first published in Turnstile

A lot of girls think all you need is looks to do this, but you need smarts too. All of my girls have smarts. In fact, most of them were studious in high school--the awkward girls you'd see on the fringes, a little too tall, all elbows and knees, their smiles too nice for teenagers trying to keep their cool.

I find them in second-rate clothing catalogues and magazine ads, where they're modestly getting by, unaware of their own potential. They're surprised when I pick them out, and most of them, poor dears, think I've made some kind of mistake. That's what I like about them; they're unassuming.

It's my job to make sure they keep their heads and finish business. I scare them a little, because I'm old enough to be their mother and nothing happens here without my say. So they stay healthy, they stay out of trouble, and they stay near me, their wide eyes always seeking my nods of approval.

Every shot, I remind them, costs more than their daddy's pension check. And it's hard work, believe me. I've got a girl, Kelly, in the water now, three handlers holding mirrors over her, another with the umbrella over the camera, and the shutterman himself crouched in the shallow waves, his lens cupped with one hand, his other playing with the aperture. He's sweating like a tri-athlete on the last mile.

It must be a hundred degrees out here on the peninsula.

A few natives watch us from the dunes. They're small brown men--we never see women--with eyes so dark you'd think you'd fall in if you looked hard enough. We must be quite a show for them.

"Do they understand what this is about?" I ask Guillermo, our guide.

He shrugs: "They are simple people, señora." He says the natives are waiting for the turtle run. Any night now the sea turtles, as big around as bistro tables, will clamber onto the beach to lay their eggs, which the natives steal to eat or sell. It's illegal, Guillermo says, but the government hasn't the money to patrol so much sand.

Tourists don't come out this way: it's too hot, too desolate. We caravanned sixty miles in two RVs over rutted roads to get here. My main concern now is that the girls don't get stressed. Stress will show up subtly in a shot, like a poorly-tacked hem.

Kelly's my favorite on this shoot because she's not taken with the success of her last swimsuit issue, even though she got more fan mail than the other girls. She's from Florida, where her parents operate an Everglades tour, puttering into the swamp three times a day in a glass-bottom boat. She's simple like that, doesn't expect much from the world, and grateful when she gets attention.

Tanya, an Asian beauty, waits under a beach umbrella nearby, oiling her long legs. She's older, nearly twenty-six, and she's seen it all or so she thinks.

Then there are the Olin twins, Norwegian beauties who can barely speak English, as vacuous as glass vases and hardly more interesting. But they're obedient and hard-working. They will be stars, I'm sure, because they convey a guileless sensuality that welcomes the average male viewer's threesome fantasies.

These are fantasies I am paid to picture, of course. And, frankly, it's the worst part of my job. Truly, a painful bore, because the AMV's mind is a dank, unsavory place, so small, so predictable.

"Kelly, honey, keep your rear up," I tell her. "And arch your back a little." She nods to let me know she hears. Yves is muttering to himself. His assistant dabs the master's face with a linen handkerchief. When the shot's done finally, Kelly drops into the water for a rest.

"No, no," says Yves. (His "no" sounds like "known.") "We must have her dry."

Kelly blinks surprise at him and offers a little pout: "Sorry, Yves."

I bring her a towel. She pats off the water while I brush her blond-streaked hair. These girls are so young, children really. Kelly's hair smells like a handful of flowers in the hot sun.

"That's enough," she says, "I feel like a Barbie doll." I pull her hair back, feathering the ends just-so.

"It's got to be perfect, Kelly, you know that."

I hear her sigh. She stands patiently, eyes closed, while Terry, the make-up man, brushes blush onto her cheeks. After a few more dabs, he steps back to admire his work:

"You're a Monet, honey." He flutters his brush at her. "Price¬less." Camping it up.

As I take my place again in the shade of my umbrella, I notice that the natives continue watching us from the dunes nearby. I count five men sitting on their haunches in the hot sun. They wear tattered straw hats, tattered trousers, and sweat-stained cotton shirts, probably made of flour sacks.

I ask Guillermo to send them away. "It can't be good for them to loiter like that in this heat, Guillermo."

"They wait for work," he says. He glances up at the dunes. "You maybe have work for them." The way he says this, his voice lilting, I can't tell whether or not it's a question.

"I thought they were waiting for turtles."

"Now they wait for work," he says. "Later they wait for the turtles."

"There's no work here, Guillermo. You can see we're self-sufficient."

He's still squinting at the dunes. He's a short man with unruly black hair and a complexion almost as dark as the natives'. He dresses much better than they, however: blue jeans, leather sandals, and a t-shirt that says, in hot-pink script, Calgon Body Lotion.

I say: "Give them a few pesos, if that'll help."

"That would not send them away, señora."

