"I don't want my eyes all puffy."
"...we'll do something after we finish the edit."
I’m no genius, I’m well aware of that reader; so its not like Jamaican Whitney’s comment was particularly painful. And she’d said it in a way that was still in her CSI character. Like she was still performing. So I didn’t take it personally.
As it turned out, I think the photographer was grateful for the break. He still had that long line of gals to get thru, so he led Whitney, Khatija, and me into another room where they could splice and edit what would ultimately be her audition tape. I kind of wanted to watch them do it, but I hadn’t been invited over for that. My purpose had been served and I began to feel like maybe Elvis had left the building. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and have to be shown the door in front of all those models.
“So hey,” I said, as I addressed the three of them in what was another converted bedroom, “that was a blast. I really appreciate you inviting me over. There’s so many smoking hot girls here--just like you said. And I think you made a great tape Whitney. You’re really good. I’m gonna look out for you.”
I slung my backpack over my shoulder to leave, but to my surprise it was all three of them that stopped me with equal vigor.
“Hey,” Whitney said, “don’t you want to see how the scene comes out?”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Khatija added, “let’s do something after we finish the edit.”
“Yeah?” I asked again.
“Sure,” the photographer said. “Come ‘ere.”
The photographer led me back to the living room where we’d shot our scene, then stealthily pulled the sofa back from the wall to reveal a cooler full of cold Red Stripes and Heineken's.
“Take what you want,” he told me. “But I ‘ave to get back to work.”
I grabbed a Red Stripe and popped it open with a lighter from my pocket.
“You want to smoke a little bud?” I asked, as I offered him my one-hitter in reciprocation.
“Naw,” he told me with an adamant shake of his head, “I have too much work. Look!”
Here he gestured toward the girls that seemed to perpetually enter and exit the house. He gave my shoulder a friendly pat, then left me where I was.
“Okay!” he announced to the models as he made his way back downstairs, “I don’t know how you were lined up before, so you ‘ave to work it out. And would someone go upstairs to tell my son that we’ve finished?”
With that I was left alone. Well, not alone. I had a cooler full of beers. And a house full of hot chicks milling around in bikinis, halter-tops, and sheer dresses. I was amazed at my continued good fortune and my host’s hospitality. The only way it could have been better was to burn a little herb.
But that photographer had declined--despite being Jamaican! I couldn’t believe that. And when I asked one of the models if she wanted to step outside she declined too.
“Naw,” she said, with a wave of her elegant hand like I was being silly, “I don’t want my eyes all puffy when he takes my pictures.”
Uh,..alright. No issue. Surely I’d find one of these gals to step outside with me for a few minutes of face time, right reader? I mean, not to beat it to death; but half these girls were either Jamaican or Dominican.
But no, none of ‘em smoked. Least, not with me. I even went upstairs to the son’s room--where the hip-hoppers and rappers were making their discs. Of course I could blaze up there, right?! But even there I didn’t smell any weed, and when I got to talking with the son I realized he was a lot younger than I’d first thought. So I bailed on that idea too and snuck out to the front porch to nurse my Red Stripe in the sun.
After all, this was my Saturday. I didn’t need to work.
And there was lots to see.
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.
** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics contained herein were stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.
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