CHICAGO, IL – The silence in the offices of Weaks & Skinner Model Agency was punctuated with the sound of whimpers. A crowd of shocked and teary-eyed office workers gathered outside an agent’s glass walled office. Inside, the painfully slender form of the Agency’s star fashion model, Greta Polchevik, lay slumped across a couch, a medicine bottle just beyond the reach of her pale hand. Clearly, she had taken the whole bottle. Her still-open eyes were sunken. The skin around her eyes darkened in death. The skin of her arms looked loose and faintly grayish. Death was obviously claiming the body of the once lovely model. All of us in the crew were sadden to see a young beauty claim her own life.
“This is just horrible,” said Senior Manager, Alouette Mars. “She’s thrown the schedule off completely. She was due for a shoot at 2:00PM. Now there’s not enough time to schedule a new model.” Mars shooed everyone away from the tragic sight then turned to scowl at the tragic image before her. “I hope she doesn’t leave a stain on the couch.”
I asked Mars how she could think about a couch when someone had died right before her. “That couch costs more than your car,” she sneered, and walked away.
Office Manager, Tina Krepyk showed us pictures from the deceased model’s recent photo shoot. She was attractive in a waifish, heroine-addict sort of way. Impossibly skinny, with sunken eyes and a vacant stare, she looked not far from death only days before. We asked if she was bulimic. “What a silly question!” said Krepyk. “I’m so surprised you ask at all. Of course she was!” Krepyk sighed. “She was good at it too. She could binge eat with the best of them, and then purge it all with hardly a sound. That’s the mark of a true professional.”
Purge. That’s a euphemism for “vomit,” right?
“Oh we don’t use that word here. It’s so unattractive.”
My talk with Krepyk was interrupted when Polchevik’s agent burst into the office suite. Hair fashionably styled and wearing a chartreuse silk shirt, the agent, Marco Giselle stared at the terrible sight in his office. “Not again!” He moaned.
Again? This was news. I immediately asked Giselle how many other models had died. “Died? She’s not dead. She just falls asleep at inappropriate times, like when she’s due for a photo shoot!” He charged into the office that no one had dared enter until now. “Wake up lazy bones!” He shouted, callously smacking her on the butt.
The apparent corpse grunted and incredibly, stood up, wiping at the dark makeup around her eyes. “Shit,” she groaned. “I was dreaming about pizza.” Rubbing her bottom, she retrieved her medicine bottle and showed it to the stunned crowd watching her. “Anybody got some laxative? I seem to be out.”
I learned later that Polchevik was being treated for narcolepsy, along with Bulimia, malnutrition, and several psychological afflictions brought on by malnutrition. “But I’m fine,” she asserted. “I’m making a ton of money modelling, and that will help with all the medical bills later.”