by Jay Manuel
“That’s fierce,” Keisha quipped. “I’m not surprised.”
“Of course, we’ll still need to do a full PR campaign for the launch of season one, but get ready, we’re taking off!”
The entire room erupted in cheers. The crew hugged each other. Sasha held up her water bottle, toasting the room. Miss Thing opened a bottle of champagne, let the fizz explode all over the other judges, and then got up to strut himself offstage with his own bottle tucked under his arm. Why not? No one was paying attention to him anyway.
Mason patted Pablo on the back and then wiped some champagne fizz off his cheek. “Looks like you are going to have your hands full for a while.”
“You have four weeks off!” Joe yelled at the crew. “Don’t spend it all on wine and women!”
“That’s exactly what I was planning on doing!” Rachel yelled back, sarcastically.
Pablo felt like a mother who’d just given birth and had been told she was pregnant again but wasn’t going to get nine months to recover. He hadn’t had any free time to himself since the show was greenlit. When his life wasn’t Keisha’s, it was the show’s and Keisha. He sat in his judging chair trying to figure out how he could slip away from the wrap party and have a quiet night at home. Maybe read a good book? But the thought went out the window when Keisha beckoned her BFF with the look. Virgil’s was her new favorite barbecue joint on West 44th Street near Times Square; it had become her new obsession. If she was in a good mood, they’d go to Virgil’s. If she was in a bad mood, they’d go to Virgil’s. If there was drama that needed an emergency discussion, they’d go to Virgil’s. Pablo could only imagine the amount of sodium infused pork he’d been forced to ingest while holed up in Virgil’s corner booth reserved for VIPs.
“Tonight?” he mouthed at her. “It’s the wrap party.”
The crew was already dancing and drinking. After an intense two months of work and no sleep, there was nothing like a good wrap party. This was the night everybody got lucky because they got to go home and get some sleep; a fortunate few had sex first.
Joe Vong looked more like a toddler from a Baby Gap commercial than a high fashion model, as he stomped his way down the runway toward Keisha. How the hell he ever got a gig producing Model Muse was a mystery Pablo feared he’d never solve.
“Keisha. We gotta talk. Season renewal changes everything.”
Keisha smiled at him so seductively that Pablo thought he was hallucinating. “We do need to talk.” She cut him off. “Meet me in my trailer in ten minutes.”
Joe looked confused. The poor guy still thought he was in charge of the production. Pablo chuckled to himself.
“Pablo?” Keisha shouted behind her. Pablo followed.
Exactly ten minutes later, comfortably seated in her trailer’s makeup area, where the lighting was more flattering, Keisha looked radiant in her crisp white robe and slippers. There was a knock at the door. She crossed her leg, arranged the slit of her robe so her thigh was mostly revealed, and cued Pablo.
Joe Vong didn’t stand a chance. He entered without waiting for a reply. “I’m sure you’re tired, but we have to change some protocols. For one thing, you need to wear an earpiece.”
“Tell me about OFFICERZ.”
“Huh?” He stopped and looked at her leg. “What’s to know?”
She drew her finger along the line of the robe, up her thigh. Pablo wondered what she was playing at, and wished he’d paid more attention in Psych 101.
“I’m just curious. What attracted you to making that particular show?”
“It was a job.”
“And?”
“It got amazing ratings.”
“And?”
“The thrill? Cops arresting a bunch of low-life losers, what’s not to like?”
“And that’s where you fucked up, Mr. Joe.” Keisha’s voice lowered an octave and reminded Pablo of something out of the Exorcist or Poltergeist. Was there really such a thing as demonic possession?
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Keisha stood up, a real-life Super Barbie doll intimidating the short man.
Pablo made a mental note. Keisha Barbie—huge profits there.
“I don’t suppose you would. I was only thirteen.”
Joe’s skin flushed. He looked like a gazelle being clawed to death by a very beautiful, very deadly, big cat.
She leaned in close to Joe, her creepy child’s voice rising into an irritating screech. “Think, Mr. Joe. The 405 highway in Los Angeles.”
“We did several shows there.”
