Twenty-four years young, a college graduate, I was suddenly unemployed. Business was slow and management had to layoff a few good workers. Using my new unemployment status, an agent for the unemployment agency said that I'd make a good clothing model. She had a connection with Playboy Magazine in San Francisco. She said if I were six feet tall which I was only five foot eleven and a half, if I weighted no more than 170 pounds which I weighted 168 pounds, and if I wore size 11 shoes which I wore size 10, that I would qualify for a runway audition for Playboy Magazine.
Did I quality? Hell yes I qualified. I lied about everything; my height, weight and shoe size. The unemployment agent sent a photo of me with my qualification to Playboy's SF office, and a week later the runway audition with 25 other contestants was on.
Neither a model nor actor, I was serious and less playful during the audition, but OMG, the other men were so handsome, lithe and graceful, how could I win one spot of two to be choses, out of twenty-five elegant competitors?
I hurriedly put on the clothes they gave me to wear. When I walked down and back on the runway, the big shoes clipped-clopped, a noise I still hear to this day. The suit shoulders hung off my shoulders, the pants were bagging around my butt with the cuffs dragging underneath my heels.
After the six judges told me in front of the other twenty-five handsome men that I had failed the audition, I couldn't wait to get into my Porsche, floor the gas, red-line each gear, and speed into my future, exactly like James Dean did...but I didn't get into accident and die. I found a new job, wore clothes that fit me and was happy ever after.