Models Wanted

Janet Johnston

Word Count 2800

1971. I’m seventeen. We’ve moved again, this time into a two-bedroom apartment. My brother Doug and I share a bedroom with twin beds. He’s nineteen. He sleeps hot and throws the covers off. I never look at him sleeping in case his pecker is poking out of his boxers.  

Mother’s having toast and coffee, her jaw rotates in large, slow circles that remind me of a man-eating llama. Her eyes narrow as she focuses on some resentment, tough as jerky made from human flesh. 

I pour molasses over a dollop of soft butter and swirl it with a knife. 

Mother picks up the paper and studies it, then circles an ad.  

“Look here, Janet Lynn. You could do this!”  

   Models Wanted 

          No Experience Necessary

Despite having no training, Mother occasionally modeled for Neiman Marcus and Cadillac.  

“You think I could?” I say, instantly scrutinizing everything I don’t like about my appearance. 

“Absolutely! You’re pretty and you know how to walk in heels. Call the number!” 

 I call, and to my surprise, the man on the phone says I can have an interview. Mom grins broadly, exclaiming, “That’s how you do it!”

While Doug and Mom eat, I press my best peasant blouse and bell bottoms. I apply a few twiggy lines under my lower lids and goop on the mascara. To make my lips look fuller, I choose the flesh-colored lipstick, applying several coats. Lastly, I straighten my part and iron my long brown hair. 

“You look just like Cher, Honey,” Mother says. “You better leave, in case you have trouble finding it.  

I follow Doug to his adorable, white Ford Falcon with the red steering wheel. “Hey, if I get this job, maybe I can buy the Falcon and you can get an El Camino.” 

“Now you’re talkin’,” he says. Once in a while, he wants a little sister instead of something to torture. I imagine my hands on the red steering wheel. 

His muscular forearm glows in the dashboard light as he pulls the ashtray open to reveal half a joint. “Save it,” I say, “we’ll need it to celebrate.” 

The neighborhood is new and the houses all look the same. I see the address. My heart races. “There it is.”

Doug pulls to the curb, asks, “How long?”

“The guy said plan on an hour.” 

Doug opens his door. 

“I don’t need you to walk me,” I say. 

“Ok, but be careful, Sis. And be ready in exactly an hour or I’m coming in. You hear me?” 

“You just be ready to sell me this car. And don’t smoke that joint. We’ll need it to celebrate.” 

The doorbell makes an electric clacking sound. There’s a strip of yellow glass with circles in it by the door. Someone is moving on the other side. The door opens. A blond-haired girl walks out rolling her eyes, giving the universal Dork Alert, but she doesn’t look worse for the wear.  

“Hi, I’m Brad. You must be Janet. Come in.” 

Brad’s smile reminds me of the shoe salesman at Buster Brown’s Shoe Store on Main. I follow him into the kitchen. It’s clean except for two sippy cups and a bottle of grape cold medicine.  

“You have kids?” I ask. 

“A four and a two-year-old. They’re asleep upstairs.” He opens the fridge. “St. Pauli Girl, Heineken, Coors, Dos XX’s?” 

“Dos XX’s, please.” 

“I’d have taken you for a St. Pauli Girl.” 

He walks toward the living room. I’ve never walked on white carpet. Except for two bright orange pillows, the sofa is also white. There’s a row of colorful paintings of women hanging on the wall. They remind me of elementary school art. But so did Picasso. What do I know? There are no coasters on the glass coffee table. All this white makes me nervous. The beer drips cold sweat onto my hand. I wipe it on my jeans leaving a cool, blue smudge. 

Brad is talking about art and his good fortune of having a wife who believes in his work. Where are you in school, Janet?" 

"I'm not at the moment. We just moved. So, you like bright colors." 

And he’s off and talking about color and light and circling back to me with compliments on my looks. It feels bogus but perhaps this is how it's done, this kind of interview. I’d like to chug the beer but take ladylike sips.

“My most important painting is an homage to Rembrandt. It’s done mostly in sepia, a portrait of Christ crucified. I’ll show it to you if you like.” 

Shit, he’s religious. What if he asks about my church life? I know doodily about Jesus. 

“Sure. Is your wife home?” 

“She’s a pharmacist. Works the evening shift. It’s great for us. I can watch the kids and paint while she’s working.” 

Brad is talking about the Jesus painting. He looks away. I wipe my hand again and gulp the beer. “What’s sepia?” I ask. 

He talks about brown, death, Rembrandt, Christ and art as God’s expression 

“So, painting is like religion for you? Is that it?” Brad cocks his head and blinks, “Exactly, Janet. You’re quite insightful for your age.” 

“Thank you. Do you have a bathroom I can use?” I smile and wiggle the empty. 

“Of course.” He smiles, takes the empty to the kitchen. I follow. 

