The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  “What’s wrong?” Keisha said as she opened the door to her loft and ushered Pablo in. “I thought you were supposed to be in fittings this afternoon?”

  The haphazardness of her ill-conceived, multi-million-dollar designer disaster seemed like a metaphor for the chaos in his mind at that moment. He kicked off his shoes, walked past the open space kitchen, and plopped onto the purple velvet fainting couch that looked more like an oversized dildo. Keisha’s taste in furniture was about as bad as her taste in clothing, but he loved her and didn’t care.

  Grabbing a pint of Dulce de Leche Häagen-Dazs from her fridge, Keisha settled next to Pablo and began to eat. She didn’t offer him any but that wasn’t unusual. “Tell Mama what’s wrong?”

  Pablo spilled his guts. He even cried. “It was disgusting. I feel dirty. You know?”

  He turned to look at her. She was not nodding empathetically.

  “I don’t know if I can work with him on the show anymore. How can I hide how I feel about him on camera? I’ll just wanna wrap my hands around his neck and throttle him every time he opens his condescending mouth! He said something like, ‘I know how your people like it.’ What the fuck does that mean?”

  She bit her spoon and looked at him, hard. Her brown/green eyes burned. “Model Muse has taken off, Mr. Pablo. This is what you wanted. It’s what I want. We can’t let anything happen to the show.” She licked her spoon and tapped him on the nose. “Besides, Mason is kinda hot. Think of it as a compliment. I mean, it’s kinda flattering. No one’s manhandled me in years.”

  He looked at her incredulously. Gobsmacked, he stammered, “I can’t believe you, a woman who’s been objectified your entire career, continues to stand up for equal pay and publicly endorses the Me Too movement—you are telling me that this is not a serious offense? If I was one of the female staff, you’d have his fucking head.”

  “But you’re not.” She stood up and walked away. End of subject. “You can’t tell anyone, Pablo. No one can know. You’ll ruin his reputation and the show’s.” She put her ice cream back into the freezer. “Now, you’d better get back to the studio and finish your fittings. I have to call my new manager.” She’d dropped Pablo’s drama and picked up her own. “I just got Andy Levenkron to sign me. That’s right, the Andy Levenkron—he’s a beast. He’s gonna make sure I have the biggest second act of my career.”

  Pablo felt like he was walking through a desert of sand, his legs heavy, and his feet unstable. He ordered an Uber and left her apartment. She hadn’t fixed it, nor made things right. Instead, she had officially flipped the script on male supremacy and reminded him that she was “The Boss.”

  10

  KEISHAVISION

  “I THINK I SHOULD record an album,” Keisha blurted out of the clear blue.

  Pablo nearly spit out his protein shake. “What?”

  “Come on, let’s be real. JLo was really created by glam gurus, auto-tune, and Benny Medina. Who’s really the brain behind the beauty? All you need these days is a brilliant producer to become a star.”

  “P.S. She can actually sing.”

  “Madonna can’t and look at her. With Andy Levenkron behind me, I can do whatever I want. He’ll make sure of it. He’s made oodles of popstars.”

  “Isn’t it enough to have a hit television show and be one of the world’s most gorgeous women?” Pablo tried not to roll his eyes. “Far more beautiful than JLo, Beyoncé and Madonna combined, I might add.”

  “I wanna be more than my looks, Mr. Pablo.” He cringed as her voice shifted into what he now thought of as, scary child’s voice. “You know that.”

  “But you can’t sing.”

  “Details, details. Did you even hear what I’m saying? Andy will take care of everything.”

  Season two was already gearing up. They’d just finished four open calls and assessed thousands of models, picked the semi-finalists, planned the creatives, and were about to start filming. Pablo was already tired and he knew that no matter what, he was going to get sucked into the Keishavision vortex and have to help her become a popstar—on top of his regular workload. De La Renta wasn’t going to have to dye his hair grey for much longer; he’d be natural grey if this pace kept up.

