Wasted Beauty (9 page)

A YOUNG MAN WITH SILVERED DESIGNER SUNGLASSES
cocked atop his gelled hair steers Rena into his boss’s office. Leaded-glass windows frame a stately sycamore under which the city traffic crawls. Classical cello bleeds into the room, absorbed into the thick white carpet, the heavy drapes. There are at least six sprays of red roses. And on the enormous glass coffee table stands a crystal vase choked with white lily stalks. The scent of the flowers compete with aromas of coffee, cigarettes and perfume.

A woman in a muumuu is poised by the window talking on a phone. She smiles at Rena. On her desk lie enlargements of Paul’s photographs. When Rena reaches the center of the room the woman hangs up and floats toward her, eyes twinkling. She takes Rena into her arms. Under the silk, Rena can feel the soft pillowy folds of the woman’s flesh. Despite her heaviness, she is possessed of the most lovely, perfectly made-up face. Like a porcelain doll, thinks Rena. The woman in the muumuu draws back, takes Rena’s hand and says, “Hello, there, little girl!”

Rena says, “Hi.”

“I couldn’t wait another minute to meet you!” Her wholesome scent reassures Rena. “Would you like some coffee? Some water?”

Rena says, “Water,” and the young man with the gelled hair leaves the room.

Marissa eyes Rena with an expression of hunger. She says, “Wow.” Rena grins with embarrassment. “Paul told me, but seeing you in person. Wow.”

Rena had washed her hair at Paul’s, he lent her clothing left behind by clients. Adam helped her with her makeup. They let her crash in a back room. “What did Paul tell you?”

“He didn’t have to tell me! The pictures tell me. Did he show you the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to have a great time together.”

“That’s good. I think.” Rena laughs.

“Have you been signed before?”

“Signed? No. Nothing. Ever. Before.”

“And where’s your family from, Rena?”

“Upstate.”

“Upstate. Wonderful. I love it up there! Some great friends of ours have a place in Columbia County. Do you know Columbia County?”

“Sort of. Not really.”

“How old are you, Rena? I’m sorry, please sit down.” Marissa sails over to a long white couch strewn with Moroccan pillows. Rena sits, trying not to touch the fragile-looking array.

“I’ll be twenty-one pretty soon.”

“Oh, you look so much younger! That’s wonderful! So we won’t need your parents to co-sign.”

“Um. My parents are dead.”

“Oh, darling. I’m so, so sorry.” Marissa takes Rena’s hand.

“It’s OK. So, um, are you saying you have a job for me?” Marissa continues to hold her hand and Rena wonders if she’s a homosexual like the guy with the gelled hair.

“Oh, I think there will be lots of work for you. Paul really captured you, but now that I see you in the flesh, I think we can keep you occupied. Are you going to school, have a job?”

The console on Marissa’s desk beeps and a nasal voice announces, “Marissa, it’s Randy.”

Marissa pauses, calculates, releases her hold, presses a button on the console and says sharply, “Tell him I’m running out and you can’t catch me.”

“He says it’s important.”

Marissa picks up the phone. “Hi.” She’s sweet again. She nods her head, listening, keeping her eyes on Rena. She lights a cigarette, miming an offer of one to Rena, who shakes her head no. She inhales deeply, gushes smoke and says, “Not possible. I don’t care, Randy. Because with her you attract all the others. Deal first or no go. No. OK. Gotta go.”

Marissa hangs up and beams at Rena. She says, “I can’t believe how beautiful you are. You are nothing short of perfect.”

Rena feels confusion. “No, I’m not.”

“We’ll see.” Marissa stubs out her cigarette as if angry at it. “So you were saying you go to college here in the city?”

“No. Actually, I…I’m sort of free at the moment.”

“Taking some time off. Good. Well, I think it’s time you got busy.”

“You’ll hire me?”

“Hire you? Darling, we’re an agency. We send you out. We take care of you. More. How’s your living situation?”

“Living?”

“Do you have a place?”

“Not really. I’ve been kind of staying with friends.” Don’t tell her that Paul let me stay at the loft.

“We’ll help you with that. We’ll help you with everything. We’re going to have a great time. First you’ll do a few go-sees. Just with the best people. Paul already loves you so he’ll give you some work. But he’s very high end. I don’t want you learning the ropes with him. You should start with some easy stuff. Generic catalogue. Just to get your feet wet. You’ll have so much fun, you’ll see. Does that sound nice?”

“Yes.” Rena exhales and her face grows hot. Oh, God. Emotion. Don’t cry. Don’t cry in front of this nice woman, you look ugly when you cry.

