I got a call one afternoon from an old friend who was in town. He wanted to do drinks and grab a bite at the Cheesecake Factory. He was a guy I had met years ago in Chicago. He heard I had settled down in the Atlanta area, so he called around and got my number through mutual contacts. Since I was not exclusive to one modeling agency, I kept my line of communication open to as many friends and associates as possible. You never know when a contact may bring in a new job.

Anyway, this guy, Corey Sanders, had been a football player, a model, an aspiring actor, and finally a security agent for celebrities. I had first met him during his transition from football to modeling. He had the passion for the job, but he was maybe too much on the bulky side and not attractive enough for most clothing lines. So instead of doing big man’s clothes, athletic wear, fitness ads, and calendars, Corey tried being an action hero/stuntman in films before settling down in security. Whatever works for you, I guess.

Once I arrived at the Cheesecake Factory and joined him at his booth, I extended my hand to greet the giant of a man. Corey had to be at least six-foot-five, two hundred forty-five pounds. That was several inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than I was.

He said, “Hey, Terrance. How are things going for you? I guess real well, because I keep seeing photos of your work everywhere.”

I smiled. “Yeah, things have been good for me.”

It was a Thursday night. I had to fly to Miami the next morning, but the night was still young. My bags were already packed and I didn’t need a lot of sleep. So I ordered a drink, sat back, and relaxed.

Corey was wearing a dark sports jacket with a bright white tee underneath, just like I was.

I grinned. “I see you’re still following the latest fashion trends,” I said to him.

He grinned back at me from across the table. He held a glass of dark wine in his huge right hand.

“Denzel makes it work, so why can’t we?”

I nodded. “If you wanna be the best, you gotta copy the best.”

“Dig it.”

Our male waiter stepped up to the table to see if we were ready to order our food. I had barely looked at the menu.

“Give me another minute or two,” I told him.

“Yeah, give us a few minutes,” Corey repeated.

Our waiter nodded, wearing a wavy ponytail, white button-up shirt, bright orange tie, and a black apron. He stared at me and grinned.

“Excuse me for staring, but aren’t you Terrance Mitchell, the model?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, I love your work. You don’t mind if I get an autograph before you leave, do you?”

“I have to sign my check, don’t I? Unless I pay for this in cash,” I joked to him.

He chuckled with an abundance of tickle in his bones.