Chapter 59

Wednesday, June 20 Out In Malibu

Rather than apologize for the asshole’s behavior, Marge just gave me a bland look.

“Welcome to the world of modeling,” she said and headed back to the house.

Arlene spoke to some of the crew members on the set, lighting techs and folks like that. I stayed as far back as I could and watched events unfold until one of the photo assistants came over. She was maybe mid-20s, rather square-built but not unpretty in her own right, she just would never stand out in this crowd.

“Fran Goldstein,” she said, introducing herself.

“Gary Robinson,” I answered.

“Don’t take anything Giorgio says or does too personally,” she said. “He feels an inordinate need to assert his dominance on a shoot, like he’s the only person in the world who can get the shot. All he does is hold the button down and hope for the best. There must be half a dozen of us out here today who could do the job just as well if not better, we just don’t have the name recognition.”

“He certainly makes an impression,” I said.

“He has an image to keep up.” she said. “His real name is George Schwarzmann, from Brooklyn.”

We chatted a bit about what I could expect tomorrow before I decided I needed to get my running in instead of standing around all day.

“How far down the beach can I go?” I asked. “I need to do my training and get over my flight. I don’t want to get in the way of any shots, but I don’t want to get too far away just in case Arlene wants me for something.”

“How much space are you talking about?” Fran asked.

“Maybe a quarter mile,” I said. “I usually warm up with about a two-mile jog, then we do a sort of shuttle run back and forth over 40 yards. We call them gassers. I could just jog down and back to warm up, then I can step off the space for the gassers. It doesn’t have to be exact. My muscle memory should get me close to the right distance.”

She took me down to the water’s edge and looked up and down the beach before pointing up the coastline.

“That gray house on top of the cliff is right at a half mile,” she said. “I’ve used that as my marker for morning jogs. And I think you’ll be all right for the other stuff if you keep to the other side of this house. All the equipment should be your dividing line because we don’t want that in our shots.”

I made sure my flip-flops and T-shirt were safely stashed and went to do my stretching in that strip of sand around the high-tide mark that was still damp but not too wet. Once I felt ready, I took off at my usual pace, heading toward the gray house.

It didn’t take me long to realize that running barefoot through wet sand was a lot harder than running along a cement cart path in athletic shoes. I had a good sweat going by the time I reached the gray house. I returned to my starting point, then ran out and back one more time.

Feeling good and loose, I picked a spot that should keep me out of the way, drew a line in the sand with my heel and sprinted for what I hoped was 10 yards. It at least felt like the correct number of steps. I repeated the process for 20 and 40 yards, then went to my starting point to begin.

Fran Goldstein was waiting for me with a camera in her hand.

“I want to get a feel for how you move,” she said, plopping down in the dry sand even with my starting line.

I just nodded and waved, then got in position and started my first run, making sure to touch a hand to the ground before reversing course. I wasn’t paying attention to what Fran was doing as I ran back and forth. I was catching my breath after my fifth gasser when I looked up to see Fran, Giorgio and another woman heading my way.

“This had better be good,” Giorgio said. “We’ve got until they get set up for the next shot.”

Fran told me to run another gasser, which I did, Giorgio watching through a viewfinder.

“Again,” he said as I caught my breath with my hands on my head.

I did it again.

“Elaine, board shorts,” he said. “You, Cherry, what size?”

“A 30-inch waist, sir,” I said, and Elaine scurried off.

She returned a couple of minutes later with a royal blue suit and a wrap, which she put around my waist.

“Strip and put the suit on,” she said.

I did so quickly and handed her the wrap with my cargo shorts and boxers.

“Again,” Giorgio said.

I ran another gasser while Elaine scurried off again. I just about had my breath back when she returned with several suits of different colors. Giorgio selected one and I again changed under the wrap.

“Again,” he said.

I wound up running more than 20 gassers, changing to a different color of suit every few, before Giorgio stopped.

“Be back here at 7:30 this evening,” he said. “We’ll try this again with the sunset.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering if I had another 20 gassers in me.

After I changed back into my cargo shorts and made sure Elaine had all the suits I’d worn, I jogged about halfway to the gray house and back for my cool-down. I reclaimed my shirt and flip-flops when Arlene asked if I wanted lunch.

“As much as I do, I need a nap more.” I said. “I’ve been told to be on set at 7:30. That’ll be 17 hours since I woke up. I’ll never make it.”

She allowed me to return to my room, advising me to rinse off in the shower before I laid down. I’m not sure I got completely dry before I was out.

I slept at least three hours, finally waking up a little before 5 p.m. Pacific time. I put on my shirt and flip-flops and wandered back to the beach, where one of the techs directed me to the commissary table. All I could find was California food — lots of sprouts, not much protein. What I needed was a good, greasy cheeseburger.

I managed to scrounge enough that I would make it through the rest of the day, but I found myself longing for a repeat of Monday’s lunch with George Patterson and Meredith Metzger.

Fran Goldstein chased me down about 6:30 to make sure I would be in position for whatever Giorgio had planned. I stayed close to her, watching the action as Giorgio begged, pleaded, harangued, insulted, cajoled, castigated, babied, coddled and engaged in any number of other behaviors to coax the desired reaction from the models. There was a lot of haranguing and insulting.

He finally called a wrap about 7 and the entire bunch hit the commissary table. When Fran finally went over to remind him of his last appointment of the day, he acted surprised that she’d taken him seriously. She apparently said she’d do it herself. If she was attempting to motivate him, it worked.

“I get the shots!” he boomed. “You set up the shots, you underling! Where is this waste of flesh? Cherry! Get your ass over here!”

Since I was only about 10 feet away, it didn’t take me long. Giorgio shouted at another assistant to bring cameras, lenses, filters and the like. Yet another was dispatched to get a couple of reflectors and flashes. Somebody else was told to bring power packs. Elaine had a stack of brightly colored suits — turquoise was probably the most subdued. Giorgio selected what he said was salmon, I changed under the wrap, stripped off my shirt and prepared to run more gassers.

Giorgio had us move up and down the beach in an effort to get just the right lighting. One fact about the Malibu coastline of which I was unaware until I was actually there is that it runs east-west, making it difficult to get sand, sun and water in a shot at the angle Giorgio wanted. We kept at it for the better part of an hour before he called a halt. I’d run nearly 30 more gassers — at a much slower speed than I had for my workouts — and wore some colors whose names I’d never heard.

The photographer had to assert his dominance one more time before he dismissed me.

“Maybe, perhaps there is a slight possibility we can salvage this disaster in the making if you do everything I say exactly as I say,” he said just loud enough to be heard from Thousand Oaks to Oxnard. “The camera may love you, but I do not! And I am your God! You will run, jump, stand still, eat, breathe when I say, where I say and how I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, still a little out of breath after all the running.

“First call is 6 a.m.,” he said. “Do. Not. Be. Late.”

I wondered if George Schwarzmann had been a high school football coach in a previous life.

After my third shower of the day, Arlene asked me what I wanted to eat for dinner.

“Red meat, preferably beef,” I said. “I’ve had catfish two nights in a row. Maybe we can do seafood tomorrow.”

She told me to get dressed while she called the car service. All I had left in my bag were the khaki slacks and one polo. I could have sworn I’d overpacked for this trip and I was already almost out of clothes.

I relayed my dilemma to Arlene, who explained the house’s laundry service. A stack of plastic bags could be found in the bedside drawer. Put the clothes in, fill out the tag and hang it on your outside doorknob before 9 p.m. I was just learning all kinds of fascinating shit on this trip.