“Good. Anthony will bring in the papers. Let’s get that out of the way so we can start booking you. Sound good?”

“Yes. Uh…Marissa?”

“Yes, dear.”

“One thing?”

“Anything.”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“Please!” Marissa opens a small door in the corner revealing a small powder room done in pale blues and browns. Rena heads for it.

“Rena?” Rena turns, thinking, wrong move. “No drugs. Right? I don’t have to say that, do I?”

“Uh, no.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a messy year. Kate. All that. You know.”

“Yes.” Rena says this as if she knows what Marissa is talking about.

Another bathroom, another mirror. Rena checks her hair, her makeup. I look good. I look very good. And I won’t have to stay at Paul’s anymore. She’s going to take care of me. Oh thank you God. Thank you Jesus. I’m going to make you proud. I am the girl who can do it. Right here, right now. In the city, I am going to do this. I am going to be a model. This lady might be crazy, but why not? My eyes are nice. I knew that already. And my lips aren’t bad. And I’m blond and tall. That’s what they want, right? As long as you’re not actually ugly. Maybe in New York they have a different standard. Want a different look. The white trash look? Who cares? Doesn’t matter. Here I am. Here I am. Rena smiles at her reflection. My teeth are good, too. See?

Within the hour Rena is signed to a three-year personal services contract. The agency takes care of all her needs. Marissa finds her a place to live on the Upper East Side with two other girls who model for the agency. She’s issued a small expense allowance and instructed where to buy clothes, buy makeup, where to go for dry cleaning. Appointments are made for facials, waxings, hair conditioning, manicures and teeth bleaching. Finally, she’s handed a miniature TV set as a “welcome aboard” present, an empty portfolio for all the clippings she’ll soon have and a Dolce & Gabbana knapsack for her “go-sees.” She can use Paul’s pictures for the time being. It’s almost overwhelming.

Before the week is over Rena is so busy, she doesn’t have time to go on “go-sees.” A friend of Paul’s gets her into an editorial shoot about head scarves for
Teen Vogue
. Marissa finds her a job down on Grand Street doing a flyer for a New Jersey department store. For that she has to wear a nightie and a cotton jersey. Marissa forbids underwear ads, says Rena is too special for that. On the following Thursday Rena gets a paycheck for $750 minus taxes and her allowance, almost double what she and Billy ever made at the farmstand.

Rena figures she’ll call Billy on her day off, but there is no day off. She doesn’t call Frank, either. Probably burning bridges, but some bridges should be burned.

A month in, she celebrates by buying two bottles of wine on her way home. She plans to share it with her roommates, but no one comes home that night.

She wakes up at four, the bedroom lights dazzling, guffaws gurgling from the little gift TV. Rena’s first thought is, oh god, I still have my makeup on! Get out of bed and wash your face, girl! She staggers to the bathroom, gets everything off and collapses back onto the bed.

Morning. Saturday again. All the girls sleep till noon, if home. Rancid and foggy, Rena pads around the hushed apartment and finds the phone. She dials the number while she sips juice. After five rings, she gives up. Relief flows with the reprieve. Then concern. Where the fuck are you, Billy? Maybe you’re here in New York, at the farmstand? Of course, it’s Saturday, that must be where you are! Rena swallows four extra-strength Excedrin and showers. Head throbbing, she finds an empty cab on the street.

Using the cab as vantage point, Rena circles the old spot. The guy who sells the whole wheat bread is there, but there’s no sign of Billy, no sign of the van. The place feels abandoned, too cold. If Billy isn’t at the farm, and he isn’t here, where the hell is he? She calls the house again and lets the phone ring ten times. No one at home.

The train ride along the empty river takes up the rest of the day. The cityscape of buildings and pedestrians, storefronts and honking traffic, falls away and the sight of one lonely barge propelling against the dark current tranquilizes Rena. By the time the train creaks and hisses into the station, she’s napping, pretzeled into the hard seat. She finds a driver finishing off a late lunch of cheesesteak and fries in the back of his cab and gives him directions to the farm.

As they pass through town, the guy lights a cigarette and cranks the window. Probably has a freezer full of frozen venison at home. Rena wants to tap him on the shoulder and ask, “Have you ever heard of a girl named Reba Cook? Do you know where I would find her?”

