Just North of Whoville Turiskylie, Joyce (smart books to read .TXT) 📖

fake or otherwise, was quickly responded to by a Thank You Card for “the opportunity to ABC ME Shine!!!”

He’d also spent more than seven thousand dollars on photos, comp cards, classes and private career counseling sessions. In almost eight months, he hadn’t gotten a single job, but didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.

“It’s an emergency,” he explained that morning. “I just came from the salon. So…” he scrunched up his face and ran his fingers thru his neatly trimmed hair, “what do you think?”

“Your hair? It looks fine,” I replied honestly.

“Oh my god, it’s SO much shorter than in my photos. Do you think I need new photos?”

I didn’t. But I was sure Deb would.

“It’s just a trim,” I replied. “I don’t see the difference.”

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” he mumbled to himself. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to a stylist with a coupon. I just lost my job. I can’t afford new photos right now. And you’ve got to look like your photos, right?”

“Really,” I was almost losing it. “You can’t tell. It looks exactly the same. It’s a trim. You don’t need new photos for a trim.”

Just then Jamie appeared beside my desk.

“Dorrie, can I see you in my office.”

“You know, you’re probably right,” Timmy continued talking to himself as Jamie practically dragged me by the hair. “Maybe I should take myself off the market till after the holidays…”

Jamie shut the door to her office and tore into my like a hyena ripping into a carcass.

“Never tell a model they don’t need new photos. That’s what we fucking do here, Dorrie!”

“I’m sorry. But it’s just a trim. And he just lost his job…”

“Dorrie, that young man out there is chasing his dream. He wants to be a model. And if he wants it badly enough, he’ll get the money.”

She began to pace a bit, like a shady lawyer trying to sway the jury.

“Do you have a dream, Dorrie?”

“Yeah. To be a director. Remember?”

“Oh right. Your resume,” she remembered as she rolled her eyes a bit and sighed. “But you’d do anything to make that dream come true, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, not…anything,” I tried to explain. “But I work really hard…”

She wasn’t listening. She already had me figured out. “You’re not married. No kids. You live in a crappy apartment. You’ve given up all potential happiness in life and are living like a bum just so you can do…whatever it is that you do. And you’re how old now?”

“Thirty-four.”

She whistled at my extreme age. Then she leaned in close and confidential-like, “The older you get, the less willing people are to give you an opportunity. Trust me, I know. I think you have a future here, Dorrie. You’re organized, you show up on time, and you have a nice phone voice. Some of the girls we had in here sounded so ghetto. But you sound professional. That instills confidence in the buyer. That’s what we need at ABC. So I want you to go back out there and tell what’s-his-name to talk to Deb. She’ll take it from there.”

“Okay. Sure. No problem,” I said casually, just trying to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“And Dorrie, I’m sorry I came down so hard on you. But I think you’ve got potential in this business. How does that grab you?”

“Um…okay. Sure.”

I didn’t want anything in that office to grab me. And then she looked at my shirt.

“Is that cat hair?”

Back in the reception area, Deb was surveying Timmy with a hawk’s eye.

“Timmy! What have you done?”

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod… I knew it!”

“Don’t you worry. Deb’s going to make it all better,” she soothed, as she put her arm around him and led him off for the kill.

I had to get out of this job. Was I being groomed to become part of the ABC Team? I was sick thinking I might have to resort to fully participating in their chicanery. What dark, hidden traits had she detected in my personality that would lead her believe I could be her partner in crime?

As I sat there at my desk, panic set in. I couldn’t breathe. Like lead weights were nailed to my chest. Was this a panic attack? I’d heard about those. Or maybe a heart attack? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. I’d better call 911. No. They’re busy people there. Maybe I should just call Mom. Or anybody. Just somebody who cared. I pulled out my cell phone and saw I had a text. It was from my friend Steve. For some reason, just getting a text message allowed me to breathe. There was someone out there who cared about me. At least sort of.

Steve O’Brien was an actor I’d worked with a few years ago on an off-off-off Broadway play. He had an Irish father and a Korean mother---this guaranteed that he was stopped by Homeland Security on a regular basis.

“R we still meeting 4 lunch?” the text read.

Steve and I weren’t dating. God no. We weren’t even really friends. Not in that close friendship sense. We were theatre pals. After the short run of the show, we’d run into each other at different plays and theatre gatherings. But he was born and raised in New York, so his request to meet for lunch probably meant he wanted something. Steve could be a bit self-involved. But without a huge social life, I agreed to meet him at the halal lunch cart down the street after one of his auditions.

At the very least, it gave me the opportunity to vent. And it didn’t help that workmen all around us were stringing up Christmas lights in almost eighty degree weather.

Oh---I was on fire.

“Apparently I should be putting prompt, organized and Caucasian on my resume because those seem to be the