If fashion models are Ferraris, then I am a 1999 Honda Accord with 300,000 miles on it, rusting in the junkyard—far from showroom condition but good enough for parts: hair, kidneys, what have you, but mostly hands.
Back when Internet companies were sprouting faster than chia pets, the demand for mouse-themed print ads surged. Somebody had to click those mice. That somebody is called a hand model. I call it “beats working for living.”
My qualifications were two-fold: First, a lifetime’s avoidance of manual labor has given my hands a smooth, uncalloused look. Second, I was the only guy my modeling agency could find willing to bear the humiliation of going to a beauty salon and requesting a manicure.
Once I learned to ignore women snickering at me while I got my nails buffed and cuticles trimmed, I discovered I enjoyed it. And I’m not putting the “man” back in just manicures. When a foot modeling assignment introduced me to the rapture of pedicures, I got hooked on them too.
Unlike George Costanza, I have so far managed to avoid career-ending mishaps with hot irons. Coffee was almost my Waterloo. Before my first hand modeling gig, I downed my usual quad shot latte. Mistake. It’s hard to hold your hand perfectly still for hours after that much caffeine. The photographer had to muster a C-clamp into service to tame my shaky hand.
A booking begins with a perky message from my agent like, “Hi, Steve. This is Jennifer. Are you free for a four hour hand job on Friday?” Those calls used to give me a lewd thrill until the day I scandalized myself by accidentally playing such a message while my mother was visiting. Over the years I’ve discovered a foolproof method for ensuring that Jennifer will call to offer a hand job: Do something the day before that totally mutilates my hands, like gardening or flea-dipping the cat.
On set, the shoots follow a familiar pattern of gradually eroding expectations. The account executive announces that we are assembled for the momentous task of capturing on film the power of the Internet, the thrill of e-commerce, or perhaps the ecstasy of backing up a hard drive. He gives a pep talk like, “Our goal is to create the definitive mouse photograph—one so beguiling, daring and hauntingly beautiful, it puts all other mouse photography to shame.”
Then the art directors do their part to make mouse clicking seem exciting. They snake the cord in a perfect S-curve. They highlight the mouse with dramatic red and blue spotlights. They paint leopard patterns on the mice. They balance a mouse on my fingertip. They have fierce arguments whether I should right-click or left-click. Right-click? Do we dare? I encourage these on-set debates since my meter is running the whole time.
Endless Polaroids are taken and I am given curious instructions like, “You’re covering too much of the mouse. Can you make your hand smaller?”
“Depends. How wedded are you to the five-fingered hand concept?” I reply.
After hours of fussing, someone usually shouts, “Let’s get on with it. It’s just a goddamn mouse,” and actual photography begins. When the photos appear in print, they generally look a lot like a hand clicking a mouse. Only more beguiling.
#
By far, the wildest call I ever got from Jennifer began, “How are your kidneys? I have a client looking for a kidney model.” I’d heard some urban legends involving kidneys that didn’t turn out so well, so I was a little apprehensive. Jennifer continued, “Meet this doctor at the Sheraton Tiki Bar tonight. He’ll buy you lots of drinks to swell your kidneys, then take you to his room for an ultrasound. If he picks you, it pays $500 for an hour’s work.”
“Meet a strange man in a bar, let him ply me with liquor, go to his hotel room, and let him examine my internal organs?” I said. “No problem. For a moment I thought it was something sketchy.”
Looking forward to doing some serious damage to the doctor’s booze tab, I arrived at the bar and joined two other model-types drinking with the doctor, who explained that a nephrology convention was in town and he needed a kidney model the next day to demonstrate a new ultrasound machine. He gave us his suite number, told us to come up after a half-hour of drinking, and excused himself to prepare the equipment.
We models surveyed each other, all clearly wondering who had the blue-ribbon kidneys. I tried to pull a psych job on them. “I’m Irish,” I said. “We’re known for our handsome kidneys. Oh sure. The original kidney-shaped swimming pool? Modeled after an Irishman’s kidney.” My renal rivals just ignored me. “Jennifer said a biopsy would be needed,” I continued. “If doc’s keeping that from us, I wonder what else he’s hiding. Say, does your drink taste funny?”
