Benjamin series: a chance meeting

"You are too short to be a model," Mrs. Leyba tells me. She scans my bio-data again, her round glasses almost slipping off her nose. "I don't understand why they sent you here."

"I'm not really a model," I say. "I was just modelling or sampling the underwear for private groups of women."

"I know," she snaps at me. "But if I hire you, you will have to sample the products at the floor, and if there are a lot of people, only the ones in front will see you." She cocks her head and peers at me through her glasses. "Plus aren't you too thin? I want someone with fuller breasts. You look like you're flat chested and your behind seems flat to me as well."

An emerging brand of underwear uses the Tupperware and Avon methods of selling its products. Instead of selling the products through retail stores, it hires 'independent specialists' to peddle them at offices or private homes. Leony, a friend at the office, starts to sell part-time and takes payment in instalments, something that is attractive to the young office workers who are earning minimum wage. In one of our lunchtime "parties", I would have no qualms about the girls seeing me when I try on the brassieres. A year later, the undergarment becomes popular and the selling trend catches on and the large department stores start to carry the undergarments and would hold private 'fashion shows' for their customers. Leony has asked me to "model" for her group parties because she sells more when the women sees the products on an actual body.

I shrug my shoulders. I take my shoulder bag and stand up. If she's not hiring or using me for the demo that afternoon, I might as well leave.

"Hmmm," Mrs. Leyba pulls the long Mongol pencil holding the bun of her long hair. "Well, since you're here, why don't we try to use you, ha?"

"Will I get paid?" I ask.

"Of course," Mrs. Leyba's eyebrows furrow and she shoots a dirty look at me.


I put on the beige lacy push-up brassiere with matching lacy panties. The five other models, three from the modeling school, and two are daughters of American diplomats, tower over me in the change rooms. Mrs. Leyba thinks I'd make a perfect window mannequin because I can stand still for a long time, that is, after she sees me standing still as I watched the girls practice their routine. She makes me stand in the front window on the second floor of the store, after she has sent me down to the make-up room.

She comes by after two hours and tells me to take a break. She forgets to bring a robe or towel for me so she tells me to dash off across the cosmetics department to the back wearing only the underwear I am wearing.

"C!"

I turn around and Benjamin is standing in front of me. I start to smile when a plump hand whacks across Benjamin's chest. Mrs. Leyba's.

"You're not supposed to interrupt the models!" Mrs. Leyba pokes a finger at Benjamin.

"It's okay, Mrs. Leyba," I say. "He's a friend."

"I don't care. Go on and dress up," she says, then turning to Benjamin, "You, get back to work."

It will be months before I would see Benjamin again.