Yes, I had a faux-hawk. I didn't like it messed up. I wore tightAbercrombie T-shirts and faded jeans, of very little variation, andalways with flip-flops. Everywhere. I couldn't kiss anyonespontaneously, or ever, because I perpetually had 15 minutes leftbefore I could take my Whitestrip out. Somewhere along the line, Ihad become every woman's worst nightmare -- a wannabe male model.
Like a lot of guys who dress nice, refrain from wearing jerseysof any kind when not playing sports, and put gel in their hair, Ireceived a lot of positive attention for my appearance. I couldn'thelp it if I actually preferred bathing. According to some ladies,apparently more attracted to musk de naturale and patchy beards,this penchant for good hygiene and sartorial choices rendered me a'pretty boy.' But, in my defense, I didn't blow-dry my hair, wear apuka shell necklace or pop my collar. I was only following my mom'sadvice to always put my best foot forward.
Speaking of my mom, she's probably where my high-self-esteemproblem originated. What a bad influence she was. How else toexplain her encouraging me to attend a modeling convention that cameto town when I was a senior in high school? I should have known wewere in for a scam when I was one of only 80 people chosen. I don'tknow which was the bigger clue, the ostensibly massive quantity ofundiscovered models in Lima, Ohio, or the fact that very few met anyof the traditional model requirements (No. 1: good looks).
Holy Marky Mark, a $1,000 signing bonus! Unfortunately, it wasnot for me but for the 'agency,' a.k.a. guy in cheap, light-coloredsuit. After I cut the check, I got to have my photo taken at aquestionable downtown hotel parking lot, and 'Don Johnson' said hewould be shopping my pictures to famous photographers all over theworld. Guess how many of them called?
So, that was how I ended up with a huge stack of composite photocards, or comp cards, featuring me in a sleeveless shirt with asmoldering look on my face. As if I needed further proof thismodeling thing had not been my most sensible endeavor.
Going to college was much more realistic. I majored in economicsand excelled in classes where you could cut the reality with aknife. I had put the silliness of wannabe fame and fortune behind mefor regression models and supply-and-demand graphs.
But whenever I'd get one of my Tupperware containers out fromunder my bed, I would see my intense comp-card face staring back atme in the far corner. Secretly, I vowed to give that sexy dudeanother chance. Seemed I couldn't let it go.
I blame my father, the man responsible for challenging me tokaraoke sing-offs on a variety of occasions and the source of mygenetic susceptibility to the wannabe fame virus.
I didn't exactly redeem myself by going to New York aftergraduating from college. It seemed like a good idea to take a coupleof digital pictures, lease a $3,000 apartment on the Upper East Sidewith a wannabe model friend from college and go to all the opencalls. At least I was doing it the right way, and going to the rightplaces. Real-world employment could wait.
Except at most of these open calls they didn't even look at me.The receptionist only wanted my pictures, which were slightly betterthan a blue-background Lifetouch special from grade school, to handoff to some goateed, spectacled Oz-like figure perched behind atrendy-looking blown-glass wall. Because four years had passed, Icouldn't even show Oz my awesomely bad comp cards. I got a couple ofnibbles (translation: They looked at me for a minute or two beforetaking a pass) but no one was really interested. A few days later Ileft New York, thinking, 'If I only had a solid portfolio, I mean abrain . . .'
A year passed, I had no career to speak of, and I still thoughtabout my missed opportunity to become Us Weekly fodder. I knew whateveryone was thinking: He did so well in school, he had so much tooffer, why hasn't he found anything permanent yet? What about healthinsurance? They were right to wonder. Seriously, what was myproblem?
I had to do some soul-searching, watch some birds fly toward thehorizon and burn some candles to Gaelic chanting before the wave-crashing Enya revelation hit me. Although I had given up thetraditionally masculine non-grooming techniques, I had kept thetraditional male emotional hang-ups. Namely, I was afraid to committo anything. If I wanted a shot at stardom, then I needed to be inL.A. five minutes ago.
But here I was, like a character on 'Lost,' stuck in limbo.Rather than make an unapologetic, full-fledged run at fame, I keptflashing back to my half-baked attempts at modeling and my choice ofcareer paths in line with social norms. I was exactly the type ofwishy-washy, Charlie-esque character I always hoped would bedecapitated by the black smoke monster. And we all know how that oneturned out.
So, I made a decision and refused to reconsider it. FromIndecisive Island, I would paddle to the mainland, do aHasselhoffian run on the beach and throw a few symbolic comp cardsinto the laps of confused sunbathers as I headed toward the L.A.horizon.
Finally, instead of succumbing to the sheepish guilt I used toassociate with it, I would own my wannabe persona.
Jay Clark never made it to L.A., but he currently has healthinsurance.