I sigh, exasperated, and stare out at the ocean, where Kelly is waving at the camera and smiling. She has beauti¬ful teeth. Some people think I got into this business simply to be near the beauty because I'm not a beauty myself. I was a career girl before career girls were fashionable, and I can't tell you how many men pitied me--the old maid--and how many women were unkind in their terribly polite way, calling me "sharp" and "ambitious." I think of them now, the men and women whose conde¬scension I endured. They are, in my mind, far, far behind me, as small and indistinct as castaways adrift on the horizon, waving for rescue.


After the day's shoot, the girls frolic in the waves. Yves was hoping for a good sunset but clouds started stacking on the horizon: they look like mountains now, a towering range of blue-black thunderheads. The Olin twins are splashing at Kelly and Tanya. Delighted, they squeal like children.

"No rough stuff!" I call to them. We can't afford cuts or scrapes. "And no swimming!" I add, remembering what Guillermo said about sharks.

The handlers are busy collecting drift wood for a fire. Yves--willowy and overly suntanned, a kerchief fluttering from his thin neck--wants somebody to catch some fish, but no one remem¬bered to bring a rod and reel.

"But the guide, he can catch something, no?" Yves says.

Guillermo shrugs apologetically. "I am no fisherman, señor."

We've brought plenty of supplies: fresh fruit and vegetables and several coolers of steaks, which the handlers will grill on propane stoves. I insist that we eat well on the road.

By the time dinner's ready, the night is black and blustery, the stars obscured by clouds, which grumble now and then. We girls are sitting closest to the fire, our lawn chairs arranged in a circle, the handlers sitting behind us like servants. Which both excites the men and angers them, I'm sure.

The girls only pick at their food, too aware of their weight. "Don't starve yourselves," I tell them.

The men talk and joke among themselves. This is our first night out and they’re a little shy of the girls. When someone tosses another gnarled log onto the fire, the flames flare, sparks swirling upward, and I am startled to see several natives crouched just beyond our circle of light.

I call for Guillermo. Suddenly he's at my side, kneeling: "Señora?"

"What's with your locals over there, Guillermo?"

He smiles, as if I were a simpleton. "They wait for the left¬overs, señora."

"Are you kidding?" I picture these people picking over our scraps. How many are there in the darkness? Where do they come from?

"You prefer they do not have the leftovers, señora?"

"No, that's not what I mean." His persistent politeness is irritating. And I suspect he thinks badly of me. I say, "We could feed them a little more than scraps, don't you think?"

"We cannot feed them, señora." He glances back into the darkness. "They would come twice as many tomorrow. And twice as many the next night."

"Good Lord, that won't do." I peer into the night but can't see them now, the fire light having grown dim.

"I will give them the leftovers, señora." He starts collecting plates from those who have finished eating. I'm not without my sympathies, but I worry that the natives will somehow jeopardize the shoot. And while I can appreciate their plight, I must remind myself that there's nothing I can do for them that will make a difference in their lives. In three days, we'll be gone, the beach will be empty again, and these people will be waiting once more for the turtles or whatever it is they wait for from week to week.

It's the same everywhere we go: profound poverty, desperate locals, impossible situations, innumerable injustices which we can't begin to redress. Always I feel guilty, of course, but must remind myself that this is business. What could I possibly accomplish by involving myself briefly in the politics of a culture I don't know or understand? A clear conscience maybe. But it's fool's gold. Think of all that I would jeopardize--the livelihood of my crew, my girls, myself, the work of the magazine staff who awaits our return, not to mention the expectations of two million readers.

Exhausted, the girls are oblivious to our uninvited guests, and this is as I'd prefer it. There's no use in giving them too much to think about. I say, "You girls ready for bed?" I see Tanya smirk.

She says, "Are you going to tuck us in?"

One of the Olin twins burps a little laugh. They don't like it, going in so early, but they know they need the sleep. They have to get up at six.

"Here we go," I tell them. I shepherd them to our RV, which sits just outside the firelight. I've learned to keep the RV chilled like a refrig¬erator when on location because--I know this sounds horrible--it really helps preserve the girls better. The men do as they like with their RV. I never bother them. They'll stay up late, drinking and playing cards, like steel¬workers on holiday.

Our RV is as big as a trailer home. It's been customized to allow each girl a fairly spacious closet and her own sink with vanity. As the girls prepare themselves for bed, I talk them down, like a den mother: "You girls did a good day's work. I'm proud of you. I know it's awfully hot out there--I hope you're wearing some screen, otherwise you'll burn despite your tans." I tell them a story about one model who started peeling so badly from sunburn that we had to unwrap her like a mummy, slowly and painfully stripping off her dried skin. The girls squeal in disgust as I describe the excruciating process. I have scores of stories like that, each with its own lesson.

As I'm tucking the girls in, I hear the patter of rain on the roof. "Vass dat?" one of the twins asks. "Rain," says Kelly. "I really love when it rains." She stares up as if waiting for more: suddenly a crack of thunder breaks over us. Tanya yelps in fright. She says, "Are we safe in here?"

"Of course we are," I tell her. But I pause abruptly because I sense that something's not right: outside, somewhere in the distance, I hear whooping--men making wild noises. I tell the girls not to move, I'll be right back. They eye me anxiously.

