The One-Up
by Jen Michalski
The lie seemed harmless enough; no one at her ten-year college reunion had kept up with her, or she with them. It started innocuously in the hotel where she was staying, a Days Inn ten miles from campus that smelled faintly of industrial cleaners and coffee. Someone had left a catalog for an Australian clothes company in the lobby. Its thin, glossy pages featured rugged young men and women perching on barnyard fences, tilting precariously on bicycles while laughing, staring intently at some point off the page while sipping a cappuccino at an anonymous coffee shop. It was a life that didn't exist but everyone tried to emulate nonetheless, well-tailored clones in the cookie-cutter towns she had spent most of her life trolling through since college, consulting for a software company that eventually downsized her. She noticed on page 16 a model wearing rolled up clam diggers and a crewneck sweater playing with a shaggy retriever in the surf, her angled face dark and hidden by the late afternoon light, a model who, amazingly, looked very much like her.
When her classmates, conspicuously heavier around the jaw and waist, bearded or clean shaven since she last saw them, in various stages of pregnancy and motherhood, or recovering from an early-bird midlife crisis, asked what she, Emma Vyne, had been doing since school, she smiled modestly and laughed politely, explaining that she had been traveling here and there, doing the odd modeling job, not much really, although she did do a shoot recently in Brisbane. Perhaps they had seen her photo in the Pacific End catalog?
The lie, once born from her lips, took on a life of its own, an aggressive child who walked before she crawled. She told it to glassy-eyed thirtysomething men in bars, overly chipper college-aged waitresses at Applebee's, and the young ethnic men who chatted her up at the Laundromat.
She did not know how to stop it; it became so much a part of her, the lie, that she carried the folded, loose-at-the-staples catalog around in her briefcase, and during her lunch breaks, on planes, at airport gates, she stared at herself, wondering what she was thinking that day, the breeze on her face, the smell of the sea, the little flecks of surf that the dog's tail swatted onto her hands and forearms. Who was she then, and how did she wind up here, of all places, inbetween jobs, inbetween lovers, inbetween decades, with nothing to show for it?
She called the Pacific End catalog.
No, she did not wish to order merchandise, she explained to the sales rep. She wished the pinpoint the location of one of their shoots. Was there anyone who could help her? She was subsequently transferred to public relations, then to a marketing manager, who transferred her to publicity, who transferred her back to marketing.
"The Fall catalog," she specified quietly on the phone where she worked one of her temp jobs for unemployed tech employees. "The one with the guy on the sailboat. On page 16, the woman in the surf, where is she?"
"She's in front of the Horizon Resort at Mission Beach in Tropical North Queensland, Australia."
She knew, without thinking, that she would take the last of her savings and make the twenty-hour trip to the shores of North Queensland to see where it all began--for her or her Doppelganger--the place where she stared past the horizon line and beckoned others to follow, where she achieved nirvana in her lifetime, all while wearing crisp size-six clam diggers and a navy cable knit sweater. She dreamed of telling her future temporary coworkers and fellow bar patrons at home about the breathtaking views of Dunk Island and the Coral Sea while she had modeled the smart cotton clothes made in a sweatshop in Indonesia, clothes that she herself did not wear because they were, well, just clothes.
The one-and-a-half-hour coach ride from the airport to Mission Beach was hot and uncomfortable. A couple of middle-aged, middle-American tourists commented on every vista, rattling their fold-out brochures and wondering when they would see a koala. Her own brochure, of the hotel, laid neatly on her lap, advertising 55 rooms spread through a rain forest, linked by elevated boardwalks through the trees and foliage. She wondered whether Pacific End or some other catalog-sales clothier was to perform any photo shoots while she was there. Her life in the outskirts of Philly became a footnote in the new, blue basin sky that illuminated her life. The possibilities danced in her mind. Emma Vyne, would grasp her purpose, her communion with humanity, but mostly her purpose. And she could come home, ex-model, and embark on the new tendril that sprouted out of her previously shallow foundation.
