True story about posing as talent scouts and photographers for GQ magazine. Girls just wanna get even.
A few days before the beach trip, while I was admiring the photos in a GQ magazine, a couple of pesky subscription cards fell out. I noticed the nice little black and white GQ logo and imagined a new fake career path, something a little more glamorous than selling corrugated boxes (my real job). A quick trip to a quickie print shop, and I was Muffin Hardgrove, Vice President, Talent Division, GQ Magazine, according to the business cards.
Thursday night before Labor Day weekend, my sisters Lori and Sherry, two girlfriends and I converged at the Dewey, Delaware beach house, mulling over high school and the cool guys who were now either fat or exiled from the state of Ohio. The ultimate dreamboat, Don Spencer, an ex-Bowsher High school quarterback, was rumored to be in rehab for coke or hiding out in Florida with his third D.U.I pending. A case of Tuborg Gold beer made us feel superior to the entire high school experience.
After Sue had dished out details of her recent divorce from the perpetual phys-ed major, I capitalized on a conversational lull. As the spokes-model for relationships, past, present, and imagined, I got down to business with the GQ scam.
“We’re going to do what?” Janet asked, laughing. Apparently, my sisters and Sue had not filled her in on the “entertainment” for the trip.
“C’mon. Muffin Hardgrove. It’s, like, unbelievable,” Janet said as she flipped the GQ card at me, dealer style, across the kitchen table. The resident skeptic, and real-life accounting manager, she paused a beat before buckling. “Okay, I’ll play along, but on one condition. I want to be the GQ traveling physician.”
~
On the beach the next morning, we set up camp per our usual vacation ritual: lounge chairs, blankets, books, and cooler, preparing to bake out the beer in our bodies to make room for more later. By noon I was bored and antsy. As scoutmaster, it was my job to get the fire started, so to speak.
“Sue, set up the tripod.” I directed the amateur “professional” photographer. “Lori, Sherry, Doctor Janet, let’s start scoping for our first models.” The girls had agreed to use their real first names so as not to complicate things further. Sue initially wanted to be ‘Babbette,’ but gave in after a brief argument.
“What exactly are we looking for, big and stupid?” Janet appeared to be balking. “Holy Stone Age, Batgirl, I mean, Muffin . There’s a Neanderthal at nine o’clock.”
Sherry stood up and lowered her sunglasses for effect after her proclamation.
We laughed for a moment until we checked out the “subject” for ourselves. It was a contest. He was either the tallest or the tannest guy on the beach. My guess was both. He looked like he spent half of his time at the gym and the other half in front of a mirror (often horizontal and not alone).
“There’s your answer Janet,” Sue said, as she finished positioning the camera on top of the tripod. “The perfect specimen.”
I threw on a Yankees jersey for a cover-up and an NBC baseball cap I’d picked up on my New York trip and headed over. I was a method actress. The perfect specimen was popping a tape into a boom box as I approached.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt.” No, I thought, a VP of GQ from New York would never imagine she was interrupting, let alone apologize. Confidence shaken, I didn’t follow up with anything else. I just offered him the bait… I mean, business card. He read the card, then me.
“What’s this all about?” He either had violet colored contact lenses or was the offspring of Liz Taylor. Difficult as it was, I just maintained eye contact.
“Are you currently signed with an agency?” I countered.
“Uh, no.” He was on the line. Time to reel him in.
“Good, because we’re looking for new talent to sign. What’s your name?”
“Jeff.” He ran his fingers through his short black mane.
“Go for it, dude,” one of Jeff’s friends said.
“O.K., what do ya want me to do?”
“You see that camera over there?” I pointed. “Just follow me.”
Sue was white-balancing the camera against a T-shirt.
“Jeff, meet Sue. She’s our photographer for this project.” The rest of my entourage was ineffably silent as they contemplated Jeff. “Sherry, here, is an editor at GQ, and Lori, over there, is our, er, grip and legal advisor. Doctor Janet is here for safety.”
Jeff nodded at each. Sherry grabbed a generic talent release form (which she’d obtained from a college PR internship). Sue posed Jeff in a beach chair. After a few shots, I grabbed the latest issue of GQ from my bag and planted it in Jeff’s hands. Sue snapped a few more with him holding the magazine, then she got him into some very interesting beef-cakey poses. Jeff was such a good sport, I almost felt bad about scamming him until this blonde, bronzed sun goddess with double D’s stepped out of a centerfold and into the perimeter of our photo session. She was predictably giggly and jiggly.
“Oh my God! Like, my friends over there said you’re with GQ magazine. I can’t believe my boyfriend is gonna be in GQ magazine!” Jeff’s grin blocked out the sun as he winked at her.
“That’s a wrap,” Sue said.
“Honey, it’s not a done deal. Look around you. There are a lot of very buff and attractive men here. We’re going to be at Dewey all weekend and only a handful will make it into the magazine.” My words deflated Double D.
Janet was on her feet. “I’m a doctor and I couldn’t help noticing that nasty sunburn on your chest. You’d better run and get some sun block on that right now. Better yet, a T-shirt. You have a suspicious looking spot on your shoulder and, um, melanoma is nothing to mess with.”
