Patch, his Electric Slide, unsure of themselves, but having a ball, just happy to be retroactively learning the latest steps, thrilled to be tutored by a certified Master Negro. Augustus ignores the glares from the other dancers around them, from those too young to remember when Michael Jackson was still black. He’s in a zone. He doesn’t care as long as he’s spinning and winning on the baseline. Scoring, for one. “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...”
And, giggling, one by one, his understudies join in, only mouthing the words at first, then, Long Islands and Blue Lagoons later, screaming out, “Burn, motherfucker, buuuuuurn!”
We’re huddled on the couch for warmth like baby rats. The stereo’s still on—“Single Life” stuck on repeat. “Single guys, clap your hands!” over and over. We’re too tired to turn it off.
I prod Crispen, who’s on my thigh, but he seems to have passed out. Breffni’s still talking about the brunette and the fight her boyfriend picked with him outside the bar, quickly unpicked when Augustus walked their way. No one’s listening.
“So where do I sleep?” I ask.
Augustus points to a thin mattress leaning against the wall. I notice he’s wearing gardening gloves.
“Why the mitts?”
“Keeps ’em steamin’ fresh,” Crispen says, stirring at last. His chuckle turns to heaves. He grabs Breffni’s bowl. Its new contents are indistinguishable from the old.
“Don’t laugh, Pappa,” Augustus says. He peels off a grey glove, exposes a ring. It looks as if it cost more than I do.
“Half an hour of turning faucets and flushing toilets. No stylists, no makeup. Fast and dirty. Easy money.”
“You wear makeup?”
“On my hands?”
“On your face.”
“Powder. Don’t you?”
“No.” I’ve never touched a spore of makeup in my life. I didn’t even know powder came in brown. All of a sudden I’m nervous about tomorrow’s go-see. I’m playing in the majors now. Can’t afford a strikeout at my first at-bat. “What’ll we have to do for that woman tomorrow?”
“Eva?” Augustus says. “The usual. She’ll peek at your portfolio, make you do a couple of laps, then tell you there’s not a big market for your type in Greece.”
“Don’t worry,” Crispen slurs. “You’ll be fine. You know how to walk, right?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. In Nepean, cock of the walk. In Toronto, a shambling mound, lurching up and down the ramp to the tune of snickering models and simmering clients.
“Give me a professional demo,” I say to Crispen. “Just for fun.” But he’s lapsed back into unconsciousness. “Augustus?”
“I don’t do shows.”
“Why not?”
“I’d break the clothes. Breff’s the man.”
“I’ve lost the use of my legs.”
“Come on, Pappa,” Augustus wheedles. “Show ’em how it’s done.”
Breffni slides off the couch. “You know the drill. Head straight. Stomach in. Pretend you have a tail and tuck it between your legs. And just walk.”
He doesn’t walk. He glides. As if he were a passenger on a moving sidewalk. Up and down the living room, looking side to side, while Cameo’s single ladies clap their hands. Until he walks into the wall and collapses.
“Well, that’s my cue for beddy-bye,” Augustus says.
“Me, too,” Crispen says, awake again.
Breffni hasn’t moved. It doesn’t look as if he will until morning.
I turn off the stereo, pull the mattress off the wall, lie down. It’s like sleeping on a playing card. “Do you have a sleeping bag or some kind of foam to put under this thing?” I ask anyone.
“What are you? The princess and the pea?” Crispen growls, still on the couch. “Stop complaining and turn the lights off.”
It’s dark and cold and they’re snoring in stereo. Breff is herking and jerking on the floor next to me, no doubt chasing women in his sleep. I’m still high as a weather balloon. My bed’s spinning. Doubts and misgivings are pulled from the recesses of my mind by centrifugal force. From this mattress the life of a Toronto model appears as glamorous as laundry. I’d like to press Save at this point in my life, just in case things don’t work out, in case this was all a big mistake. I’m messing with a fragile balance, I have to move carefully. Life itself is too good to be true, and if I were to think about that too hard, I’m afraid God would catch on and pull the plug. Good luck isn’t always as simple as it seems. Payback’s a mother. The mean happiness quotient takes care of that. That’s the average level of happiness I’m allowed to maintain in my life. I’m a firm believer in the principle of Even Steven. Like a sitcom hero, after a few adventures, I always return to the status quo. Tomorrow, with Feyenoord, the chance to become a one-name model. Iman. Elle. Instantly recognizable. Stacey. Any more good luck will skew the quotient. Something’s got to give. Things, if left to themselves, always even out in the long run.
THREE
I knew I was in trouble last winter when I first noticed the hairs growing out of my shoulders. The first strands, long and curly, were misplaced pubes. Now I have two fine epaulettes of black hair—a matching set to go with my legs and chest. I’m as hairy as a tarantula.
“You’re the hairiest brother I’ve ever seen,” Augustus says, accosting me on the way to the shower. “Turn around, Pappa. Come out here. Check him out.” He pulls me with one arm into the living room where Breffni and Crispen are slurping cereal.
“Ugh,” Breffni says. “Put him away. We’re eating.”
“Ever think of shaving?” Crispen asks.
“Cream’s the ticket,” Augustus says.
I saw a tube of Augustus’s cream in the bathroom. Lye, thinly diluted with the promise of vitamin E. The warning, if it had one, would read: “Do not combine with skin. Not for internal or external use. If ingested, induce vomiting and call next of kin.” No thanks. I’d live with my fur. All the models these days shave, pluck, or wax. But as we all know, fashion works in cycles. Hairiness used to be next to godliness, considered by many a sign of virility. At least it was in those old sitcoms and pornos. Surely the trend of making all male models as smooth as marshmallows must come to an end. And when it does, I’ll be ready, my coat, glossy and neat, my puffs of shoulder hair, angel wings.
I slink back into the shower. To my surprise, yesterday’s trickle of hot water is a monsoon. All of my anxieties about the morning’s go-see swirl clockwise down the drain. My penis sings in the rain. Back out, covered in a T-shirt and sweater, I tell them about the wood lice in the bathroom.
“Wood lice?” Augustus asks, incredulous.
“Are they contagious?” Breffni is only half kidding.
“Only if you’re made of wood,” Crispen says.
“They don’t actually eat wood. They live on rotting vegetable matter. They’re attracted to moisture and dark corners. So let’s try to leave the door open from now on.”
“How come you know so much about bugs?” Crispen asks.
“My mother’s a zoologist.”
“That sounds serious. What happened to you?”
“I thought I wanted to follow in her footsteps when I was young, but I failed grade nine