At the hotel she overtipped the bellboy and sat at the edge of her king-sized bed, wondering what to do first. Brochures of the area attractions were stacked neatly in a plastic holder on the desk facing her -- water sports and hiking tours and wine tastings -- the stuff of cheap tourism. She laid back and decided to sleep off the jet lag -- surely a model wouldn't step out on the town before nine or ten at night at the earliest, even the Pacific End models.
At eight-thirty she pulled out her best mini-skirt, tank top, and marked-down Kate Spade bag and headed for the hotel restaurant, a tropical outdoor terrace, for a quick dinner before heading out on the town. But where? Perhaps the waiter would know some hot spots. She settled at a table near the bar and ordered a salad. A thick, athletic man in his thirties wearing slacks and a crisp green shirt open at the neck turned slightly to smile at her.
He was not the kind of man in which she usually took interest. He had a ruddy, freckled face underneath short, copper-red hair and a goatee and eyes that laughed behind the creased skin of his weathered cheeks. She could not help but feel that he was out of place, even if she couldn't explain why. Perhaps his girlfriend or wife would return from the ladies room, or maybe he was in town for business, some business of which she was not sure. He raised his glass and motioned to her table.
"Would you like some company for dinner?" He asked with a decidedly American accent. She held her hand out toward the empty chair across from her. "I'm Jason."
"Emma," she answered, and wondered whether she should have devoted part of her flight to creating a fake identity. "How do you do?"
"You're on vacation, I presume?" He stroked the right collar of his shirt absently. "Swanky place, eh?"
"It's quite nice." She shrugged noncommittally. "I've actually stayed here before as part of a shoot."
"Shoot? Ah, I knew you were a model." He clapped his hands together and laughed. "What agency?"
"Ford," she answered quickly. Jason nodded noncommittally, rubbing his goatee. "It was for Pacific End -- you know them?"
"Know them? I'm wearing your pants." He laughed, and held a leg up above the table as if for verification. "That's superb."
"What do you do for a living? Not thatit matters. It's such an American thing to want to know." She smiled apologetically.
"No, no, it's all right. You're right that we're a little obsessed with that kind of stuff." He finished his whiskey. "Would you like a drink, Emma?"
"Perhaps later." She touched the top of her water glass. Although she did not feel in danger of being exposed, certainly not by Jason, she was not at liberty to make such an assumption just yet.
"Hydration, is that why you're not drinking?" He pointed to his face. "I heard hydration keeps you young-looking. I've spent a lot of my life in the sun -- you probably can tell, huh? I played left field for the Rangers for a few years, you know, the Texas Rangers? I've played baseball all my life."
"So . . . are you playing now?" She questioned. "Isn't the season still . . . on?"
"Right you are, Emma. The season ends in October. I'm glad to meet a girl who knows a little about baseball." He leaned back slightly in his chair. She cold see a curve of pectoral muscle in the generous opening of his shirt, along with some freckles. "I tore up my rotator cuff a few years back, so I've been rebuilding and trying to make a comeback. My agent wanted me to try out for the Japanese leagues, you know, do some DHing--designated hitting, I mean, so I figured while I was in this part of the world I might check out the beautiful beaches the Aussies have down here."
"Oh, so you were in Tokyo?"
"Tokyo, sure. You heard of the Yomiuri Giants? They're like the New York Yankees of Japan. They play over in the Tokyo Dome. You ever heard of it?"
"Can't say I have." She shook her head.
"They call it the Big Egg, well, because it looks like one. It's funny, because they have a McDonalds there, and a KFC, Pizza Hut, Subway. I mean, it's all American, practically. In Japan, for god's sake! That's the funny thing about the world. Wherever you go in the world, there's always a little piece of home there. So what about you, Emma, where does a model call home these days?"
"Philly . . . when I'm there, I mean. "What about you?"
"St. Louis. At least that's where I've put everything in storage. I've lived everywhere, feels like. And it's kind of nice, you know? If you don't like how your life is turning out, you're entirely free to pick up and try again somewhere else. It's an American tradition--it's in our genes, for God's sake! So tell me about being beautiful and rich, Emma. How long have you been at it?"
"Most of my life," she shrugged as the waiter brought her salad. "It's not very glamorous, to be honest. Lots of travel and long hours."