“Mother. Two kids in the back seat.” She sounded like a shrill prosecutor hammering a witness. “You thrust a camera into my face as police officers cop-dropped my mama into a cruiser.”
The color immediately drained out of Joe’s face. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back. There was a hollow thump as it hit the wall.
“Egg-zackly.” Keisha sneered. “Payback’s a bitch, bitch!”
“Are you going to fire me?” He looked truly frightened.
“Oh, that would be too easy. Mr. Pablo, show Mr. Joe out.” She exited with the finesse of Betty Davis into her dressing area. “Hang onto your seats, it’s gonna be a bumpy season two.”
9
TERRIBLE TWOS
“I’M SORRY, I just can’t do that again.”
“It won’t be as bad this year,” Keisha reassured Pablo. “Everyone will be there this time to help out.”
“My eyes were bleeding by the end of the day. Sasha was literally doing eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” Pablo sighed, settling into the pillowy, soft leather seat of the Bombardier Learjet. They were 45,000 feet over North Carolina, headed to Florida. He wondered if there was a parachute included in the cost of the private jet they were sitting in.
“Season one’s open call was fierce publicity and our fans now expect us to have another one,” Keisha said.
Pablo frowned. Another grueling open call was his idea of hell. “Only if you promise to be there.”
“Of course, I’ll be there! I’m the star and EP. All the execs will be there this time.”
“This year,” he mumbled under his breath and waved at the flight attendant. “Do you have Advil on the plane?”
“Just champagne and snacks.”
Pablo’s head felt like it was being squeezed by a massive steel C-clamp.
Ever since the first season of Model Muse had wrapped, he’d become Keisha’s sidekick and beard, an emasculating position that paid nothing and provided zero fringe benefits. Shortly after she’d ordered him to book the venue for her charity ball, “Smile With Your Soul,” she began telling him it was time to move out of Hell’s Kitchen. Just how much could he do, he asked? So, like an overbearing mother, she called in a real estate agent and instructed them to scout for something trendy, spacious, and close to Broome Street for her sidekick. “We work together all the time,” she’d chirped like an excited bird. “If we lived closer together, we could see each other all the time.”
Pablo was beginning to think anything in the outer boroughs was too close. Especially since poor Vinny—literally and figuratively poor—the gorgeous stockbroker was jettisoned. He hadn’t stood a chance once the show was a slam dunk. Falling in love with a Supermodel had its downsides.
“If you only knew,” Keisha had confided in one of their now rare tête-à-têtes. “He calls me his own ‘Personal Supermodel.’ I have to sleep with mascara and concealer on. And I never let him touch my hair ‘cause he doesn’t know I wear wigs.” She shuddered.
“I didn’t know he was like that.” Pablo was a little shocked. He thought Vinny was really in love with her, but maybe it was just infatuation or, worse, arm candy. “You’re a powerful woman, Keisha. You just have to be yourself. He’d be crazy not to accept you as you are.”
“Well, there’s NO way I can seriously date a guy who only earns two hundred and fifty thousand dollars
a year. I mean, that’s just embarrassing.”
“You broke up with him because he only makes 250 grand?” Pablo couldn’t believe his ears.
“He may have been hot in bed, but I can’t bankroll a charity case.”
Poor Vinny. Now she was dating one of the Uber-Rich. She was still arm candy, but at least he was a billionaire—or was it a trillionaire? Pablo couldn’t make sense of all those zeroes. He was bad at math.
“T-Rex,” that was Keisha’s pet name for him, “doesn’t trust me, Pablo. So I need you to come with me. I’m so horny I could die. I need a real man.” She was now having an affair with the tight end for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. “You should see his tight end.”
Pablo, now on a Learjet to South Beach, came along for the ride so Keisha could have her little, or rather big, “dick date.” And she didn’t understand why “T-Rex” didn’t trust her? He wondered who was bankrolling this impromptu trip to South Beach at $8,500.00 per hour. The “queen of cheap” certainly wouldn’t spring for this booty call in Florida.
“So, if T-Rex asks, we’re scouting a venue. And this is a tax write-off.”