  The Supermodel had already given the go-ahead to her new—I can do no wrong—talent manager to pull together the ultimate dream team to make Keisha Kash America’s next top recording artist. Andy hired the best songwriters, the hottest Hip-Hop record producer, and Celine Dion’s own voice coach, a Cherokee dude with a long ponytail and pained expression on his formerly kind face. He only lasted one day before having a Celine Dion emergency and flying to Canada. Clearly, he could only feel safe from Keisha’s voice if he was in another country. As an A-list celebrity, no one dared tell Keisha that her voice sucked, especially when she was trying to become a musical popstar.

  Keisha didn’t care. “He taught me so much that first day, I don’t need any more lessons.” She smiled at her BFF. “Besides, you can sing. You can coach me if I need it.”

  Pablo tried to look pleased with the idea.

  At the first recording session, Keisha wailed into the microphone so loudly that the sound engineer had to remove his headphones. He looked over at Pablo and whispered, “Are you kidding me?”

  Pablo headed into the sound booth.

  “How was that?” She smiled gleefully at him. “I’m digging this whole set up. It’s so dark and cool.”

  “Keisha, fiercest icon of the world...” Pablo began.

  “Did we get it in one take, or should I go again?”

  “Keisha.” Pablo swallowed hard. “You can’t sing.”

  “I just did.”

  “No, what I mean is, you can’t carry a tune. You’re just a touch tone-deaf.”

  “I’m black! We can all sing.”

  “Well, evidently, you’re not black enough. And I say this with love, my goddess of the catwalk, you’re no Beyoncé. You’ll be a laughingstock if you release this track.”

  “Excuse me?” She hissed at him. “You used to be so supportive, but lately, you’ve gotten really difficult and petty.”

  “I’m trying to help you avoid embarrassment,” Pablo said earnestly.

  “You’re just jealous.”

  He looked at her in shock.

  “Why don’t you try singing something?” she dared him.

  Nothing got by that Venus flytrap of a brain of hers. From the glint in her million-dollar eyes, Pablo suddenly realized that every little detail of his life scooped out over those all-night ice cream binging orgies had been filed away for her use later. He hadn’t known back then that his confides would be the fodder used against him at some random later date. Now, he wondered what else he’d told her over the past two years when they were just Babes in Arms. Though his dream of being a singer when he was a spotty faced, awkward teenager shouldn’t have been ammunition—what teenager hadn’t wanted to be a singer in a band? He turned toward the mic and called her bluff.

  Swaying his hips back and forth, he did a little salsa and serenaded the most beautiful woman in the world. “Yo, soy el cantante…” He sang in Spanish as Keisha frolicked around him, pretending to be a flamenco dancer. Of course, the song had a salsa beat. He watched her and smiled sweetly. She so wanted to be more than her looks. But she couldn’t sing, though. She couldn’t dance either.

  Was that why they were in this recording studio now? Pablo felt a strange coolness sweep through his body. It hadn’t occurred to him before that she was usurping his own talents and claiming them as her own. She’d adopted his hashtag gesture and made it her own, borrowed almost all of his catchphrases and made them famous on Model Muse, and now she was trying to sing.

  He returned to the engineer’s studio and shrugged. “You’ll have to fix it in the mix.”

  * * *

  “So, Andy had a great idea, Mr. Joe.” They were in their last pre-production meet
ing before filming began on season two, planning the teaches, challenges, and photoshoot themes. “We’re gonna release my new single with a music video and use the models as back-up dancers. Mr. Pablo will come up with the treatment and direct, and maybe get someone from Dancing With The Stars to choreograph.”

  Pablo nodded obediently, knowing better than to object to anything his BFF says publicly.

  “This is not part of our production schedule, Miss Kash.” Joe Vong politely argued. “I don’t see how we have time for this, and there’s no budget for a choreographer or an expensive location shoot.”

  “Mr. Joe, I think you’re gonna have to make it happen.” She aimed her finger at him and pressed an imaginary trigger with her thumb a few times. “Don’t you?”

  “Broyce will have to okay it.”