“I can show you the painting. It’s too big for the gallery so I put it on the upstairs landing.” 

 I want to know about the job but don’t want to be pushy. Each step up the stairs squeezes my belly but I think about buying the Falcon. 

On the landing, Jesus leans against the wall, in a tall narrow frame, his pierced palms upward. His side is gashed and leaking. He’s boney and forlorn in shades of brown on black and his large eyes remind me of paintings on velvet I’ve seen in Tijuana. Brad is waiting. The moment hangs askew. I’ve got to say something. Maybe Jesus is waiting. I feel sad for sepia Jesus but I’m not sure whether it’s for being murdered or because he’s been painted like this. 

“I like the browns. They’re good for such a sad picture.” 

“That’s what I was after, the tragedy of that singular moment.”

I inhale and am almost dizzy. I must have been holding my breath. 

Brad says, “The bathroom is right through there.” He points into a master bedroom that is as large as our apartment and full of dark, curvy furniture. On the left, a huge bed is dressed in maroon satin with round, pleated pillows. 

The open bathroom door is straight ahead, just past the closet which is stacked with maybe fifteen expensive looking men’s sweaters, all the same style of crazy, patchwork weaving. Between the first two stacks is something familiar. Without thinking, I reach for it and sure enough, “Hey, Brad, my dad has a Luger just like this, from the war.” 

“Put that back young lady! That’s not a toy!” 

I’m stunned by his harshness. Where’s smiley Buster Brown? 

“Okay, but you should keep the safety on. I mean, kids climb, you know?” 

 I click the safety and slide the Luger back in its nook. In the bathroom I take a full breath and sit on the toilet, glad to be alone, to sit down and let go. Brad is supposed to be interviewing me for work. The situation is weird but growing-up with Dad’s musician friends has developed in me a near limitless tolerance for weird. 

 As I leave the bathroom, Brad says, “Sorry about barking at you. Having kids has made me a patient man but, you know, when it comes to safety, I can snap.” 

“That’s OK,”  

“You’re a terrific girl, Janet. You have something I’d like to capture. I’m thinking this could be an extraordinary painting, shades of purple and grays, perhaps.” 

“Does this mean I get the job?” 

“In fact, I’d like to do a series with you. That would mean sitting over a period of time.”

“When do I start?” I can’t wait to tell Doug. 

“We can start tonight with the preparations. I always take photographs to paint from. You’ll sit for me, but I’ll also have the photos to work from when you aren’t here. These would be nudes in the classical sense. I’ll understand if you’re not comfortable with that. You think about it while I check on the kids.” He turned and walked out. 

There it is. The son-of-a-bitch wants pictures to jerk-off to. I feel so stupid. What kind of idiot would answer that ad? What was Mother thinking? Above all, why did I hope? I’m embarrassed for coming here, for getting dolled-up. 

I can’t continue to be this stupid and live. I feel sick with rage but if I let it take over, I’ll lose my mind like Dad when he chases the dogs at night, kicking and cursing in the dark. And just like that the rage crests and recedes. I’m a vacant lot and my rage is a dog barking in the distance.. 

Something has to happen but what? Do I bring Doug into this? No. He’d beat Brad senseless and go to jail and he’s much too sensitive for incarceration. He usually goes off by himself for a few days when he’s upset but I saw him cry like a lunatic once, yelling nonsense and blowing snot. That’s what happens when people feel too much. Anyway, as Mother says, you’ve got to take the bull by the horns. 

Here comes the artist. I check my face. Nothing. 

“Okay, you can take pictures.”  

“Good girl! These will be exceptional, I promise.” 

Good girl? I want to slap him. 

“We’ll use my bed,” he says, smiling like a kid. “Let me get my camera.” 

I remove my clothes and sit on the slick, cool bedspread, placing my hands over my breasts. 

Brad returns with the boxy Polaroid camera. “I’m just going to pose you, OK?” He sets the camera on the nightstand, places his hands on my shoulders and reclines my body onto the bedspread. I cup my small breasts, look away. He takes a picture. The camera clicks, hums lightly and a photo slides out. He becomes entranced , then quietly says, “Thank you, Janet, you’re beautiful.” 

 I’ve never seen anyone absorb me this way. The guys I’ve known were always in a hurry. 

Brad gently lifts my wrists which should make me self-conscious but somehow the embarrassment lifts with my hands. “What a beautiful fawn color your nipples are.” He points the camera. Click. Part of my body has been collected. He sets the camera on the bedside table. It whirs and a square slowly emerges like a black tongue. Brad takes the photo and places it on the table, looking at me as if we are children deep in make believe, “It’s developing,” he says, “I’ll show you when they’re dry.” I nod like a co-conspirator. 

Brad gets on his knees and places a warm hand on my right knee. He waits for the tension to leave my leg, then gently opens me a little, takes a photo and sets it on the nightstand. I am arranged and clicked several more times. “Janet, I want to kiss you. Is that alright?” 