“A venue, for what?”
“For our four-city open call.” She squealed like one of her contestants. “We’re adding Chicago, Miami, and LA to the list!”
“What?” Pablo was taken aback.
“Joe and I discussed the idea the other night.”
“Wait, what? Joe’s your new BFF now?”
She waved at the flight attendant. “I need another bowl of those honey-glazed pecans.” She blithely babbled as if she hadn’t said anything unusual. “Don’t act like you don’t love it. Besides, what do you care about Joe Vong? You’re a trending topic on Twitter these days—more than me.” She sounded snarky and jealous.
He looked over at his beautiful friend. Was that what this was all about? Was she punishing him for having his own hashtag? She’d probably been one of those kids in kindergarten who came home with the grade card that said, “Kiki Grimes doesn’t know how to share.” After everything he’d done to help make their show a success: retouching contestants’ photos on his laptop, editing footage for her Instagram account, putting out fires that Joe should’ve been hosing himself, painstakingly creating the Model Muse logo and taping way more scenes than he was responsible for producing and executing on camera, she was jealous of three minutes on Twitter?
There is silence and there is silence. Quietly fuming, Pablo turned his head and shut his eyes. The word bitch came to mind. He erased it. Others might use that word to describe her, but he was not one of them. He was her loyal friend. Foot soldier. Confidante. Family. Down below the Atlantic Seaboard, they were passing by. We must be near Savannah, he thought.
It was a long weekend. Pablo signed the venue for the open call and spent the rest of it lying on the beach waiting for Keisha to text him. She hadn’t even planned a hotel room for him or an expense account. All she cared about was being able to write off the trip while he did her work and she got laid.
The idea that the on-camera talent was going to have a four-week holiday evaporated when open calls for season two were announced and all the new cities that had been added were preposterous. Sasha flew to LA. Miss Thing wouldn’t leave NY. Mason got Chicago. Keisha, surprise, surprise, flew to Miami. Like Mary’s little lamb, everywhere that Mary went, Pablo was sure to go. Keisha showed up for the casting but, yet again, she didn’t stay. So here he was in Miami with Luciana, both of them again left to work through ten thousand hopefuls until their eyes bled. At least this trip was on expenses.
* * *
The show’s wardrobe supervisor couldn’t contain herself with excitement. “I have a box of next season’s Dior samples waiting at the front gate that you must wear,” she blurted the moment she saw Pablo. “Can you believe it? It’s only season two of Model Muse and we’re getting fucking Dior.”
It was only their second day of pre-production and the designers were practically beating down the doors, trying to reach him. Pablo was going to need an assistant to help with all the sucking up going on.
“Who knew that when I became Keisha’s personal stylist that I’d end up styling a TV show.” Dionne bubbled with excitement.
Who knew? Pablo knew. It was Broyce who’d told him.
At the end of season one, Broyce called Pablo in a panic. “She says she has no plans of leveraging herself to lure other fashion icons and design houses to the show.”
“No one will work with her, Broyce.” Pablo sounded remarkably calm, breaking the news to the one man involved with the show who’d stuck up for Keisha in the past.
“She’s Keisha Kash,” he said, startled at his revelation.
Pablo burst out laughing. Over the nearly two years they’d been “BFFs,” it had become abundantly clear that Keisha’s slash and burn approach to business had left her industry connections in tatters.
“I’m the one who set up all of last season’s creative talent, Broyce. Not Keisha.”
“She said she did it.”
“Welcome to Keishavision.” Pablo shook his head. “Don’t worry, I got it covered. I’m not gonna let the show down.”
“Silent and steady,” Broyce sighed. “That’s rare in this business.”
“Silent? You know how much I can talk.” The men chuckled.
“Well, it’s a good thing we renewed your contract, or we’d be sunk. I owe you dinner.”
Pablo wondered if Broyce was a man of his word, but had a feeling that good intentions didn’t always make the exec’s calendar.