  “You’ll have to make sure he does. Remember, you’re mine now, Mr. Joe. And you don’t wanna learn what I’m really capable of—you owe me.” She blew on her finger and turned to Pablo. “Make him go away now, Mr. Pablo.”

  Pablo opened the door for Vong and shut it behind him.

  Keisha had gotten a pair of brass balls—Andy Levenkron’s, to be exact. Her new talent manager was working overtime to give his Model Muse star a branding makeover. What Keisha wanted, Andy got. Period. No one crossed him. And with his power behind her, she knew she could place Vong’s testicles in a vise and squeeze until he was her pawn. It may be cliché to say that Hollywood managers are all crooked and unethical but in the case of Andy Levenkron, that was an understatement. Slimy and devious were Andy’s most positive attributes. He shrewdly used his high-powered connections to keep his more debaucherous escapades out of the press and himself out of hot water, but Andy was always on the cusp of another public sex scandal. He was the “golden child” of managers because he was ruthless. “I’m the best in the business because no one dares fuck with me,” he often spouted. True enough, Hollywood can be a pretty shitty place, especially for those who find themselves in a position where powerful people like slimy Andy don’t think twice about asserting control over them to get what they need. Thinking about his incident with cocky Mason, Pablo wondered, Why do abusers always win the power struggle…while the abused fall into silent defeat?

  Girls Are The World, Keisha’s debut single was to be released to coincide with the airing of the 5th episode of season two’s Model Muse. On top of everything else Pablo had on his plate, he now had to produce the music video–a task which normally took months. It was to be used in the judging elimination segment. He would have forty-eight hours to shoot the video and have it perfected for the judges to evaluate. Keisha refused to have them review a rough-cut, even though production could easily edit in a polished final version for the episodic airing months later. Nope. Keisha wanted everyone to see the final product at the judging, which only gave Pablo two days to shoot the contestants with Keisha and turn around a perfect product. When had his Supermodel boss become so unreasonable, or had she always been this way and he’d just never noticed?

  * * *

  A burned-out Pablo leaned his head on De La Renta’s shoulder. Next to them, sitting in video village watching Keisha introduce her music video, were Joe and Andy. Keisha had given strict orders for none of the judges, or crew, to hear the song or see the video before her onscreen moment. Always the teacher’s pet, Mason had a pleasant look on his face. For once, Miss Thing and Sasha sat patiently waiting; of course, Sasha was drunk. The guest judge for the episode was Derek Hough from DWTS–who’d choreographed the video. Though a complete professional who embodied cool, Derek was nibbling on the quicks of his fingernails.

  “Who knew he had an oral fixation,” De La Renta quipped.

  “I cannot tell you how nervous I am right now. My legs are literally shaking because this is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done.” Keisha addressed the eight contestants who’d participated in her music video. “This week you had a very special photoshoot. You performed in my first ever music video.”

  Sasha turned to Miss Thing, silently opened her mouth and stuck her finger down her throat in a mock gag. Pablo wondered if any of the cameras had caught her and hoped for her sake they hadn’t. Keisha wouldn’t like being made fun of, even if it was going on the cutting room floor.

  “After nine years of secretly working in music studios around the globe, it’s time to present the world premiere of my first music single, Girls Are The World!”

  “She means nine minutes,” De La Renta cracked.

  The jib swung across the soundstage and pulled out to a wide shot revealing Keisha, the judges and all the contestants directing their attention to the huge LED wall above the runway. Per Keisha’s direction, an old-fashioned white circle with black numbers doing a silent countdown and the background sound effect of crackling static filled the room.

  3…2…1…

  FADE FROM BLACK: Keisha in an all-white catsuit is riding a black horse past barrel drums on fire. A post-apocalyptic vibe à la Mad Max.

  Joe instantly snatched Pablo from his seat and dragged him through the nearby soundstage door, where Andy was already standing in the hall. “OK, Keisha didn’t want me on set while she shot her video–fine.” Joe was more ballistic than normal. “But explain to me why the word ‘girls’ is being repeated every four beats—this all sounds and looks very familiar. Even to me. If Beyoncé sues us, it’s on your heads. Not the network’s.”

