Three Models

           

He gave the room a final once over.  Then he answered the door.

She had smallish green eyes and talked to his shoes.

            “I’m the model,” she said.

            “And I’m the artist.”

            He was trying to be cute.  The model only nodded. 

“Come in,” he said.

She entered the dim studio.

“Are these your drawings?”

“Yes.”

“They’re amazing.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he said. 

She stared at his shoes.

“There’s a robe in the bathroom.”

The model scurried into the bathroom with her backpack.  Minutes later she came out wearing a pinkish terricloth robe. 

“On the futon,” he said.

Terricloth slid from the model’s hunched shoulders.  Her collar bones and hips protruded.  The small green eyes seemed to apologize.

“Tell me something,” he said, “I don’t recall asking for a skeleton.  Did I ask for a human skeleton in my ad?”

A matchstick rose to wilting breasts.  “I’ve been. . .sick.”

“Oh, I get it.  You’re one of those high-strung, over-achieving anorexic girls.  Like they show on the after school specials.  Prom queen, cheerleader.  But one look at a bon-bon. . . .”

“Shut up!” she exploded.

“No, wait.  You’re a sweet farm girl from the heartland.  Came here to be an actress.  Got mixed up with certain people.  Now you do whatever it takes for that next hit.  If the cheerleaders could only see you now.”

The model began to weep.  He turned his back as she dressed and rushed out.

 

The following weeks were difficult.  He sat around doubting himself.  His style was too traditional, too formal for the galleries.  He glanced at the half-dozen framed drawings on the walls.  They were Ok.  But shouldn’t an artist have more to show for the last ten years of his life?

Then another one answered the ad. 

Upon opening the door he discovered a giant goth with blue hair and a tiny yellow lunchbox.   

“Hey, I’m the—”

“The futon is over there. Robe’s in the bathroom.”

“I won’t be needing that,” she said. 

The model walked over to the futon and peeled off her black skirt and torn black tights.  For a moment he envied her shamelessness.  Then she bent over.  A tampon string dangled from her wild blue crotch. 

“Hey, got anything to drink?” she asked.  “I like to get hammered before I pose.”

“I don’t,” he said, “but would you like a Twinkie or an Eskimo Pie?”

“Ha, ha.”

“By the way, the string.  Nice touch.  You remind me of a great big fat balloon.”

“Hey, that’s not cool!” 

She pulled a lobster fork out of her tiny lunchbox and held it to his neck.

“No need to resort to violence,” he said.

“I’ve been working a long time to get my shit together, man!  And no little prick like you is gonna take that away from me!  Got that?”

He nodded.

She dressed, spit on the floor and was gone.

The third was not only pretty but competent.  Within minutes she was nude and taking directions on the futon. 

He could not commit a line to paper.

“Jesus,” he barked, “your body!” 

“What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t. . .translate.”

“Translate?”

“Look.  Go home.”

“But I’m homeless,” she smiled.

He put down the charcoal. 

“Let me get this straight,” she said.  “I just took off all my clothes and now you want me to go home?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, gay?”

“No.”

“Impotent?”

“I’m an artist, damn it!”

She went and opened the blinds.

“So draw me.  For Christ’s sake, do something.”

He stood there as she dressed.

Gone.  Without a word.

 

 He watched through the window as she descended into the subway.  He stared at his drawings for a while.  Then he called the paper and cancelled his ad.