Here it is. Still here. The gravel drive, the lawn, the back steps. Rena gets out of the cab, runs up the steps and knocks. Nothing. She puts her key in the lock and oddly it still turns. She takes a breath as she enters and it all rushes back, but with the added scent of winter heat. Burned black residue stains the stove enamel, the sink is crowded with glasses and beer bottles and the counters are cluttered with empty KFC cartons and gray, dry wing bones. Black grains of rice lie sprinkled over gnawed scraps of hand soap. Mouse shit. Sorry, Billy, I’m not going to clean up your mess.

Upstairs, evidence of Billy’s life minus a sister is scattered about like crime scene trash. In the corner of the bathroom, a musty towel molders where it has been kicked. The bedroom floor is littered with underwear, T-shirts, socks and beer bottles. Under Billy’s bed lies a stack of
Maxim
s and a mound of crumpled Kleenex. The thick aroma of his skin rises up off the yellowed sheets.

In the bathroom Rena turns the tap. Three floors beneath her, the well pump clicks on, sucking and pushing aquiferous water up to her. The furnace grumbles, heating the water. Outside, a breeze waffles at the windowpanes and a scraping branch screeches like a tiny witch along the siding of the house.

Rena checks the window, looking for rain. A dim, overcast day. Sunset will be here soon. Then only blackness. Wouldn’t mind being out there. In the black, in the nothingness.

In her dad’s closet Rena finds a scuffed Samsonite suitcase and into it she packs her clothing, makeup, hair dryer and CDs. She leaves her boom box in Billy’s room and drags the suitcase downstairs, pausing in the kitchen, thinking maybe she should take the frying pan, too. Felix watches, swishing his tail in irritation. No more cooking for now.

The cabbie fits her luggage into the sooty well of the trunk and Rena asks him to wait five more minutes. He shrugs, returns to the front seat, folds his arms over his chest and shuts his eyes.

By the time she gets to the orchard the tops of her shoes are soaked with the evening’s dew. She stands still in the center of the arbor and waits, her breath trickling out into a white vapor. This is the best thing about this place, to be able to stand completely still, lean way back and let the clouds drift over your head as the breezes sift through the trees. Most of the foliage has fallen and leafless twig fingertips cling to the summer’s mummified brown apples. The chickadees hop from branch to leafless branch, chiding her.

Rena calls out “Billy!,” willing her brother to appear. Only the frozen quiet answers. She thinks, this is the world. It cannot be destroyed, it will always be here. It doesn’t miss me when I’m gone and it doesn’t care if I come back.

THE PILLS IN HIS POCKET RATTLE TO THE RHYTHM OF
his step as he makes his way down Broadway. He claws them out and tosses them onto the ground. The beat keeps clicking in his head. Like rocks in my head. Like a bad motor. Monkey mind-controllers. All part of the system. How can you beat it? No answer to that one. Feet hurt. Need food. Always need food.

No point stopping at the police station to complain, they don’t want to hear it. At first they did. Even took some notes. But after a month or so, they’d had enough. Too busy. Told me they were going to lock my ass up again if I didn’t get lost. So I got lost. Can’t fight city hall. Then the van got towed. Tried to file a stolen vehicle report. They laughed at me, told me to go to a detox. Bunch of niggers and spics anyway. Who needs them?

I know they don’t like the way I look. I don’t like it, either. But I didn’t choose these clothes. They’re not my clothes. This sweatshirt’s pink, for god’s sakes. The pants have a drawstring. I hate drawstrings. Sneakers way too large. Damn things keep slipping off. All worn through on one side. White socks all black. Holes. But where am I s’posed to wash ’em. In a mud puddle?

Reba sent checks to the house. Never been so drunk in my life. Brainstorm: have the checks forwarded to a mail drop in the city and then I won’t have to do so much traveling.

I knew what she was up to. Maureen at the bank showed me in a magazine as hard as that was to believe. But you call the agencies and no one knows nothing. Told that one rude lady to go fuck herself. Then couldn’t get through anymore. Somehow the word got out about me and that was it.

Hang around in front of the buildings, watching the giraffes coming and going with their photo albums under their arms. Try to look for Reba, try to get up to the offices. But those modeling agencies don’t like guys hanging around their lobbies. Understandably. Next thing I know, I’m arrested. Spent a weekend in the so-called Tombs. That’s when the van got towed. That’s when I started drinking spirits. One thing leads to another. And so here we are.

Got to prioritize. First of all, it’s important to keep moving, to circulate, keep an eye out. If I just keep walking, I’m bound to run into her sooner or later. If I could find Reba, she’d buy me a nice lunch. The homies picked my pocket when I took that nap on the train, so no money, no ID, no nothing. Luckily, there’s those other homies who buy the checks off me. Ironic. Like iron. Like a hammer to the head. Iron to the head. Maybe that’s why I have a headache.