"But it's the thrill, I bet, of opening up a magazine or whatever and seeing your face through the eyes of millions of other eyes, huh?" He unfolded his cloth napkin with his chunky, pale fingers before refolding it perfectly. She wondered whether he had been a waiter. "It's so much better than just an ordinary life. That's why I'm still at it, you know. The fame, the fortune -- you can't quite go back to selling timeshares or working for the printshop once you've tasted it. I'm sure you know what I mean."
Emma nodded. "My sister . . . she worked as a programmer, did some consulting for a software company, got laid off. She spends her weekends watching all the stuff she recorded on TiVo during the week. A guy told her once that she was good enough to fool around with, but he didn't really see her as marriage material. I don't want that to be me."
"I'll bet you'll never have to worry, Emma," he smiled and placed the napkin carefully on the table. "What do you say we check out some nightlife? I bet you know all the hot spots, huh?"
"Not really." She placed her glass down and reached for her purse to pay the check. "The last time I was here, I worked all day and got room service. But I would love to look around, really."
"That's the spirit." He touched her hand gently, the one that held her wallet, and shook his head. "I'll get it. I think we need to get out and have a proper Australian evening, yes?"
They caught a cab that took them south to Townsville. She wondered what the hell had happened these past twenty hours, or what she had expected to happen. While it was true at this juncture in time she had no past, her future seemed as murky as the interior of the first nightclub they entered, the Mad Cow Tavern.
"Are you a dancer?" He shouted in her ear. She felt a light spit from his mouth on her neck. Maybe they were supposed to fuck in the bathroom or out on the beach in front of the hotel, the lapping of the water and soft breeze muffling their cries, the sand swallowing their drunken indiscretion and hot, fluid passion. She had met Tim at a bar, Tim who did not envision marriage in his future, at least not with her. Although they had fucked that night, the night of their first meeting, it was haphazard and sloppy, apologetic, Tim's dick half erect and bobbing around uncertainly, a dog that was not sure of its way home but plodded along nonetheless.
She did not imagine Jason was a man of indecision. He seemed to have every confidence in himself, a confidence that, to her pleasure, did not come at the expense of modesty. He talked to her not as if she were a Pacific End model, but as if she were anyone, herself even. But she did not fly six thousand miles for this; at least she didn't think so. Where was the dark-haired European who would take her for a spin on his sailboat or the salt-soaked surfer who would gather her limbs in his brown, woven muscles and kiss her in the clear, tepid waters of Dunk Island? No that there was anything wrong with Jason, she supposed. He was a professional athlete, accomplished in his own right, not a waiter or roofer or midlevel human resources manager like Tim. And it was only her first night. It was too early for disappointments.
"You're awfully quiet, my dear Emma." Jason held up his glass to toast. "To letting loose. To Americans abroad. To dreams."
"Are you going back to the states, Jason?" She felt the need to press for his itinerary, even as she kept hers close to her chest. "I mean, when you're done here?"
"I don't know. Everything's kind of up in the air. My agent should know something in a few weeks." He sipped his whiskey and coughed wetly, softly. "And if I get a contract in Japan, that's great. Everything's an adventure. You meet so many different people, interesting people, you know, such as yourself, and you get kind of a rhythm for who people are, what they're about, what you can give to them and what you can get back."
"So what kind of person am I?" She asked.
"You want to know, really?" Jason smiled. "Are you sure you want to know?"
"Well, I asked, didn't I?" Emma smiled back.
"You're not happy in your life. You want a change." He held his hand up to keep her from responding. "Now, I know, I sound like a two-bit fortune teller or something, but it's true. It's written all over you. Maybe modeling's not the career for you, Emma. You seem too world weary, too sensitive. I mean, most models -- or aspiring models, I should say -- are shallow enough to enjoy this kind of thing. You want a direction, dare I say . . . meaning? I know, I'm just a jock -- take what I say with a grain of salt."
"Well, you're right, partly," she sighed. "Everyone wants some kind of centering to their life, I suppose."
"It's not something you find on the plane from Milan to Paris, is it?" He nodded knowingly. "I know how it is to live out of hotels, not quite sure where you're heading next. Well, you know where you're headed next -- to the money. But you kind of hope there will be something else there along with it, something that makes itworthwhile."
