Carol Alt - Model, Incorporated

First class or coach, flying is hell when youve got

When I first wake up, I think Im dreamingdreaming that

Maybe Im spoiled or Ive just forgottenand that seems forgivable,

Ill say this for Francesca: Shes as good as her

Come on, girl! Work it, work it, work it.

Because Ive lived with my mother my entire life, Im

New York in the winter can be merciless, and its

Passport?

Im stumbling out of the lobby at Four Times Square

The wind off the Pacific is icy and probing, whistling

Once again, I find myself on a plane, a familiar

Days like today I love what I do. Ill gladly

Most days I earn my day rate. My workdays can

Is it Melody, then? Or is it Mac? Which do

Its just up here on the left! I point excitedly,

Some days pass like years. Sometimes, sitting there in the

The little red numbers tick up and up. Were not

At this point, weve dined together in Mexico City, sat

Youre awfully quiet tonight. Jim reaches for my hand, grips

Its not a wakeup call. That horrible noise I hear

Jim! Jim! Can I get a reading?

I feel slightly more human after a shower. At least,

Melody, this is so exciting. I cant believe it! Mom

First class or coach, flying is hell when youve got a cold. Its barely 6 AM , my eyes are teary, my nose is as bright red as Rudolphs and the texture of sandpaper because I cant stop blowing it, and my voice is husky, at least two pitches below normal. In the state Im in, Im especially dreading getting on another plane, but even so, I hand my boarding pass to the uniformed gate attendant and try to manage a smile.

Ms. Croft! Despite the freezing cold, despite the ungodly hour, this girl is all smiles and small-town good manners. I wish I could borrow a bit of her sunny optimism to see me through this flight.

Hi. I cant think of anything more charming to say, and in fact Im so out of it I cant tell if she recognizes me or if she greets all of her passengers with the same enthusiasm. All I want to do right now is climb back into the warm, chauffeur-driven car that brought me here, drive back to the Four Seasons, collapse into the absurdly comfortable bed, bury my head under the down comforter and sleep for six weeks straight.

Oh no! Pardon my saying so, but you sound terrible! She runs my boarding pass through the scanners blinking red laser and hands it back to me, frowning with sincere concern.

I know. I sip my piping-hot cup of green tea. Ive spent the past three days straddling a horse, wearing only a bathing suit, my arms wrapped around Ivan Gladsts perfectly chiseled bare torso, in the middle of a barren field, in front of the dramatic backdrop of the Beartooth Mountains, in the midst of a full-on Montana winter. Between shots, the stylists assistant thoughtfully wrapped me up in a thick cashmere throw, but still, my monster cold is hardly unexpected. Manhandling a half-naked supermodel might sound like fun, but when youre at the mercy of a relentless perfectionist photographer like Steve Kline, trust me, its anything but.

You poor thing. She lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. I know something that might make you feel a little bit better.

Whats that? Im practically seeing spots. The only thing that could possibly make me feel better is some serious medical intervention.

Youre in 1-B today, she says, grinning, and we have a very special passenger in 1-A. She pauses, then leans toward me across the counter. Patrick Carroll!

In my addled state it takes me a second to place the namebut only a second. I might be totally out of it, but Patrick Carroll is one of the most famous movie stars of all time. Im sick, not brain dead.

Great, I mutter. Six hours on a plane next to a legendary heartthrob and I look and feel like death warmed over. Awesome. Im not impressed by celebrities, but I am a red-blooded American girl. The thought of cozying up to Patrick Carroll is incredibly tempting, but why today, of all days, when I look and sound like a sickly, chain-smoking drag queen?

Ms. Croft, the girl across the counter grins at me. You might be sick, but Id give my right arm to look the way you look right now. Welcome aboard.

Allow me, please. Patrick Carroll hops out of his seat and takes the overstuffed Coach carry-ona little something I scored on a catalog shoot this summerfrom my hands. He deposits it neatly in the overhead bin, slamming the door shut, and steps aside so I can take my seat at the window.

Thanks. I hope my fever disguises the fact that Im blushing. He is, if possible, even better looking in person than on screen: tall, broad-shouldered, with a perfect chiseled chin and gleaming blue eyes. Hes well into his forties, but looks every bit the heartthrob he was twenty years ago, when he burst onto the scene as the darling of independent 70s film, making low-budget dramas now widely considered cinematic classics. I cant tell if Im lightheaded or actually swooning. I collapse into the wide leather seat and sip my tea, which tastes like nothing because Im so congested.

Patrick Carroll. As if I didnt already know that.

I shake his hand weakly, worrying a little about my clammy skin. Of course, I say. I know who you are.

And I know who you are, Ms. Croft. His blue eyes sparkle, his smile folds into that famous dimple, and despite the touch of gray at his temples, he looks more like a randy teenager than a dignified Hollywood superstar.

I actually cant believe that this man, this legend, knows who I am. Youll have to forgive me, I tell him. Im not feeling so great.

I can hear it in your voice, he says. But trust me, you look absolutely fantastic.

I laugh. The fever must be making me delirious.

Youre a lucky woman. Patrick gestures to the flight attendant. I happen to know the worlds most reliable cure for whatever ails you.

The smiling flight attendant leans over us. Can I get you something, Mr. Carroll?

Yes maam, he says. Some hot water please. And a lemon, and some honey, and two bottles of Dewars.

Im not much of a drinker. The sun hasnt even come up yet and this guy wants a cocktail?

Trust me, he says, though of course, Patrick Carroll, five times married and divorced, linked to every famous woman of stage, screen, and what have you, has such a notorious reputation, trusting him is the furthest thing from my mind.

When I first wake up, I think Im dreamingdreaming that Im back home, in my old room, safe and cozy in my bed. I can almost hear Mom downstairs, fussing around in the kitchen, clanking pots and slamming cabinets. I can almost hear my brothers voices arguing about the Jets or cars or whatever it is they find to fight about. I can almost hear my dad telling everyone to pipe down so he can hear the evening news. Then I realize Im not dreaming, just delirious from having traveled thousands of miles with a cold on the verge of blossoming into full-on flu. I sit up. I am back home, in the same old bedroom, in the same old house, in small-town New Jersey. But Im definitely not the same girl.

In the past few months Ive gone from waitress (waiting on tables, waiting for my ex-boyfriend to come back from his first year at college, waiting for my own college career to begin) to model. I know a lot of girls would consider this a dream come true, but I never planned on being a model. Im still not planning on it, necessarily; I want the same thing Ive always wanted: college, a masters degree, a career as a nutritionist. But since I started modeling, that dream is closer than ever before; at this point, I could pay for medical school, if I wanted to. But even though its closer to becoming a reality, now that I dont need to rely on scholarships and loans, school seems so distant. My whole life seems so distant; its basically disappeared. Life now is waiting in the security line at the airport. Life is sitting in a chair on set, waiting for the photographer, sipping water through a straw so I dont screw up my lipstick, wondering what time zone Im in while some stranger fusses over my hair. I do some quick mental math. Ive been a model now for a full nine months. It seems an appropriate amount of time, because Ive basically been reborn. Melody AnnI dont even know who that is anymore. Mac? Im still figuring out who she is, too.