But a man can only walk so much, drink so much, hang out in diners for so long. Even the massage parlor won’t let me in. Girlfriend gone or they said she was gone. Besides, who needs a “happy ending” anyway? Just need a place to lie down.

Learn how to sleep on your feet. Learn how to use newspaper to keep warm. Sometimes you just don’t know where you are. Woke up in the airport that one time. Took all day to get back to the city. Even with money, the hotels won’t have me. Fuck them.

Stick a bottle in the pocket and keep moving. That’s all. What else can a man do? When I get tired, I lie down wherever I am and take a catnap. Cheaper and simpler. Fuckit. No hotels. No front desk. No attitude.

Almost saw her that one night, five o’clock and dark already, and there she was in the crowd. Shouted but she just kept walking. Followed, called out her name, but she pretended not to hear. Everyone looking at me like I’m some kind of bum.

Next night, wait in a doorway for her to pass by. When she sees it’s me, she’ll be happy to see me. Can’t expect her to turn around every time someone calls her name. And I’m ready to forgive her. We’ll go home and she’ll be able to sleep in her own bed again. Maybe we’ll even have a little homecoming party.

She must have taken a different route. Figures. But the cops, they knew exactly where I was. This time I get stuck in the locked ward at Bellevue. Injected and strapped down. Won’t tell ’em my name so they take my mug shot. Plow my brain with Haldol, Lithium and Prozac. Fingerprint me while I’m lying stoned on the table. Another thirty days down the drain.

Morning. The cold gets you moving as soon as you wake up. Gotta unstiffen those joints. Get coffee at that church. No soup till noon. Stand in line with all the assholes and misfits. The smell’s enough to drive a man crazy.

When I find Reba she’ll get the van out of the tow pound and we can go home. She can talk to the cops and find out where it is. They’ll listen to her ’cause she’s a pretty girl and the cops like girls. I know they’re afraid of me. That’s the fact. And they should be.

It’s OK. I know where the bathrooms are. There’s a map in my head. And AA meetings are always a good place to find a cup of coffee and a cookie. Five or six spoons of sugar, lots of milk, good as new. Almost. Soup, coffee, the odd buttered roll and you’re in business. An egg salad sandwich and things are better than good. In every lobby and subway stop they’re watching me. But they’re not as smart as me. They’re used to the others, the smelly ones, the fucked up ones.

Need the exercise. Gained too much weight in that place. Sitting around all day with those lunatics pigging out. Mashed potatoes and vanilla wafers will do it to you every time. Wouldn’t mind a plate of mashed potatoes right now. But no way am I going back to that place. Sitting in a circle, staring at your own white socks under the black rubber sandals. That foot-powder stink on everything. Powder and puke. And the spades with their prison muscles, itching to fight. Or worse, fat and zoned out on meds with those dark TV circles under their eyes, pulling at their crotch all day.

Not to mention the women in that place, bitches every one of them. My one buddy in there, that Irishman whose mother died ten years ago? He said that one of the nurses sucked cock. But I don’t want none of that. The pills take care of the urge. It’s enough just getting up in the day, feeling like someone wrapped your head in Saran Wrap. Knees like wet loaves of bread. Hate those pills. Where’d I put ’em, anyway?

So wait a minute, what was I thinking about? The market. Should take another walk through the market. Maybe someone will recognize me. Well, with my new walking diet, I lost a lot of weight. First I weighed too much, now I don’t weigh enough. That’s life, isn’t it? A balancing act. Always trying to get it right. And you never can.

My so-called friends. Wouldn’t even say hello to me. Goes to show. And someone has the balls to sell apples on my spot. If those cops weren’t there, I would have done something. Explained the facts of life to him. Guy looked Jewish. Figures. I established that spot, got people used to coming there to buy my apples, organic heirloom apples, and now here comes the Hebe cashing in. Should have kicked his ass. But the meds, there’s an empty spot where the anger used to be. Funny.

That’s OK. The money will be here soon enough. Find Reba, get home, pick some apples. Except maybe there won’t be any apples. December isn’t really good apple-picking time except in South America. Or do they even have apples there? Somewhere, somewhere it’s apple-picking time. Probably always apple-picking time somewhere. Somewhere there’s always someone doing something different than this right now. Somewhere, someone’s happy. Breathing. Sleeping. Somewhere Reba is breathing. Somewhere. Somewhere, something is something. Somewhere.