The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  “That would be less disruptive.”

  “And I’ll make sure Rachel knows to give you at least five minutes.”

  “Ten.”

  “Five is a lot. There is a budget. We’re overtime every night.”

  “The show can afford it.”

  “Not according to Broyce. Over budget is a red flag to accounting and that influences renewal decisions.”

  She made a face. “It was so much easier back when I used to be just a Supermodel on the catwalk.”

  “This is your dream, though. You have a brand. And now you’re gonna have a book. There’s nothing you can’t do.” Egos are like swans; you have to feed them carefully, or you get bit.

  “Tapping, whispering, please.”

  “You’re the best.” He touched her arm tenderly.

  “I am.”

  Back on the set, Pablo gave Rachel the lowdown. She then instructed the PAs on the new Keisha protocol and prepped the camera crew. “Make sure you give me a ten-minute warning, so the PAs have plenty of time to tap,” she deadpanned. Pablo knew all this was a bit risky as their star hated arriving to set before the cameras were ready. Keisha, unlike the other judges, did not like sitting around. Sasha loved sitting in her director’s chair chatting up the grips, nursing her water bottle and being part of the chaos. Miss Thing, who took his cues from Keisha, kept running to his trailer where he could be alone and superior in his solitude. Mason, on the other hand, would generally go outside for a walk. Leave it to the Brits; they did love to walk—rain or shine.

  The next few weeks smoothed out and even Keisha seemed happier. On the final day of shooting, Keisha arrived on set with a doorstop of a manuscript and plopped it down on the production desk in video village. “Done!” she exclaimed. Everyone dutifully applauded.

  De La Renta whispered, “Thank God, that’s over.”

  Rachel looked over at the tome. “Ohmigod, Keisha, how many pages it that?”

  “One thousand. I have callouses on my fingers!”

  “Quite an achievement,” Broyce said, diplomatically. His eyes were on Pablo.

  “It is.” She turned toward the finalists, who were waiting to begin filming. “In a few moments, one of you will be named Model Muse, but I want both of you to know that whoever wins, you can both do anything you want because you’ve made it this far, and like me, you are fierce. You are unstoppable.”

  “Save it for camera,” Rachel begged.

  “Don’t worry, I have that memorized. I wrote it.”

  Pablo thought it sounded a bit too much like one of Michelle Obama’s graduation speeches.

  They wrapped season three with the threat of unannounced renewal. Broyce was at the wrap party with the champagne but no news of renewal. Pablo worried at his silence.

  “Anything I should know?” he asked quietly.

  “They haven’t decided on how many to renew for,” Broyce assured him. “But I’ve been told to keep quiet. They want Keisha to be worried and feel threatened. She walked a thin line this season.”

  Relieved, Pablo sighed.

  “I never thanked you for helping us get Keisha back and focused,” Broyce said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As Broyce walked away, Pablo realized that he still hadn’t thanked him. That was show biz for you.

  Keisha sauntered up to her BFF. “I have a prezy for you. A little housewarming gift.” Behind her two of the PAs were carrying a huge six by three-foot package.

  Pablo was unabashedly thrilled. “OMG, what did you do?”

  “Open it,” Keisha chortled.

  He ripped through the length of the brown paper packaging. Sweeping letters in blue and red, gold rays like a sun (but really a curtain) radiated up underneath the words: THE BIG FUN AND MUSIC FILM SENSATION. And there was Judy Garland’s colorized face pressed against Mickey Rooney’s. It was a movie poster for Babes in Arms, 1942. He hated it. “WOW. I love it.”

  “I have the same one in my apartment.”

  He hugged his BFF. “You’re so thoughtful.”

  “Don’t ever think I don’t know everything you’ve done to get my show off the ground and keep it going.”

  He almost believed her.

  * * *

  Oh, how she loved an announcement. Any announcement, and there were many. The pre-launch for her book was the longest of any teen novel the literary world had ever seen. There was going to be a review in The New York Times—every writer’s dream. People magazine—every publicist’s dream—had promised to make it a starred read before they read it. After five-and-a-half months of promising the world that Planet Fierce was going to change their lives and rushing production of the mammoth book, it finally hit the shelves of Barnes & Noble. Any excuse to be the center of attention, and to appease the insatiable ego that yearned for constant approval from the world, was met in the pre-launch promotion of Planet Fierce. “JK who?” Keisha liked to tease. The only problem was, it was not flying off the shelves. Sales numbers didn’t worry Keisha, thinking they’d pick up when she hit the airwaves. “I’m all about the interview.” Sales didn’t go up but she certainly knew how to strut her stuff. For all her desire to be more than a Supermodel, entrepreneur, business goddess, Keisha was no intellectual and that became painfully obvious to viewers. When she told the press that her book was going to change young women’s lives, she believed that to be true.

  When the big question was asked, “How?” her answer was, “You’ll have to read the book to find out!”

  “What Keisha Kash wants Keisha Kash gets,” the oracle of Model Muse, De La Renta, repeated time and again. With the added media attention expected around the run-up to the book’s release, the network had decided to renew and this time, the commitment was serious. Model Muse was locked in for another three seasons. Thanks to Pablo, Rachel, and the rest of the crew’s hard work, they were secured till season six. God help them. But the world didn’t always subscribe to Keishavision.