His lips tremble but when he presses harder the trembling stops and I find his lips are full and warm and I give in to the kiss. Rage, barking in the distance, sends a staccato message to take what I want. I’ve never had slow sex. The frenzy of young men has always shut me down, left me wanting and angry.  As Brad suckles my breast, I notice a little bald spot on his head. I feel superior to this fading man. 

Brad stops, closes his eyes, then turns to pick up the camera. Click, this time of the rosy breast he was enjoying. He sets the photo on the bedside table with the others to dry. My body materializes in the black square as if rising from dank water. He moves to the end of the bed, his hands on my ankles asking with gentle pressure for me to open. I do. Click. He comes back to my belly, “May I kiss you here?” 

I’ll never see Brad again. His dark lashes remind me of the newborn calf I bottle fed on my Aunt Meb’s farm. But Brad means less to me than an animal. It feels good to not care about him, to care only for what my body feels. “Yes.”

Brad inhales my scent as deeply as he can. His expression is loose like he just took a hit of opium. He licks like a dog relishing ice cream some kid dropped at the fair. The rapidity of the ascent takes me by surprise. My hips rise and why shouldn’t they? These are just warm, wet animal kisses and my body rushes into the cresting pleasure. When I return, I’m amazed that my mind allowed this. Brad is smiling but I will not say it was good. This is not our story. I gather my clothes. 

“Can I see the photos? I want to look at them alone.” He hands them to me. I walk to the bathroom, close the door, lock it and put my clothes by the sink. I’m flushed with color and free from years of lock-down. Finally, I know what sex can feel like. What does it mean that I came just now with this creep but not with a sweet guy that I loved? 

 I sit to pee and study the photos. My fingers tear each photo into dime-sized pieces and drop them between my legs where they form a floating collage. I push the toilet handle and wave at the shifting mosaic as it swirls down the toilet’s throat. I wash, dress, lean into the mirror, into the girl who is squinting back. I’m going to do whatever I want because it’s my damn carnival. Now you’re talking. 

As I leave the bathroom, I reach into the closet for the Luger. I like its weight in my hand. From the bed, Brad’s voice barks, “What did I tell you about that gun?” 

I remove the safety, click. I point the barrel at my temple. Brad blanches. Trembling, he raises his hands as if to hold back bullets, “What are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t assume things, Brad.”

 “Please! You’re a beautiful young woman. Don’t do this,” he pleads. 

“You didn’t think about that when you put the ad in the paper, did you?”

 The numbers on the bedside clock glow a red 7:57 P.M.

“Only thing is, my brother will be here in three minutes and I don’t want him to see me dead. Tell you what, when your doorbell rings, you offer him a beer. We’ll enjoy one for the road before we leave, then you can go to hell your own way. But if you aren’t polite, I’ll tell him what happened and he’ll play Wipe-out on your head.”

“OK,” Brad says, “Just put the gun back.” 

 The doorbell clacks. I click the safety on and slide the gun into its home between the sweaters. Brad holds the rail as he walks downstairs. I look at Jesus and think, I’d love to take you with me, but you wouldn’t fit in the Falcon.

Doug’s sky blue eyes look for the story. But it’s my story and he can’t have it. 

Doug chooses a Heineken. I pluck a Dos XX’s for the road and lean against the counter. Doug’s expressionless blue eyes shift like a slow metronome between Brad and me. Brad’s smiling like Buster Brown but I’m a blank canvas so Doug finishes his beer in long gulps. “Where’s your trash, Brad?” 

“I’ll take it.” Brad says, and quickly reaches for the beer.

“You ready?” I say, looking at Doug. 

“Yep. Thanks for the beer, man.” 

Brad nods, “Sure, nice to meet you.” He opens the door for us. It closes and the lock immediately clicks behind us. 

As Doug pulls away from the curb, I reach into the ashtray for the roach. The air is soft. It’s a perfect night for a drive. Brad, the colorful paintings of women, Jesus and even the orgasm are sinking into the black tar of the fuck-it pit where they will  dissolve into skeletons of memory. 

 “Well?” Doug asks. 

“I didn’t get it.”

“How come?”

“Too short.” He gives me a questioning look. I blink slowly and he lets it go. 

“You’ll have other chances, Sis.”

“Yeah, it was a learning experience,” I say. Doug nods, digs in his pocket for the lighter. 

Doug hands me the lighter. Click, the flame rises and I inhale some of the smoke deeply through my nose. It burns but I like it. 

Janet currently lives in a tiny town in the panhandle of Texas with her rat terrier, Ofi, and her cat, Darling Puss. She is writing a coming of age memoir and hopes to finish before she dies of old age. She has been published in River Teeth's Beautiful Things and Peregrine Press.