I’m on my way to a Very Important Interview for a Very Important Column when I drive by the girls. They’re lined up on Broadway, hundreds of them. Snaking down the long block between 11th and 10th avenues, leaning against the building walls, sitting on the sidewalk, huddling in twos and threes.
Screech. I pull over and yell out the window: What are you waiting for?
” ‘America’s Next Top Model’ auditions,” a few girls yell back.
What time do they start?
“From 5 to 9 , but, uh, you have to be between 18 and 27.”
I’m not going to audition, honey.
“You have to be 5-7 or shorter.”
An “America’s Next Top Model” for shorter girls?
“Yeah,” a section of the line erupts. “Woo-hoo!” “It’s our chance!” “May the best shortie win!”
Of course, I return. It’s my job to bring you life on the streets. I don’t usually define that particular phrase this way, but, hey, it’s not every day so many young women make so public their dreams. You may not approve of this particular dream. The particular vanity of it. That is your prerogative.
I teach my daughter that her value lies in more than her physical appearance. Then I shuffle off and watch “America’s Next Top Model.” This is my secret sickness. It’s like eating ice cream out of the carton or reading cheap crime novels, an urge that, once indulged, proves satisfying in a fleeting, somewhat nauseating way.
I stopped watching regularly after Jaslene (Cycle 8) won. Too much drama. But I loved Jaslene, that skinny Puerto Rican from the Windy City. When she opened her mouth, all of Chicago spilled out.
I loved, too, the way Tyra Banks, show creator, supermodel, talk-show host, etc., etc., sought to challenge idealized notions of beauty.
OK, that last part’s a rationalization.
But Tyra does bring in the smorgasbord. All colors, shapes and sizes. The effort is what might be called sincere gimmickry.
“The first plus-size model won last time,” one of the young women in line says, bringing me up to speed. We’re in Cycle 12. These auditions are for Cycle 13.
The girl is Francesa. She’s 21. Her eye shadow sparkles. “I’m a little chubby myself,” she says to her friends.
This is what is called a girl cue. It is part of the ritual of self-denigration, in which females criticize some part of their own anatomy, which prompts their female friends — and the occasional hapless male — to rush in with reassurance.
I, myself, have never, ever done this.
Witness this: “You are not chubby,” one of Francesa’s friends tells her. “You’re normal.”
“So, what’s normal? I’m a size 5.”
“That’s normal in my book.”
“Seven is normal.”
The spectacle of 1,280 young women and their various support systems slows traffic. The high heels. The tight jeans. The hair.
Many of the women are finishing the required application. Question 60. “Finish this sentence, ‘My life’s motto is . . .’ ” Question 25. “Describe your relationship with your mother.” Question 32. “What are your thoughts on religion?”
It’s deep, I tell you, deep.
A woman named Stephanie, from a local modeling agency, is prowling the line, taking advantage of the draw of the audition. “You have got to get down here,” she’s saying to someone on the phone. “This is a ‘Wow!’ moment. I mean it. It’s a ‘Wow!’ moment.”
Some of the girls here know they don’t have a chance. They’re curious or they want the experience. Some want to be models and never thought that at 5-foot-2 or 5-3, they’d have a shot. Some of them are fame-seekers.
The disapproving mommy in me occasionally threatens to butt in. The protective mommy does a couple times. In the end, there’s something joyful in so many young women going out on a limb to lay claim to their own definitions of beauty.
“I’m 4-11 1/2,” Alisha Gurule, 18, says. She’s wearing a dress and black tights and sandals that reveal red nail polish on her toes. “My girls dressed me,” she says.
Her girls are Monique Pacheco and Marisa Lopez. All three are freshmen at the University of Northern Colorado in Greeley.
“You’re going to do well,” Monique tells her. “And we love you and, either way, we always have college.”
So, I ask Carmen Lopez, what’s your advice? (Lopez is accompanying her sister, Stephanie Peyton.)
“Just be yourself. Don’t try too hard. Don’t be someone you’re not, and regardless of the outcome, just know you’ve already made it.”
The audition is in the VIP lounge of Vinyl. It’s seconds long. A guy behind a camera. A guy at a laptop. Say your name, age, height. Why do you want to be America’s next top model? Everything goes to the producers, who are collecting videos and applications from all over the country.
Stephanie gives the camera her catwalk. She had practiced what she was going to say:
“I want to be America’s next top model because there’s a whole lot of unorthodox people in the world, and we need to be seen.”
When I leave two hours later, the line still stretches to the end of the block.
Tina Griego writes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
