The Price Of Dick by Dan Skinner

resident model recruiter when Mike went off to college. We had a scouting technique. We would both work out at opposite ends of the gym. If one of us saw someone interesting, we’d meet at the water fountain and point him out to the other. If we agreed, Dick would try to ‘work in’ with them and strike up a conversation. I used him as an “interest meter.” If they made eye contact with him, we had a good prospect. If they followed him into the locker room shower, we had a great prospect. If they followed him into the sauna, we had a bona fide winner. Then the wooing was up to him.
    Our M.O. when working with potential models was to bring them to the apartment and show them some typical modeling shots. The sort most models have in a portfolio, which they presented to agencies. Then cocktails or a few beers would be consumed and we’d invite the prospect to watch a live shoot with Dick. That shoot involved several clothing changes, some fitness shots, and a couple of swim suit shots. First board shorts and trunks, then the skimpy stuff. The Speedos always served as a test of their reaction. If it was promising—which we measured in chubs—then we’d do some underwear shots. The curious talked, the furious walked. Four out of five recruits always came back for a shoot of their own.
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    That September was also the occasion of his first half-triathlon. It would be memorable, but not for the sporting event itself. My fun would come from attending the event with his charming family.
    For the triathlon uninitiated, the competition of a half-triathlon goes like this: there’s first a mile and a half swim, then a fifty-six mile bike ride, and the event finished with a twelve mile run. In simpler terms, as an onlooker, you’ll see your athlete exactly thirty seconds at the beginning and end of two events, and then sit around with nothing to do for two and half hours. Not the most riveting way to spend the day.
    When we arrived at the park at six-thirty that morning , his family; mom and dad and two brothers were already waiting. Our arrival was notable because I unknowingly came in costume as The Invisible Man. They greeted Dick while looking right through me.
    I played with my camera and pretended they weren ’t there, too. I’d promised Dick that I’d take pictures of him during the event. You had to be quick to catch the competitors going in and out of the lake during the swim, on and off the bike, and at the start and finish lines of the run. That meant being at each of the specified places on the course, willing to wait hours just to capture those few seconds you actually caught glimpses of the athletes. It was difficult to find a good photographic vantage point because the park grounds were crowded, not only with spectators, but with vendors and their tents. These were huge events.
    I didn ’t have trouble finding space while near his family. They chose to stand a dissociative distance away from me. Think of them as cattle...me, the prod. I came near, they moved away. As a group. It was pathetically funny. I tested my theory a couple of times just to amuse myself.
    At his first competition, Dick did well. Out of one hundred and fifty people in his age category, he placed fourteenth. He looked like a machine formed from determined muscle. At the finale, the run, as everyone else limped their way to the finish line, he came barreling down the dirt road of the park looking like a madman. What had been sporadic cheering from the spectators' gallery became more enthusiastic upon seeing this lunatic huffing and puffing, arms and legs pumping like pistons, coming at them like he’d mow down the finish line. He had infused the audience with its first sign of life.
    Afterward, as I wormed my way in through his family’s protective circle to congratulate him, his mother brought out a cooler. She began passing out beers to everyone. Except me. It had been staged like a humiliating production number. Oops, she was