When I open the door I can't see much beyond the rain, but now and then, on the slope of the beach, I make out the beams of flashlights and the intermittent flares of cameras. Something's happening down there.

From the RV steps I call for Guillermo. When he doesn't appear, I shout for him. Finally, he trots out of the darkness. "Señora?"

"What's going on, Guillermo?"

"It is the turtles, señora. They have come!" His eyes are bright with excitement. In each hand, I notice, he carries something--oblong dusky things as large as avocados.

"Those are eggs," I say. He holds them up for me to see.

"Oh my God, what's that?" It's Kelly behind me.

"They're turtle eggs," says Tanya. "I heard Guillermo talking about them earlier."

"Turtles?"

"Sea turtles."

Guillermo nods yes, yes. "We can fry them for breakfast, if you like. Very tasty."

"Gross!" says Kelly. "How could you?"

"I do not understand," says Guillermo. He frowns dramatically.

"Aren't these endangered animals?” Kelly starts. “Like whales and otters and things? How can you steal their eggs, their babies!" She has pulled on a windbreaker over her shift.

"This has nothing to do with us," I say. "Let's go back inside."

"It does not harm the turtles," Guillermo insists. He looks hurt by Kelly's disgust. "We take the eggs as the turtle drops them into the hole she has dug."

"That's heartless," says Kelly. I'm thinking it must be her Everglades upbringing, all those tours into the swamp to observe wildlife.

Tanya says, "We could stop them."

"We should," says Kelly.

"Are you girls crazy?" I blurt. Immediately I know that I should try another tack.

The twins are talking hurried Norwegian to one another.

Kelly says, "Like, who's down there, Guillermo?"

"You cannot go," he says. "There are many--how you say--natives. They will not allow you to stop them."

"It's food, right?" says Kelly. I see her eyes flare with purpose. "Isn't that what they want, food and stuff?"

"You cannot go," Guillermo says again. He's waving his hands as if words have failed him.

"They're hungry, aren't they, these people?" Kelly is staring hard at him, but he won't meet her eyes.

"Do you know these people?" Tanya asks him.

Now he looks up. "I do not know them, señorita, they are strangers. They will not let you stop them."

"We don't know that for sure," says Kelly.

"Don't even think of it," I warn her. "Girls, let's take five. Come inside--I see there's plenty to discuss."

Tanya turns to glare at me. She says, "Make the crew stop." It's a command, not a request.

I'm trying so hard to keep from shouting, my throat hurts. I tell myself that I've dealt with worse but I can't recall what it might have been. If the girls leave me now, I won't be able to command their respect tomorrow. I am sure of this. And if I give them permission to leave, it means I will be held responsible.

"Even if I made the crew stop," I say at last, "nobody's going to stop the natives."

"We'll just give them what they want," says Kelly. "We'll give them our food." She raises her fine brows at Guillermo: "That's what they want, right?"

He nods finally: Yes, that's what they want. How forlorn he looks.

“We have steaks—all kinds of things they’d like,” Tanya says.

Now everyone's nodding in agreement, even the twins.

"Girls, please," I urge. "We've got a long shoot tomorrow."

Kelly says, "Guillermo, can you talk to your people, can you tell them if they return the eggs we'll be glad to give them everything we've got, lots of food and supplies. Can you do that, please?"

"What's to keep them from returning tomorrow to dig up the eggs again?" I ask. Then I let my anger go, like a weighted rope ripping from my hands: "How naive you girls are—don’t be stupid!"

Kelly looks at me now, as if for the first time, her wide eyes full of wonderment. She is so young, so beautiful, I am tempted to take her hand, as I would a toddler's, and explain to her what she is doing wrong. But where would I begin?

She turns again to Guillermo: "They'll keep their word, won't they?"

I see him shrug. Quietly he says, "If you give them so much food, they will not remain here, señorita."

"Give them the coolers," says Tanya. "Everything!"

"Excellent!" says Kelly.

"Excellent!" the twins echo.

I say: "Guillermo, if you help these girls, you're fired."

He shrugs again, giving me his damnable I-can't-help-it look. "I am sorry, señora."

Within minutes, the girls are dressed and heading to the beach, carrying the coolers between them, with Guillermo--also loaded down--leading the way.

"Girls!" I'm shouting. "Kelly!" If there were something in my hand, a jar of body lotion, a hair brush, I would throw it after them. "Why should they listen to you--who are you to tell them anything?”

Kelly stops abruptly and turns. She looks at me with profound dismay and puzzlement, as if I were something dead drifting past the window of her glass-bottom boat. Calmly she asks, "Aren't you coming with us?"

The others are silent, waiting. I hear the smack of heavy drops all around me, then a whoop from the beach. I see a camera flash out there like a spot of lightning. I picture the men plucking eggs from the turtles' sandy nests and I feel a thought leave me like a sigh: these poor dumb creatures, who will make them aware of their ruin?

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