“Try this on.” Dionne tossed a suit over the chair and scampered out of the wardrobe room to grab another box of Dior samples. Alone in nothing but a pair of white Y-front Calvin Klein briefs, Pablo caught his reflection in the mirror. He flexed his muscles. Turned sideways to suck in his washboard abs. Not bad for a kid who’d been stumpy and short-waisted. Now on the eve of turning thirty, he was hot. No wonder his fans loved him. OMG. He had fans now. His heart swelled. A wave of euphoria and excitement pulsed through his entire being—he was living the dream, his dream. It was going to happen. All he needed to do was hang on, and he’d be more than a talk show host, he’d be the male Oprah.
“You should model BVDs, mate.” Mason leaned on the door jamb and, if Pablo hadn’t known better, he’d swear he was checking him out.
“Are all Brits metrosexuals?”
“Pretty much.” Mason strode into the room and looked around. “Dionne said there was wardrobe to try on. Looks like there’s more than wardrobe.”
Pablo felt somewhat shy all of a sudden.
“Why haven’t we talked about doing a test shoot with you, yet?” Mason framed his face, looking through his hands like they were a camera lens and made some mock shots of Pablo’s nearly naked body. “I am positive we would create magic together. Wrap that body in my seductive light.”
Corny British humor?
“Extreme Close Up!” Mason moved in close now. Pablo could smell his easily recognizable Extreme Noir Tom Ford cologne.
He did a little voguing. Twisting his shoulders, his hips. All in good fun. Suddenly, Mason slapped Pablo’s nipples like they were frat boys and grabbed his ass.
“Hey.” Pablo turned away. Mason raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “You game?”
Was he? Mason was handsome. Sexy. Straight?
A strange detachment between the present and the past skipped across Pablo’s mind. Half of him was still the ugly, awkward kid. The biracial boy in a sea of white faces. “Don’t let them get you down,” his mother used to tell him while wiping the tears from his eyes. “You’re more than your outside. They just can’t see beyond their own skin and narrow minds. You’ve got to be better than them and show them you’re their equal.” Pablo could hear her voice as if it were yesterday.
Like a predator about to pounce on his prey, Mason moved closer. “No one has to know.”
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“Know what?” Pablo was confused.
Mason grabbed Pablo by the chest and threw him to the floor. And like a seasoned initiator, dropped his own pants all in one quick gesture.
“What are you doing?” Pablo pushed back.
“Don’t be a cock tease. You’ve been coming onto me for months.”
Mason slammed his hard body on top of him and thrust his tongue down Pablo’s throat. His saliva tasted sweet, but Pablo was still disgusted.
“I know how your people like it.”
In a boa constrictor hold, they rolled across the wardrobe room, Mason’s legs clamped around Pablo’s. “You make me so hard.”
Thrusting his pelvis against Pablo’s, Mason dry humped and heaved a hard and ribbed erection against the trapped creative director.
Pablo forced himself to relax. Mason eased his grip on him. “That’s how he likes it.”
Pablo punched him. Slam. “Get off me.” He scampered to his feet. “You arrogant fuck.”
“What?” Mason was agog.
Pablo grabbed his clothes and bolted for the door. “Why don’t you go on Pornhub and jerk off.” He exited the dressing room and roared behind him, “Better yet, go fuck yourself!”
Pulling on his clothes in the elevator, Pablo ran onto the street barefoot. His heart pounded in his chest. His ears were ringing. He waved his hand in the air for a yellow cab and jumped into the back.
“Soho. 565 Broome.”
From the rear window, he could see Mason racing out of the building, waving. “Pablo, come back.”
Sinking into the back seat of the cracked vinyl in the old cab, he stared at the meter already running. Then and only then did he burst into tears.
By the time he’d crossed the Queensborough Bridge into Manhattan, he’d calmed down. It wasn’t that bad. Just a misunderstanding. Maybe he’d given off the wrong signals. It wasn’t rape, just a fondle and fumble. A pass. An incomplete pass, in fact. What was his problem? He was shaking. His lip wouldn’t stop trembling. He felt like a little boy, vulnerable and innocent. He needed assurance. A friend. Someone who’d understand being treated like an object. If anyone would get it, Keisha would. “Mama will make it right.” That’s what she’d say.
