LE TiGRE iN THE WiLD

character study on a male model friend

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

The first time I met Derrick he was half dead. PHARMACEUTiCAL HiBERNATiON. Slouched. On a Thursday afternoon.

I stopped by my friend’s apartment to cop an ounce before the weekend.

I was in my CROSSED era. It was my favorite game. Like those Madden field goal animations where the little cursor fluttered back and forth. Quick. You had to tap the button at the perfect moment, when it hit the middle. Otherwise your kick would fly wide.

Drink too much and your first hit would probably make you throw up or pass out early. Drink too little and the weed just would make you antisocial. But get it right? One way to ticket to feeling ethereal. You could hear every layer of the music. Making out felt orgasmic. You had a dumb smize plastered on your face for hours.

Derrick was gorgeous. The definition of a PRETTY MAN. One could admire him best in his stillness, when he was just vacantly looking off. Which he did a lot.

There was a sculptural essence to him. Like God ordained him a being to be stared at. You appreciated him more when he wasn’t in motion.

Jawline that was drafted with a ruler. Full lips, with a natural sulky pout. Heavy lidded green eyes—which gave him a detached, effortless aura. Like an animal that woke up once a day to hunt. Nose that looked like a surgeon’s work (it wasn’t). Teeth that were mistaken for veneers (they weren’t).

Glowing, even toned skin—a great complexion because he was half Barbadian, half Swedish. Tall and lean with broad shoulders. A mane of curly hair that brought his FACiAL SYMMETRY out even more.

In conclusion—TOO BEAUTiFUL TO FAiL. And being alongside him, I learned just how far looks could take you.

Back to the first time I met him.

In one of those EAST ViLLAGE SHiTHOLES that’s half below ground. The apartment was longer than it was wide. Constantly smelling LOUD. My friend was THE NYU PLUG which meant his door was always open.

A constant revolving door of characters coming in and out. The TV always on, either on the Netflix show de jour or NBA 2K. Bongs, beer cans, grinders, papers, plastic baggies, sandals, aluminum foil and half eaten bagel sandwiches abound. A huge peeling faux leather couch. All black and when you sat in it, you sank in it.

The black hole Derrick landed in. When I entered he flicked his half open eyes over to me. In a low voice he said, whaduppppp.

I nodded at him and walked over to dap him up. He didn’t sit up but extended his long wiry fingers in SLOW MOTiON.

My friend Rahul came out of his kitchen down the hall, two Goth looking NYU freshman following him. He waved off their concerns about whether or not the acid he gave them was real. They left, and I knew better than to ask.

We made SMALL TALK about our classes. He showed me some vape DROP SHiPPiNG play he was working on. Asked me again if I didn’t want to take over his business while he went Berlin for STUDY AWAY in the fall. I said no once again. I’ll do em, but I don’t deal em. He opened up his mason jar of FROSTED RUNTZ and began measuring on his scale.

Yo Derrick what song is this?

Derrick moved like the crypt keeper to feel around his pockets.

Next to your knee, by the remote. Rahul said this without looking up.

Derrick still hadn’t moved his neck an inch. He groped around blindly and finally got his phone unlocked. He simply turned it towards us.

Rahul cranked his blue bluetooth speaker up. ALL THE WAY UP.

I paid attention to the song for the first time. It was pure EAR CANDY. It sounded like a DEMENTED LULLABY. A literal xylophone, a glittery synth, and a standard kick-clap-snare rhythm with those fluttering hi-hats tickling. And the singer was hitting melodies and flows I had never heard. He wasn’t just in the pocket, he owned it. High pitched, trickster, dark energy. A real FLORiDA BOY.

I listened to the lyrics.

We gon’ pull up with them sticks and hop out with them choppers

Walking out the ten in blue Balenciagas

I caught an opp, now I got blood on blue Balenciagas

Up that forty, let that pistol sing a melody

Fuck all of that talking, we can go to war

Leave your brain marinating on the boulevard

I got something that’ll put you out your misery

Seven point six two, five point five six’s, two-two-three

This is gas. I was in awe.

Yea this is fucking fire. Where’d you find it?

DC’s eyes were closed and he simply nodded.

I mouthed to Rahul. What’s up with him?

He took a couple Xans like half an hour ago.

Oh okay.

He’s got a shoot in a few hours though. I gotta wake him up.

A shoot?

Yea, he’s a model.

I don’t remember much of that weekend. I remember coming in Saturday evening. Another friend of mine wanted shrooms and I went to pick them up before meeting her.

DEJA-VU.

Derrick in the same exact spot on the couch. Same plain white tee with a little ketchup stain on the neckline. Baggy blue jeans. White Dior sneakers. Head all the way back, mouth open.

Rahul was playing 2K with a long hair, long beard, band tee wearing companion.

He’s still here?

Yea. He only woke up once yesterday and ate half a hot dog that someone left. And part of that Arizona next to him. Rahul didn’t look up.

The mango Arizona tea was cradled against Derrick’s hip.

What about his shoot?

I don’t know. I tried waking him up.

I walked over and grabbed his wrist. SiGNS OF LiFE.

The door opened and a beautiful blonde woman walked through. She paid us no attention.

Derrick. Derrick.

She jostled him. He slowly came to.

Rahul and his gaming partner still hadn’t looked up. There was a lot of MONEY on the LiNE.

I just stood there and watched model help model. She stood him up. He yawned and stretched, like he had just taken a standard long nap. EXTENDED CUT. She escorted him out with a hand on his back as he rubbed his eyes. He left his phone behind.

In my two years of knowing Derrick, his escapades followed a familiar trajectory. THE HiMBO’S JOURNEY.

• He’d show us his Instagram DMs. Heat check after heat check. Just flaunting that blue check. No warm up. Just asking a girl what she was up to that night. Or a fire emoji 🔥. The side eyes emoji 👀.

  • He was confused why this one girl didn’t work out though. We asked him to show us. She had messaged him first, asking him if he was in town. They went back and forth a bit, this girl really carrying. He asked if she threw it back tho. No reply. He sent one more message, a singular question mark. ?. Blocked. No matter. He scrolled and there were dozens of unanswered messages, women clamoring to set up a TiME and PLACE.

• Somehow his modeling career only grew. Despite him constantly missing his shoots. He was FAiLiNG UPWARDS. We didn’t see him for a month once. Turns out he was walking at PARiS FASHiON WEEK. LOUiS VUiTTON. And doing a big campaign for Club Monaco. And partying on some random rich girl’s yacht in Seychelles.

• Anytime we’d go out with him for dinner or to the club, he’d be mobbed. Sober older ladies grabbing him. Drunk younger ladies hanging on to him. People buying him drinks. Girls coming up to him and kissing him as a dare. Girls asking him to be in their TikToks. I could never tell how he felt about it. There wasn’t some overwhelming joy, there wasn’t any sort of disdain. It just was.

• No matter how hard he partied or abused drugs, he always looked fresh faced. He also never worked out consistently and was absolutely shredded. Probably because he barely ate. He was superhuman. And he hardly talked. If he did it was to express interest in the most random things. He loved sushi restaurants that put their chopsticks on a little holder. He loved disco music. He loved Allen Iverson. He loved when girls wore anklets. But otherwise, he was just floating by, happy to be there.

The last I heard of him, he was SET 4 LiFE.

He met a young wealthy widow in London. She paid him to father her children. She said he could visit them any time but didn’t want him to be an involved parent. He said they were beautiful babies.

The problem was—he lost his old phone. He always forgot his iCloud password, so he made a new account every time. That meant all his contacts gone.

Oh well. He didn’t like London much anyways.