules, and this network required confidentiality as to which faces had been selected until after airing.

Kai explained that I appeared on TV Asahi’s popular quiz show “iQ.” Japanese contestants are challenged in a game of memory featuring pictures of foreigners. “For Japanese, cannot recognize foreigners – they look the same. Your face came after a German.”

I won’t have to imagine the pained expressions and wild gesticulations of Japanese contestants stumped when faced to recall foreigners. I hope to obtain a complimentary DVD copy of the program. However, part of me feels like a pawn used – without my knowledge or consent – as a means to an end: to boost ratings through humiliation of outsiders. On the other hand, that’s the most effortless $25 I’ll ever pocket.

F is for Fashion Faux Pas

After another week of trying to work miracles at Kanokita Junior High, I looked forward to a relaxing Friday night playing basketball. Then my keitai rang. Could I make a 5:30 p.m. audition for a fashion show to be held next week? The 3:06 p.m. Yoyogi-uehara-bound train was pulling up to the platform, and I was still an hour’s commute from home. Time was short, and my sacred basketball schedule would be compromised. “See you there,” I said as the doors shut.

I instantly regretted the decision upon seeing those who also had answered the call. For the first time in Japan, I felt short. Many in the crowd seemed to know one another, and joked in European accents. Some clutched “books” – a portfolio of professional pictures. Some had the same cover.

Oh great, were these the contract boys? Imported from Europe to be models in Japan, contract boys lived off the land, roaming from audition to audition and leaving threads for the amateurs to vie for. Smiling for a camera in the afternoon, partying at night, and raking in the ¥en. Sign me up.

I wouldn’t have paid them a second glance on the street. Mickey Mouse trucker hats, purple tank tops, designer jeans, and Italian accents spelled Eurotrash tourists to me. However, knowing that they were contract models, I sized up the competition. Their arms, legs, hair, and cheekbones were elongated. One could have been a stand-in for Jesus. It was just the physique that could make leopard print furs and big-buckled belts look fashionable.

Next to me stood a shorter Frenchman with a buzz cut to disguise his receding hairline. It wasn’t long before he asked me where my book was. He was freelance, too. “I would tell you this after the audition, but it doesn’t look very professional not to have one,” he offered. I wished him luck as he went into the dressing room.

“Jeffrey-san, your turn,” the man in charge said, holding snapshots the agency supplied him from when I had registered there in August. He looked up and laughed through his nose. Right about then I wished I were playing basketball instead.

The changing room and audition space were one in the same – dressing, undressing, photographing, and practicing catwalks. Measurements were called out like numbers at a bingo game. Torso, hips, inseam. Guys were stripping down to their briefs, and putting on whatever the Japanese assistants handed them, a hodgepodge of articles plucked from racks lining the walls.

In my bare essentials, I accepted a size XS red and grey vest. It wouldn’t have fit my students. I zipped it as best I could. Did I get a shirt to go underneath it? My assistant, Makoto, read my mind. I unzipped, and layered with an ill-fitting white t-shirt with maroon sleeves. I then poured myself into a pair of black jeans. My thighs protested. Only the top button of the fly closed. Fashion was painful. I slid on a blazer with sleeves covering my knuckles. I felt like a stuffed sausage.

Makoto added the garnish – a white diaphanous scarf that he tucked into the blazer. There was no time to lace up the oversized sneakers. I was pushed into the center of the room having the dexterity of someone in leg casts. My knees were locked while feet slipped out of the sneakers. I must have looked like Frankenstein taking a walk. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A downright unfashionable Frankenstein at that.

Fashion isn't for the faint of heart, human or otherwise.

The Audition Call

The sun was setting on Tokyo. I had already trekked to two agencies that day, but telephoned Flamingo to arrange a future registration time. Mike picked up. “Sure, I could come in now,” I responded, startled by the offer. “Meet at exit A3 of Kachidoki station? No problem, see you in 20 minutes!”

Mike hails from Macau. “Crazy place!” I told him, speaking from experience. He was a cool guy, and treated me like nakayoshi, or buddy-buddy. He had just received word that Canon needed a young businessman for a promotional video – did I have a suit? The dates fit my schedule, and Mike said he’d call with further details. He never did.

Four days later, another agency contacted me for the same audition. I accepted the invitation as well as one to attend a Dartmouth alumni barbecue at the American embassy housing complex earlier that day.

For a few hours, I was transported back to the States. The complex included benches, grass, grills, and a pool. A passing Ford Explorer almost moved me to tears. I sank my teeth into 100% American beef, which Japan embargoes over mad cow concerns. Only connections with the military base could secure such a treat. I garnished the burger with Heinz ketchup, mustard, and relish. Condiments, oh how I’ve missed you, I thought as I raced home to suit up for Canon.

I got off on the wrong foot by arriving eight minutes late to the audition meeting point. Who knew that Exit 1 at Roppongi station was only accessible from the Hibya line (I had arrived on the Oedo line)? Kai, the agency representative, and I dashed off to the audition already in progress. I felt like the bumbling newbie, arriving tardy in a suit soaked with sweat. The others had changed on location. Competition numbered about 10, but most were veterans. Patrick, 34, carried an impressive book of his printed accomplishments. I overheard him boast to Kai that he’d been in Japan for seven years and had some special relationship with Canon. Had I known, I wouldn’t have traded relish for certain rejection.

I was the last have an audience with the Canon panel. Kai accompanied me into the conference room. Videotape recorded my 30-second introduction, during which I casually mentioned my camera of choice, Canon’s Powershot S50. I then did a few stiff catwalks.

