Kyle Hepp

August 5, 2007

So, let’s talk about my weekend and what I did not do. I thought I was going to end up working as a promotora…

Remember how I went to a casting call to try and get a job in promotions? That did not turn out exactly as planned. I arrived on time and looking cute as a button, if I do say so myself. I put in the extra effort on my hair. I normally have a curly fro. Trying to straighten it totally stresses me out:

(and if I look ridiculously skinny in these pictures, it’s because I was. This was taken about two weeks before my wedding when I was at lifetime low of 129, I have since gained back about 7 or 8 pounds).

Anyways, so I straightened my hair, put on the most wonderful makeup in the world, my MAC products, which I only bust out on really special occasions. I wore jeans, high heels and a long, trendy white sweater. I set out feeling full of confidence, when I walked out the door of my house, my head was high and there was nothing in the world that could bring me down because I. Felt. HOT!

Walking through my neighborhood filled with mechanics I received more than my fair share of appreciative glances, whistles, hoots and hollers…all of which I pretended not to notice. If I look them in the eyes, they might propose marriage. I swear, that’s actually happened numerous times. I felt good, I just knew that I was going to be chosen for the job.

The lady who greeted me was wearing a ridiculous blue sequined shirt. The whole time she was talking to me I paid no attention to the words she was saying because her shirt was like a giant, mesmerizing, disco ball. I. Could. Not. Look. Away. She blah blah blah’ed and led me to a room full of 5 other prospective promotion girls.

Everybody looked extremely bored and all the girls were wearing extremely tall heels. I asked them why and they said because they had all lied about their heights on the application and were hoping the agency wouldn’t notice. Dang it! I should have lied and worn taller heels too! There aren’t many tall Chilean models, and these girls told me that even on the agency website where all the girls who are shown have stats that say they are 170 cm (5’5.5″), really only reach that height with heels on. Suddenly 5’4″ without heels made me feel like a giant among men.

So we sat there and discussed our heights, and weights and hair and heels and any other boring, superficial topic you can possibly think of. And the clock ticked on. and on. and on. We sat in a room with no windows for over an hour and a half. It was dark and gloomy and my company was so terrible that I suddenly wondered if I had died and maybe God was punishing me for not giving money to the beggar with no legs who rides around a skateboard, that I always pass by when I go downtown.

Finally when we were closing in on a wait time of two hours one by one the models started trickling out the door. I had one foot in the open air on my way to freedom when Senora Disco Ball comes running after me screaming, “Stay! Stay! OH PLEASE STAY! The client has arriiiiiiiiiiived!” There was such a desperation in her voice that I felt like her job might be on the line if a client showed up and had no models to choose from, so I stayed. Nobody else did. Jeez, gringas are total pushovers, aren’t we?

The client was a total bitch. She walked in haughtily, didn’t apologize for being two hours late, and demanded a cup of coffee. Then she sat down and stated, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” and slowly finished her beverage, not caring that I had been waiting for her for FOREVER. When she finished, all she did was tell me to stand up, turn around and walk around the room. Then she asked very condescendingly (you know, speaking veeeeerrrryyyy, slooooooooowwwwlyyy and VERY LOUDLY in case I didn’t understand) if I spoke Spanish. When I told her I did, she said, “Alright she’s in,” and left the room. Senora Disco Ball came back and told me that since I had passed the test I was required to go to a half day seminar on the bitch client’s product on Friday in order to work the next two weekends for them. When I asked if I would be paid for the seminar, she practically snorted and told me, “Absolutely not.”

I walked out the door pissed as hell, pardon my French. And on the 30 minute, now 6 blister walk, + 45 minute metro ride home I did some calculations. Including the 3 hours of time spent at the “casting call,” plus the half day product seminar, and the 9 hours workdays, the total pay was going to come out to less than 50 cents an hour.

I sent an email when I got home and told Disco Ball I couldn’t make it. She wrote back furious, and said, “This is a professional agency and when you make a commitment to us we expect you to keep that commitment. How am I supposed to find another model in such a short notice? This is the first and last time you do this to us, if it happens again you’ll have to find yourself a new agency!” I haven’t wrote back and probably won’t but if I did it would go something like this.

Dear Disco Ball,

You kept me waiting for over 2 hours, then your client treated me like dirt, and you expected me to drop everything with less than 24 hours notice for a seminar you didn’t tell me about and you want to talk to me about professionalism? Don’t worry about this ever happening again, in fact I’m already looking to find myself a new agency. Why? Not because I’m scared of your disciplinary threats, but because I won’t work for an hourly rate that would be considered slave labor in most places.

Sincerely,
The gringa who is taller than all your models without hooker heels on

Ps. The 1970′s called and they want their disco ball…oops, I mean shirt, back.