  “Calm down, Vong.” Andy shook his head. “Artists are always getting inspiration from other artists–look at Taylor Swift, she totally knocked off Beyoncé’s Homecoming performance once. They all hail the queen.”

  “Fuck! I knew it,” Joe screamed. “This is a blatant rip off of Beyoncé, isn’t it?”

  “Listen, Kim Vong-un…”

  “What the fuck did you just call me?”

  Unbothered, Andy continued without addressing the racist slur. “Beyoncé’s Run The World (Girls) isn’t even close to Keisha’s Girls Are The World.”

  “Can I just jump in here and say…” Pablo was saying, as both irate men ignored him and continued yelling.

  “Pablo worked with Keisha on this. We’ve changed enough details to avoid any first glance comparisons.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joe’s face was solid red now, “I don’t know fucking shit about these pop singers and even I noticed. Beyoncé fans are gonna crucify us when this airs.”

  “You’re overreacting, Joe.”

  Pablo was too tired to jump in and didn’t understand why he was dragged into the hall in the first place, if they were just going to ignore him. He was just a soldier, not a general, and certainly not the President of this shitshow. He’d had enough and slipped back into the soundstage.

  “If we get a Cease and Desist letter from Beyoncé’s team, I’m gonna make sure—”

  The soundproof door clicked shut.

  Pablo now watched as the scenes on the LED screen continued to play out exactly as Keisha had requested, with the model contestants acting as her army of power women taking on the masculine world. Keisha had several wardrobe changes that were all carefully designed to look just like all of Beyoncé’s outfits. Her wheat gold hair flowed long with a tasseled wave, expertly styled.

  “You know how long that wig took me to make?” De La Renta leaned into Pablo and asked. “Too fucking long. That’s how long. That piece was a bitch to color! She had me match highlights and lowlights so her Queen Bey wig looked authentic.” De La Renta, whose hairstyle changed almost daily, began playing with his now short Senegalese twists in frustration. “But I’m hitting production with overtime. Trust.” Being the youngest child of seven, the hair guru was raised by his grandmother in Atlanta. She was a loud, say-it-like-it-is kind of woman, and he inherited her mouth.

  Pablo had used bright beauty ring lighting and only noticed now that he inadvertently made Keisha’s complexion appear lighter than usual. She really did look like Be
yoncé in a few of the wide shots. The similarities were worrying. What would the fans on social media say when the episode finally aired?

  The video ended with Keisha gyrating in a green sequin and chiffon dress, with a dangerously revealing diagonal slit over her breasts. She punched a male dancer standing in front of her on the last downbeat, and with the whip of De La Renta’s custom sewn wig, she turned her back on the camera and sashayed away.

  FADE TO BLACK.

  Mason, Miss Thing and Sasha sat frozen in time. The Model Muse cameras pushed in for closeups. Keisha had tears in her eyes. The others? Well, they had tears of a different sort.

  “Before we evaluate all your individual performances, I just wanna say, I’ll never forget the eight of you who will forever be a part of my dream. Hashtag,” she crossed her fingers, “bonded for life.” The Supermodel dabbed the corners of her eyes as the camera pushed tight.

  “And, that’s a cut everybody,” Bill yelled. “Quick change on batteries and let’s repos for evaluations. This isn’t a break people. Keep comments for the cameras. No talking.”

  “Bravo, Keisha,” Mason proffered while politely clapping. “You sounded fantastic.”

  “Oh, you’re so sweet,” Keisha bashfully sat down next to the handsome Brit, “but no talking. Wait till we’re back up.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Miss Thing fired across Mason’s bow. “Canines in New Jersey could hear that auto-tune. Beyon-say-you-Betta-don’t.”

  Keisha turned towards her model coach, the man who’d given her, her signature walk and in essence made her who she was today. If her eyes could shoot bullets, he’d have been a dead man.