"But what about the fame? You said that's why you were doing it."
"Yes, I did, because fame is the closest thing to immorality. But it's not immortality. And that's what we're really looking for -- our legend to live far beyond ourselves, our own lives. Well, you see why I have to play baseball at all costs -- majoring in philosophy has gotten me nowhere in life," he laughed. "So are you going to keep modeling, then?"
"As long as I can, I suppose. The money is good and it's an opportunity not everyone gets to have. I feel very blessed." And she did, even though she was not a model and there was no opportunity, at least not opportunity as she had previously understood it. "Say, would you like to dance? I'm not much of a dancer, I apologize in advance."
"That makes two of us." He stood up, holding out his hand. "But we'll get by."
He led her to the dance floor and they moved self-consciously to some club song with a heavy, droning beat. She quickly fell out of rhythm and Jason simulated a few awkward disco moves, trying to make her laugh and forget her faux pas. Emma wondered whether he would be up for some hiking or snorkeling or some of the resort's other offerings. She hoped, suddenly, selfishly, that he wouldn't get a contract with the Giants and play in a dome shaped like an egg, a giant among men. She committed to memory the crease of his shirtsleeves at his elbows, the smell of his cologne, his Pacific End no-iron trousers that curved underneath the slight protrusion of his stomach before stretching over this thick thighs and meaty calves. On page 86 of her tattered catalog, back in that universe, the trousers had been worn by a lean man of Scandinavian origin, his prominent jaw tight and contemplative as he stood over an ancient, outdated map of the world.
She wondered whether she would tell Jason, tell him that she really knew more about source codes than headshots, about gin and tonic than cosmopolitans. Perhaps if the blanks were filled, if he knew she bought the generic ramen noodles at the ShopRite and used only half of the flavoring packet because of her borderline blood pressure, if he knew she was spending a third of her retirement savings to frolic nonchalantly with him in this second-rate tourist bar, dancing to Kylie Mongue or some other washed up Australian superstar, perhaps he would be all right with it. He would, she felt, and yet, she said nothing. She paid for their drinks at the bar, all seventy-five dollars' worth, and for the cab back to Mission Bay while Jason curled a lock of her hair around his finger and mused that she could fly to Tokyo between shoots and watch him tear it up as a designated hitter at the Dome.
She wanted to tell him when he kissed her on her bed, softly, easily disrobing her of the little that covered and made love to her, musing how he would stare at her catalog photos on the plane to wherever he would be next, Tokyo, St. Louis, or perhaps Rochester to try out for a minor league team there. He might even do some game broadcasts for the radio--the guys at the regional sports network always told him he had a great personality and knowledge of the game. He could live with being an analyst. But if the Tokyo contract got into the millions, low millions, he'd take it. There was enough of America everywhere to feel at home. There was nowhere, he said, that he didn't feel welcome.
She wanted to tell him but he fell asleep shortly after sex, okay, not great by any standards, but pretty good, considering how much they had drunk. She felt herself drift off to sleep without mentioning it. If she had mentioned it, perhaps he would have told her that there was no designated hitter in the Pacific League, the league in which the Yomiuri Giants played, and that he hadn't played left field for the Texas Rangers, either. He might have even told her that he was not even a guest at this hotel, but rather, staying at the Mission Beach campground nearby.
She did not have to ask those things when she woke up with a hangover in the big, empty bed in the room that once held her purse other valuables. She only knew that she would be on the phone all morning canceling her credit cards and asking her parents to wire her money and that Jason, safely in Dunk Island or Townsville or Thuringowa, would be telling another model or wealthy divorcee or trust-fund baby about his aspirations for the big leagues or his fledgling career in independent movie production or his start-up fiberoptic company.
She pulled out the tattered Pacific End catalog that, miraculously, Jason had left behind, although she noticed that she really did not look like the model on page 16, not really, maybe the eyes just a little, and maybe she was a little relieved. She left the catalog in the lobby on the way out to Western Union, and when she came back with enough money for an inexpensive, late lunch, it was no longer there.