Modelling

'Here' turns out to be a door situated on the backside of a building, accessed by a narrow space between it and the neighboring building. A single light-bulb hangs over the door and no sign gives you any clues as to what is inside.

"Anyone here? Stewart?" Jack calls, having knocked and opened the door.

A frantic rustling sound greets his words, followed by a hurried, "Coming, coming!"

Your eyes slowly grow accustomed to the dim lighting of the musty room and you see shelf after shelf. Crammed upon them you see cameras, tripods, easels, costumes and various supplies that look to be paint, canvas and film.

"Is that you, Jack?" a voice calls, and a figure comes around a shelf, an older man still tucking his shirt-tails into his pants. He sees you and freezes, a wary look upon his face. "Who is this?"

"Remember you were saying you needed a college girl?" Jack asks, an odd way to phrase it, but then you weren't there for whatever conversation he's referring to.

"Yes. She's willing?"

"Very. She needs money to pay her rent."

"It's nearly the end of the month, does she need it right away?"

Both men finally look to you and you find your irritation shrivelling in the face of their regard. "Uh, yeah. I'm almost out of money," you say quietly.

The man's eyes seem to light up, and his eyes travel up and down, inspecting you like a connoisseur.

"She is eighteen?" he asks.

"Yes. Freshman," Jack supplies, and you look between the two of them.

Mustering your courage you address the man directly, fighting not to squirm under his intense gaze. "Uh, who are you? What's the job?"

The man blinks, the avaricious look leaving his face as he looks from Jack to you.

"You didn't explain?"

"I just found out she needed money. Don't worry, I've talked to her before, just not about this."

Not understanding what they're talking about you tap your foot impatiently until the man awards you by turning his gaze your way as he explains.

"I need a model."

"A - a model?" you repeat in a squeaky voice. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought of yourself becoming a model. You're too short, too petite, too breast-less!

A slight smirk travels across the man's face, but you're too stunned to be offended.

"Yes, I have various... groups that would be interested in using you."

"We should probably get the paperwork out of the way," Jack suggests, and the man nods, turning to disappear from view.

"A model!" you breath, staring at the space he'd vacated.

"More or less," Jack murmers, chuckling before calling out, "Don't forget the finder's fee!"

"Right right, have I ever?" the man calls back, and hands one of the two envelopes he carries to Jack.

"Uh, what kind of model?" you think to ask, proud that you remembered to ask something sensible.

"Oh, all kinds. Really it is more like a performer. After all, there are so many mediums. Canvas, video, picture, soft, hard, live..."

You stare uncomprehendingly at him, and in hesitating to ask what he means you lose the opportunity.

"Let's get these filled out," he says, plopping a stack of papers on a desk. You spend thirty mind-numbing minutes signing and initialing where he tells you, understanding few of the words on the pages and finally finish with the assurance that you'll start work the next day, with the promise of an under-the-table payment arrangement.

It isn't until you're heading away from the building that you realize that you might have solved your financial woes and you wonder if maybe you should celebrate somehow.