Walk out into the light. Purposely, not aggressively. Stare straight ahead at the photographers. Walk fifteen paces and stop. When I was in high school, my buddies and I were at the mall, where they were having one of those national model searches. I wanted to blow it off, but one of the organizers asked if I'd ever done any modeling. My buds all sat there, giggling like idiots, but I figured what the hell. And I beat out 359 girls and seventeen guys to win a shot at a contract with Ford Modeling Agency. Turn your head 90 degrees to the right and pause. Hey, it was a free trip to NY, right? As soon as I could, I ducked out on the thing at Ford's and instead wandered around the Fashion District, looking at all these huge, kick-ass buildings. I was standing outside one of them when this security guard walks up to me. "You lost? You here for the go-see?" I had no clue what a go-see was, but I nodded anyway. "Which agency you from?" "Ford." I showed him the messenger bag they'd given me not half an hour ago. He looked at me suspiciously. "Ford doesnt handle runway models." Then his cel phone went off. "Oh hell, go on in." Guy at the elevator looks at me. "You here for the go-see?" I nod again. He takes me up to the sixteenth floor, where this guy meets me in the hall. Turn your head back and walk to the end of the runway. Even, measured steps. Determined, but not forceful. Do not smile. Do not look at anything but the end of the runway. Ease to the right to allow the model before you to pass. Do not acknowledge him; keep your eyes forward. "Here, put this on, and walk for me." I do. "No! Not like that. Sweet Jesus on a stick, this is why I never hire from Ford! Look, walk like this." He demonstrates. I nail it, and before you know it, I have a six thou a week contract walking up and down wearing someone else's clothes. I get flown all over the world. I live in hotels, with maids who take care of everything. I havent cooked a meal in years. The studio handles my finances, but since the clients pick up the tab for just about everything, my salary is pretty much all gravy money. At the end of the runway, pause. Wait two seconds, then turn to show them the back of the garment. Wait five seconds, then turn once again to give the photographers one last opportunity. I live at the studio. I mean, an apartment would be a waste of time, right? Not to mention money. My mail catches up to me every four or five months; for a long time, my buddies back home and I wrote, but then they settled down into jobs and families and never left Texas. The letters just sorta stopped, and I guess I stopped caring. Turn 180 degrees and walk back. Ease to the right to allow the model behind you to pass. Do not acknowledge him; keep your eyes forward. When you reach the end of the runway, leave and return to your station offstage. I dont have many friends, just guys in the business, mostly. Some nights we sit around and talk about what we're gonna do when we get too old for this. Leo's freaking out because he's losing muscle tone. Paul's freaking out because he's losing his hair. Some nights it gets so depressing I think I'll go in the next morning and just quit. Then I head in, and my agent greets me with, "Hey, we're doing a shoot for Versace down in St. Thomas. They asked specifically for you. One week, thirty grand. I might get more if you want it. You in?" And I nod. Do not leave until you are authorized to do so.