At the appointed time we proceeded to the doctor’s room. I pointed at a tube of K-Y Jelly on nightstand and whispered to one of the models, “Told you—butt lube. We’re all gonna be ass-raped as soon as the Rohypnol kicks in.” Punching me in the shoulder was his way of telling me I was getting to him.
The doctor asked the first model to take off his shirt and lie on a portable table. The doctor squirted some K-Y on the ultrasound probe and placed it on the model’s abdomen. When his kidney came into view on the monitor, the doctor experienced love at first sight. “That is the most beautiful kidney I’ve ever seen. Utterly perfect. There’s no need to look any further. You two gentlemen can leave.”
“What? No swimsuit competition?” I protested. The second model grumbled that we should all be given a chance and the doctor acquiesced.
The second model’s innards produced an even larger response from the doctor: “Magnificent! Better than the first. The definitive kidney. Worthy of a medical textbook.”
Next it was my turn to lie down and submit to the cold, slippery, vibrating sensor. I giggled and squirmed, ticklish buffoon that I am. The doctor was underwhelmed. “Now this is a fairly substandard kidney. Note how ill-defined the corticomedulary junction is. All in all, an unimpressive specimen.” Though I wasn’t expecting the doctor to find my kidney as adorable as a basket of puppies, it was discomforting to confirm what I’d always suspected: My beauty really does go only skin deep.
“Well, my corticomedulary junction and I know when we’re not wanted,” I said and left in a huff. I dulled my shame by stopping at the bar and treating my Irish kidney to a few shots of Irish whiskey, compliments of the doctor’s still-open tab.
That night I had an alcohol-fueled dream. I was dead, being autopsied, the medical examiner peering into my chest cavity, saying, “I don’t know what this man did for a living, but I’ll tell you one thing: He was certainly no kidney model!”
#
Once in a while Jennifer calls with a direct booking—no go-see required—causing me to do a Snoopy dance in my apartment. But most of the time, clients need to see models before hiring them. That’s because they’ve all been burned by models who look nothing like their comp cards—women who appear as blonde bantamweights on their comps, but arrive on set auburn welterweights. Thanks, changelings, for ruining it for those of us who picked a look in high school and haven’t varied it since.
The whole go-see process can be incredibly lacerating to your self-esteem. Imagine waking up each morning unemployed, hoping the phone rings. When your agent does call, you’re invited to a job interview with a hundred other hopefuls. You schlep yourself across town and you’re judged on your most superficial qualities, the symmetry of your face, the whiteness of your teeth, your receding hairline. There’s nothing to hide behind. If you’re not hired, it doesn’t mean they didn’t like your work, your blueprint, your layout, your draft. It means they didn’t like you. On the other hand, if they do like you—you lucky dog!—you get to work for a single day, then it’s back to being unemployed. And you better not owe money to your bookie, because it’ll be six months before you’re paid, as the funds trickle from client to ad agency to modeling agency to model. Modeling is absurd and degrading, a vain pursuit in more ways than one. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.
I’d only been modeling for about a year the day Jennifer called to tell me about a whale of a go-see. Combe, Inc. was looking for new faces for their Just for Men haircolor boxes. Eight shades, eight new faces. Hundreds of models were being called in from all over the country. I was living in Virginia at the time so the prospect of traveling to New York City for a cattle call didn’t seem too appealing. Then she mentioned the job paid $18,000. That’s when my limited statistics knowledge came in handy. I thought, Hmm, an 800 to 8 chance at an $18,000 payoff? That’s an expected value of $180. The bus only costs $40, so really I’ll make a $140 profit by auditioning.
I talked myself into it with that unshakable, baseless optimism in the face of overwhelmingly negative odds that only actors, writers, wildcat oil drillers, and other inveterate gambling addicts can comprehend. I know my last hundred auditions/query letters/wells/slot machine pulls were busts, but this time it’s mine. I can feel it.
