So at this particular cattle call, I found myself mushed behind a guy a good bit taller than me when the crowd starting forming. This is so small feat given that I'm a model and, surprise, pretty tall myself. In fact this dude was the only one a head taller than the rest of us in the room. So of course I'm stuck behind him and can't see the door or the pretty blonde holding the clipboard. Because I always win the lotto at these things.
I finally get through the door though, don't even talk to the pretty blonde because some English guy is hitting on her, and-- actually, wait, quick aside here. If you're ever doing, I don't know, say a psychology project on human male seduction techniques, get a job as one of these assistants. Take 50 bros, each of whose job it is to be told that they're pretty, stick them into a tiny room with a lone female, and the result is something like that scene in Finding Nemo where all the seagulls are like "Mine! Mine! Mine!" and are ready to peck the hell out of anything that looks like food. If the seagulls had fingers to run through their hair every 15 seconds.
Anyway I get through the casting...yadda yadda, naked naked, great to see you great to see you...and then it's off to another one. Or 4 or 10 or whatever since it's Fashion Week, at least it wasn't closer to 20 like some of the girls (speaking of their number of castings, not their age...clearly).
Later that same day though, I'm in another line to get a pass for the elevator. And what do you know, Mr. Paul Fucking Bunyan is standing right in front of me again. Because I can't just keep my god damn mouth shut, I bring this semi-coincidence to his attention, and he turns around and responds with a hello in what is probably the most beautiful accent that could ever possibly be spoken ever.
Now I should also say this guy wasn't just taller than me. He was also much thicker, more cover-of-a-bodybuilding-magazine type build, like the dude had just been cut from a ginormous slab of marble and stuck on a Las Vegas billboard.
You get the idea.
Where, in comparison here, I looked like less "bachelorette party fireman" and more "malnourished newsie."
"Buy me last pape, mistah?"
So him having an accent was just icing on a very large, very Fabio-esque fucking cake.
We soon head up to the casting, just the two of us. He was clearly there before me though, and being that I didn't want to be a dick by cutting in front-- behavior which may seem a given to a normal, polite human being, all things which models can be far from-- he goes ahead to the casting table first while I hang to the side.
And, consequently, I have to hear him woo them with that accent. And tell them where he's from, and how gorgeous it is there. And probably that he spends his spare time building orphanages or providing poor kids with shoes or some shit.
It is in the course of this wonderful revelatory dialogue, however, that the most truly upstaging piece of this feature presentation comes to light...
This motherfucker has the same name as me.
Seriously. Like I was on the Truman Show and this was all planned to get a reaction out of me.
Rather than pretend I didn't hear any of it (or weep into my hands), I at least decide to make some joke about how I must be his doppleganger or something. I don't even entirely remember since I was also kind of busy thinking up elaborate schemes whereby ninjas suddenly burst into the studio and threaten the lives of the casting team, only to be saved by the timely heroic actions of me, though regrettably not before the tragic demise of the poor, helpless other model.
What I do entirely remember, however, is his response. Which, to my acknowledgement of our shared nomenclature, was this:
"Oh, but you're much more handsome."
Now, there's really only two ways a statement like that could be taken.
1.) He's just openly insulting me, given that the rest of the people in the studio weren't blind, and he's standing there like a Greek God while I look like I just survived the Holocaust.
2.) He was being genuine, which only means he's like THE NICEST GUY EVER in addition to all the other bazillion things he's got going on for him.
Either way, I felt like I should be referred to by a nickname in his presence.
And, of course, it turns out he was being genuine, evidenced by the fact that as we left he held the elevator for me and shouted "Hey, Awkward Model! Come on!" in an amazingly friendly tone with an amazingly friendly giant arm wave. (No he did not actually call me "Awkward Model," come on now.)
And I was just like...god I hope that elevator goes straight down to Hell. Or that this guy, like, goes home and cries alone in his apartment or something. I mean, he has to have SOME kind of flaw, right? Right? Maybe he's really bad at video games.
Yeah, that's it.
EDIT: I guess I should probably note here that I actually booked the show and he didn't.
But...but that's beside the point.
