Jenna’s Model Life

Today is one of those winter days where the air is crisp, but the vast, clear blue sky makes bearable even the wind that scissors through your layers. I had the luck of a morning casting in the 7th arrondissement, a block or two from the south leg of the Eiffel Tower. I wanted a camera so badly, then and during my long trip on the métro line 6, which is largely above-ground, like a Chicago El, on its journey through the left bank. The casting agent put me in the “no” pile but the trip across town was worth it.

Last night, the Turkish Giant choked out an apology; she claims she put my clothes in the manchester cupboard because she thought they belonged to Shanna, our landlord’s daughter. Then she brought up the importance of communication, and when I replied that I agreed communication was important, she was talking over me by my first comma.

She also disagrees with my closet maths: Two closets, four room-mates does not equal .5 closets per person, because she really needs the space. She can’t unpack all her clothes! They are sitting in suitcases! She wants to be able to get up and go in the bathroom, open the wardrobe door and feel like she’s at home.

She also told me she wants me to shower in the second bathroom (the cramped one with horror-show lighting and no window). Her bedroom door opens onto the bathroom, and she has to go through it to get to the hallway, and she’s afraid of running into a room-mate in a state of undress. Model Room-mate and I negotiated this same architectural obstacle by talking to each other before taking a shower.

“Hey, Model Room-mate,” I’d say. “I need a shower — do you need anything out of your room first?”

“No, go right ahead, I’m just sitting here taking pictures of myself on the couch for my model-slash-rockstar boyfriend,” Model Room-mate would reply. “I foresee continuing the activity for at least the next half hour, until I get the angles right for him, you know? Did I tell you his band, which is named after him because he’s the frontman and the singer, signed with a major label? They’re going on tour with Hinder! OMG! Do you think girls with short hair are sexy? I think it’s hard to be sexy when you’re a girl with short hair. Do you want to go out tonight? I heard there’s a club.”

Turkish Giant — alternative nickname: the Great Communicator? — frowned at my suggestion that we prevent any naked scenes by actually talking.

I realise now that I never properly appreciated Dancer Room-mate. She always fed Shanna’s fish, she never ate my food — since the two new roomies came, I’ve had an apple, half a baguette, a croissant, and, just last night, a half-bottle of red wine disappear — and she spoke the most perfect French I have ever heard. I don’t know where her glorious diction came from; she’s from the South, land of twang and vocalised silent Es. But she had the clearest voice, I just loved hearing it work its way around words so quickly and carefully. Every time the Scientist would come over, after each of us had done another day’s aural combat with the twee-nasal-grating tones of Parisian French, we would just look at Dancer Room-mate, look at each other, and sigh.

Dancer Room-mate never wanted a whole closet to herself, and never liked the sound of her own voice, lovely though it was, enough to use it to interrupt and talk over others. Dancer Room-mate was graceful and funny and dressed up in goofy blue pajama pants, a white long-sleeved t-shirt, and a red singlet top for the last French match in the Rugby World Cup. During which she jumped on the couch whenever the French looked like they were going to score a try. Dancer Room-mate knew how to set the kitchen window just ajar enough so that if the pilot light blew out we wouldn’t die but also wouldn’t freeze sleeping with an open window. Dancer Room-mate compared isn’t-it-weird-what-Miguel-has-under-the-sink stories and took care of collecting the mail. Dancer Room-mate left to rent a place with her (appropriately gorgeous and polite) boyfriend, also a performer. I wish her every happiness. But if I had my druthers she’d still be here, sitting on the couch, complaining about her dance-related aches and pains and multiple foot injuries, and flipping channels till we found France’s Next Top Model or something else that would make us laugh.