Kameleon Man by Kim Barry Brunhuber

Author:Kim Barry Brunhuber
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC027020
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2003-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

I’ve only been up for two minutes and already I’m running out of things to say about jeans. “I also have a lot of fresh ideas. Kameleon is an innovative company, and I’d love to be involved in the creative process. For instance...” I didn’t actually prepare any ideas. I probably should have thought it through first.

“Interactive ads...uh...for instance. Viewers could vote on-line as to which colour jeans would be in the ads. So while the commercial’s on my jeans would change colour, depending on how many people were voting for each one. Changing colours. Like a chameleon. Though I guess the ad would have to be broadcast live from each station running the ad, with staff dedicated to changing the colour of the jeans every time the spot was on. So it probably wouldn’t work. But...you get the idea. Is this thing recording?”

The klieg lights in front of me are blinding. I have no idea if the video camera has even started recording my pitch. A man in a short pink sweater told me to begin talking once the little red light went on, and to stop when it went off, but I don’t see a red light of any kind. I’m alone in the room. What to do but keep going?

“Or you could try a different approach. Interactive in another kind of way. Get real people involved. Real jeans for real people. Actually that’s not a bad slogan. You could take really bad-looking people and throw the jeans on them. I can hear it now. ‘If he looks good in Kameleons, just think how good you’d look. Of course, that would defeat the purpose of hiring a model.”

I’m exhausted, more by the futility of my arguments than the effort I’ve expended explaining them. I realize I’ve been standing the whole time. There’s a chair by my knees, so I sit, shake my head, laugh. “Here I am trying to tell you how to do your job when I don’t even know how to do mine.”

I can see the light now from the corner of my eye. When I try to peer at it directly, it disappears. I open my mouth but can’t think of anything to fill it with. Time to take a moment, marshall my strength for one last salvo. But all I can think of is Simien and what he’s up to right now—making last-minute revisions to his script in Africa, checking out locations, holed up somewhere doing a casting call. Only he’s the caster, not the castee. I’m starting to envy him. Being a model is so much more stress and so much less reward than I ever imagined. I dread go-sees like a piano exam. I hate cattle calls, tramping the ramp in the occasional show, auditions, like these, armed with my portfolio, my biceps, and my stock of well-worn jokes. Like Willie Loman with a tan on a shoeshine and a fat-ass smile.

I smile. “It’s almost comical how ill-prepared I am for this interview.

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