Peter Pan was my bus line of choice. It was cheap, it reminded me I wasn’t the only one who refused to grow up, and its buses feature a menacing graphic of an alligator snapping at a group of children. The bus broke down north of Baltimore and we were herded onto another bus. By the time the giant alligator squeezed through the Holland Tunnel, I was pretty sure I could have swum there faster.
Spirits flagging, I trudged over to the casting office and stood in the waiting room with scores of other models. The casting agent was so backed up he just stuck his head out of the office and pointed at a few guys. “You, you, and you. Come in. The rest of you aren’t what we’re looking for. Sorry. See ya.” I was not one of the chosen ones. I’d never seen a casting brush-off that abrupt. Normally they invite you in the room and at least glance at your portfolio. What a waste! I felt like writing a book called The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Being a Total Dummy.
Just as I stepped outside, the greenish-yellow clouds unleashed an ark-inspiring torrential downpour with pinball-sized hail. Everyone dashed for cover and I sulked back into the waiting room and waited for the storm to pass. An hour later the skies cleared and I again got in the elevator, directly across from the casting office. Just as the elevator doors were closing, a second agent came out of the office, saw me and yelled—in true cinematic fashion—”Stop!” I wedged my Timberlands between the closing doors. “Why haven’t we seen you yet?”
“Because your buddy flushed me an hour ago,” I said.
“He’s crazy. You’re exactly what we need for the Sandy Blond box. You’re hired.” Talk about pure dumb luck. If it weren’t for that storm I’d have been out the door. I did a conga dance and dedicated it to the rain gods.
Me as the "Guy on the Box"
The photo session the following week surprised me because they never applied the goop to my hair. I figured that as a corporate shill I ought to at least use the product. The photographer told me that being a Guy on the Box is a huge stepping stone in entertainment. Prior Guys on Boxes have gone on to TV shows, soaps, and major national commercials. For me, however, it was merely a stepping stone to continued obscurity.
The most memorable part of the day was the after-shoot walk from Grand Central Terminal to Penn Station with Don Jole, Just for Men’s choice for the box of black haircolor. As a breeder, extolling another guy’s beauty is not something I’m accustomed to, but Don was by far the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. In doll-terms, imagine G.I. Joe’s rugged jaw line combined with Barbie’s long eyelashes and you get a sense of this guy’s warrior/poet, strong yet sensitive visage. It doesn’t do him justice to say he has a perfect smile. If you look closer you’ll see he has perfect lips, perfect teeth, perfect gums. The guy isn’t just handsome, he’s handsome down to the microscopic level. His mitochondria probably wear Speedos. Next to him I looked like an African dung beetle.
On our twenty-block walk, I witnessed the damage extreme male pulchritude can cause. We’ve all seen the carnage a beautiful woman can leave in her wake as she passes a group of men, but who knew the roles were reversible? I saw women trip over curbs, mesmerized by his face; swivel their head and plow right into people; and halt conversations to gape at him in rictal awe. One woman actually froze in her tracks, dropped her Starbucks to the sidewalk, stared, and muttered, “Holy shit.” The unswerving trajectories that New York pedestrians normally follow were interrupted as the bustling midday masses actually parted for this cynosure.
After I pointed out the devastation he was wreaking, Mr. Genetic Powerball Winner swore he never noticed these things. I guess if you always induce this sort of behavior in people, it skews your perception. You probably conclude that women are just sort of naturally clumsy creatures who constantly go around slack-jawed, walking into lampposts. I suppose it would be arrogant to assume they only act that way around you.
But I knew different and was proud to walk next to him and be mistaken for a gay couple. I preened at passers-by with an expression that said, Yup, that’s my lover. Ain’t he a peach?
_______________
This essay originally appeared in somewhat different form in Funny Times, TearSheet, NailPro, and Supermodels Unlimited magazines.