We all managed to contain our laughter until Jeff and Double D departed.
“This is a riot, DC. I mean, I think he would have done anything we asked,” said Sue.
Sue and I decided to team up and walk the beach in search of prospects. After a couple more successful shoots, it became almost routine. It felt almost real. By mid-afternoon, Sue and I were both heady with our own power. For fun, we started staging little tiffs where we expressed our “artistic differences.”
At the end of the day, Sue and I were tired and sunburned. We’d been focused on the intensity of our “work,” and had neglected sunscreen. It was the only physical condition we shared with Double D.
~
That Friday night at the Rusty Rudder, one of the popular Dewey Beach bars, we were recognized by a few of our “models” and were quickly surrounded by them, in addition to some wannabe models. Apparently, word was traveling as fast as the speed of lies.
“Hey, check out the bartender.” Sue did a subtle elbow-point toward your standard tall, dark, and handsome. Before we could discuss the matter, she was bar side, presumably ordering up something tall and cool.
~
The Saturday shoots went more smoothly, therefore more quickly, which was good since we had lined up appointments with several guys from the night before at the Rusty Rudder.
Sue’s favorite bartender, Brock, was first on the list at 11:30. After his photo session, Brock joined our lounge chair entourage to observe Sue and me in action. Luckily, we didn’t have to do much prospecting. We had attracted quite a crowd, picked a few and had some others volunteer. I was responsible for the photo release forms since Sherry was already tiring of the scam and was deep into reading The World According to Garp.
A new model sauntered into our view. He approached as if he’d just been to Saratoga and his horse had naturally won... but that was impossible, because I recognized him from the Rusty Rudder. His hair was a mixture of sand and gold. He was gorgeous in the Hollywood sense. He had a small entourage of his own, two male friends and a golden retriever.
“Sorry I’m late. I just had to pick the right thing to wear for this and couldn’t decide.” He pulled several swim trunks and shirts from a duffel bag for our approval. The choices ran from surfer shorts to Speedos.
Sue and I voiced our opinions. Brock voted for the surfer shorts. Lori and Sherry remained neutral. “I think you should go for the grape-smugglers,” said Janet. The model and his friends looked confused.
“She’s talking about the Speedo,” I interpreted for them.
“How about if we do a couple of wardrobe changes?” offered Mr. Indecisive.
“How about you WEAR THE DOG?” It was early, but Janet was already at the top of her game.
After about five photos Mr. Indecisive, AKA Dog-Boy wanted another wardrobe change. Sue was out of film, but kept clicking while he posed.
The crowd of observers had dispersed in the blazing sun. I shed my beach cover-up and stepped into the ocean, contemplating DC Stanfa and her quest for fun. As I floated on my back, out to the buoy line, my mind simultaneously swam. The anxiety and pressure to continue the scam made me realize that there was no way I could really relax. I longed to lay back in a lounge-chair as DC and swap real stories and memories with my sisters and friends, like a real vacation.But we had created a monster beach party of hunks and Tom Cruise wannabees begging us to “discover” them. A Zen conundrum came to mind. Master, will I be punished for my lies? No, grasshopper. You will be punished by your lies.
When I returned to the group, Sue and Brock were gone. Janet, acting as spokesman, addressed me in her usual reverent manner. “Hey, Muffy, we’ve decided we’re tired of this shit. Can we, like, wrap up the entire project? You know, put it in the can?”
“I’m sorry, you guys. I didn’t realize how, like, intense this was gonna get.” I dug my toes into the sand and stared down at my disappearing feet as I spoke. “I’ll just say we’re done working for the weekend and don’t want to talk shop if people start coming around again. Hey, why don’t we go into Ocean City tomorrow? We can be ourselves there.”
“Great idea.” Sherry agreed.
~
Saturday night was a near repeat of Friday night at the Rusty Rudder. We were surrounded by the wannabees and had a paltry bar bill, due to our model benefactors. Only our attitudes were different this night.
Janet was giving flippant advice, medical and otherwise, to everyone who spoke to her. Sue ventured in and out of conversations, keeping an eye — and her mind — on Brock behind the bar.
Dog-Boy had attached himself to my hip and was working his way toward my groin. “Muffin, whaddya say we get out of here and go for a walk on the beach?” Through the fake lust and false promise in his eyes, I saw my reflection. Is this what I was looking for? Janet overheard Dog-Boy and answered for me.
“Listen, Muffin’s really not supposed to screw the talent. That’s your agent’s job. But, since you don’t have one, just leave Muffin your number and sit by the phone. She’ll call soon. Right, Muffy?”
~
On Sunday, our GQ talent crew put the scam to rest. We escaped our celebrity status in Ocean City, Maryland, about twenty miles south of Dewey.
After Sue verbally guided us through a Glamour article: ‘Can You Trust Your Man?’ Janet spoke. “Let’s have a toast. Here’s to the first day of our real vacation.” We clinked cans. Compulsive as I am about having the last word , I felt certain I should say something. “Here’s to true friendship and the timely death of Muffin Hardgrove”.
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