The final test was to sit in a chair, pretend to write notes, and then look up to announce, “I’ve got an idea!” Easy enough, but Kai told me to relax more. I tried to crack a smile, but my lips were parched. I was also battling a dry hacking cough.

Take two. Sliding into the chair, I felt my lungs squish. I had to clear my throat, or I’d sound like I had a tracheotomy. Cameras were rolling – I couldn’t hack up a lung. With no choice but to speak, I croaked, “I’ve got an idea.” The staff recoiled. I felt like a figure skater landing on his ass. There was nowhere to hide.

The rejection call two days later lasted 20 seconds. Kai said that I had done my best. But what I didn’t expect was a second rejection call, from Mike at Flamingo. I was speechless. At the time, I was registering at Free Wave, trading culture shock stories with Arata, who spent a year attending a Kentucky high school. Oh, the mess I would have created if selected. Both agencies would have duked it out over commission entitlement, but agree upon blacklisting me for violating modeling’s golden rule, double booking. Relief circulated through my now clear lungs. I await the next audition call.

I’m Gonna Be A Supermodel

Why I came to Japan is a frequently asked question. Self-promotion is an unspoken response. I wanted to try modeling. Only in Tokyo does any Western geek off the street have the potential to grace subway advertisements for suits or sports drinks. Western actors pop up in Japanese commercials and as extras on game shows, as objects of desire in the former, and of ridicule in the latter.

With a proper visa, fame was mine for the making. Here, my looks have been likened to Tom Cruise, Keanu Reeves, Ross from “Friends,” Brandon from “90210,” and Formula One’s Michael Schumacher. Then again, until recently the Japanese didn’t have a word for green, and continue to say blue traffic light and blue apple. Thus, their visual assessments are to be taken with a grain of shio and some sake.

Eager to test the market, I registered with casting and modeling agencies for television, film, commercials, and print work. Agency names ranged from insipid (Japan Fashion Model Center) to nonsensical (Ooh Planning) to tawdry (Hot Kicks Dance Agency & Tu Tu Telegram) to mysterious (Prestige Inc., Creamy Division) to mysteriously threatening (Land Mazi).

Registration required planning on the level of a military invasion. Some agencies only processed new talent during certain hours of certain days. Others required advance appointments. All were scattered around town, hidden on nameless side streets or alleyways. Even the most prominent agencies had offices smaller and more unassuming than a New York pizza parlor. To locate them, I struggled with typically vague Tokyo directions.

I was nervous. I didn’t have a portfolio. Would I be shown the door before I could pay the registration fee? Prior experience was limited to a sportswear shoot for a Korean magazine while in Guam. I also claimed fame to gracing the cover of a leading automotive magazine. In reality, however, the free promotional Jeep picture (below) was taken while on a lunch break in New York City. Can you spot the brown bag?

I geared up for my first two agencies, Excite and Apex. Aware that snapshots would be taken, I wore a blue and white striped Abercrombie polo and tight Diesel jeans. For footwear, it had to be the Pumas. I strode off with one white on blue sneaker, and one blue on white sneaker, perfectly matching my polo.

No more second-guessing myself – it was show time. Outside humidity cooked up beads of sweat that soaked my back. I shrugged off subway stares, all of which landed at my fashionably mixed feet.

On a tiny street lined with expensive cars, I located Excite’s office in the Maison de Rose building. I rang the bell. “Hai!” echoed from inside. Huh? Barge in, or wait for someone to open the door? I rang again. “HAIIII!” I barged in. My experiment in footwear design was immediately neutralized. I checked my Pumas at the door, and slid into oversized slippers. Four young workers hacked away silently in the one-room office. I filled out a form and left in search of Apex.

Other agencies proved more receptive. I walked into Hollywood Models, and Jun stared as if I had walked out of an Esquire spread. Such awe rarely occurs, but when it does I can spot it in the focused eyes and suppressed grin. I smiled back at her exotic looks, which I judged to be a Japanese mix. While she took my measurements, we argued about the color of her brown hair. Jun discredited herself by also calling my brown hair black. I wanted to ask if I could have a bite of her blue apple.

Carrie, while not in awe, was friendly and fluent. She studied music at Northern Texas University. She added that she was not a fan of Bush, nor were her “dope-smoking” college friends. We found further common ground in our love for baseball, and talked about A-Rod, a former Texas Ranger. I invited her to a Yakult Swallows game for which I had just purchased a ticket at Jingu Stadium down the road.

That gave me the idea to invite Jun, too, but she only followed MLB. Unable to recall her favorite team, she admitted to only liking one player. On the Mets…he’s black. I dropped names until outfielder Mike Cameron struck a cord: “he’s very attractive.”

At Future Talent, the atmosphere was electric. Manager Marilyn waived me inside. She mothered talents through a headset. “If you get the job, it’s more than ¥200,000 ($1,900)…try honey, try. If you don’t try, you won’t get anything.” To another she encouraged, “Oh honey, I just know you are going to get the job.” She ended one call with, “Stay out of the sun – it’s hot today. Love you, bye-bye.”

Business was booming. Marilyn fused three languages during a single call. In demand were a young father type, “wild girls,” and sporty looks – athletic skill not required. “Audition October one. Shooting six, seven. Please call me back if you can make it.” Marilyn was glued to the headset the whole time; an assistant fed me orange juice and took my measurements. I learned I have nice round hips (100 cm.).

Over two humid August weeks I registered with 13 agencies. I’ve since memorized my bust size, trouser inseam, and sleeve length in centimeters. Would the running around pay off? It took less than a week to get my first audition call…[to be continued].