  FICTION

  * * *

  The Catwalk Launches, but Fizzles Out in Space:

  A Galactic Supernova For Black Women Implodes Into A Black Hole

  * * *

  By Dr. Baraka C. Karenga

  PLANET FIERCE August 14, 2020

  By Keisha Kash

  One critique of science fiction is its faithfulness to white supremacy. White males are the swashbuckling heroes who conquer unknown galaxies and species with the occasional interruption of sexual relief from white female shipmates or nubile aliens. Readers are so accustomed to this de rigueur narrative because it mirrors the colonization we have come to accept on this planet; the erasure of people of color and women is yet another dystopian iteration of the racism that has triumphed for the past several hundred years on planet Earth. So few know the work of the preeminent Afro-Futurist author and MacArthur recipient Octavia Butler, that there seems to be no literary imagination in the vastness of space (unless you’re Gene Rodenberry, who through Nichelle Nichols as Lieutenant Uhura gave us the first Black woman to explore the cosmos). Indeed, our hunger for a diverse sci-fi future compelled us to dance in the aisles of theatres across the globe, greeting each other with salutations from a nonexistent country. “Wakanda, forever!” we shouted.

  “Planet Fierce,” a sci-fi adventure about alien models with superpowers who save Earth, aims to meet this literary and cultural gap in a market starving for representative fiction. As the self-proclaimed spokeswoman of fierceness, Ms. Keisha Kash has stomped her stilettoed feminism into the hearts of young women of color who have voraciously consumed pages of the Veronika’s Privates catalog for a satiety of racial equity. Her presence satisfied the hunger to see women of color as “fierce” in a world where beauty is not even worthy of a future in Andromeda–where Ms. Kash’s novel is mostly set. Despite the solipsistic nature of her feminism (remember the “Smile With Your Soul” campaign?), we believed that Ms. Kash’s enthusi
asm was sufficient enough to translate a complex, powerful set of theories. In common parlance, her “wokeness” was real because the one soundbite from Black political theorist Julia Jordan-Zachery that boomed from her televised catwalk felt like authenticity. If models could strut to Jordan-Zachery’s exhortation to challenge the oppressive nature of intersectionality, surely “Planet Fierce” would be that culmination. Ms. Kash would unleash a sci-fi manifesto of our beautiful future. The glamour of the runway would resurrect women of color from a futuristic dystopia.

  Instead, Ms. Kash’s space odyssey has managed to epically crash and face plant across 830 some odd pages.

  Unlike her fashion spreads that are brief and tasteful, this tome is replete with literary clichés. The reader is subjected to a visual blitzkrieg of repetitive scenes where we are to be amazed at the Amazonian beauties who have weapons that, “fiercely kill, fiercely maim, fiercely decimate, fiercely torture, fiercely conquer” (Did I say fierce?). As someone who regularly works with words, I was rendered apoplectic at the basic disregard for variation in language structure and the simple need for a thesaurus. But I fiercely digress…

  It is not the silliness of the premise of her novel, nor the turpitude of out-right plagiarism and story structure theft (why do the weapons seem reminiscent of Suzanne Collins’ “Hunger Games” and the narrative a blatant rip-off of “Star Planet”?)–these are minor infractions. Most egregiously, the woman who proclaims herself as the savior for women of color has managed to commit every sexist trope and patriarchal sin. I would rather readers subject themselves to endless reruns of “Buck Rogers.” At least with Rogers we know that he is Mr. White Boy Wonder and expect his racism. But the same thoughts through the pen of a Black woman feel outright psychotic. Read “Planet Fierce” and mire your mind in a weaponized goo of self-hate.

  Clearly, Ms. Kash is using her reality TV show, “Model Muse,” as a personal platform to hawk outrageously dimwitted projects. While I, personally, do not watch reality TV—generally, I prefer to read books, or I did. As part of my research for this review, I perused last week’s premiere episode of Season Four–conveniently airing the day of the “Planet Fierce” book launch. The aspiring model contestants were used as part of a faux “Planet Fierce” movie trailer. Did someone from production actually read this behemoth? If Ms. Kash is anticipating a movie deal by showing what her novel would look like as a feature film, she’d better think again.

  Perhaps in order to continue the myth of fierceness for her public, Ms. Kash, who is clearly suffering an existential crisis, must have pain from the revulsion of propagating a lie; the illusion of inclusive glamour that only celebrates white aesthetic is a profound contradiction. This psychological trauma is the wardrobe of her writing which ironically–though cloaked in the dazzle of spaceships, raunchy sexual tropes and exceptional weaponry–reveals a fierce self-loathing. If there is to be any redeeming quality of Ms. Kash’s hulking wreck of a literary debut, it is that her existential crisis serves as a wonderful psychological case study for explaining theories of internalized racism. Perhaps this is the greatest literary contribution “Planet Fierce” could make.

  PLANET FIERCE

  By Keisha Kash

  836 pp. Skinning & Grinning. $26.95.

  12

  REALITY CHECK

  7 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX

  THE “LAST MODELS STANDING” arrived at Silvercup and walked demurely past where Pablo was sitting nursing his morning coffee. Slumped in his director’s chair, he watched the handful of run-down contestants—the four that were left—drag themselves backstage to what Pablo thought of as “the cupboard.” He wasn’t too far off. The cubbyhole where the girls had to wait was small, airless, had no windows, and barely had any furniture. How the girls managed to sit there and not lose their minds was a mystery to him, especially when so many other minds were going AWOL on the show. Still, when the time came, the model contestants smiled like circus animals, prancing their way down the runway for judging, in hopes of grabbing the brass ring and becoming a finalist for season six. It was hard to believe that just weeks before, these wide-eyed hopefuls had arrived brim-full of excitement and ambition, only to have their aspirations destroyed by what Model Muse had become—a show that humiliated them to entertain the masses. By the time they’d realize this truth—if they did—it was too late. They’d signed on the dotted line and had become slaves to production and a network whose legal team was tougher than the US Supreme Court Justices.

  God, he sounded cynical. It was a good thing his brain didn’t have a mic because it would be saying, “This is your brain.”—Pablo remembered the anti-drug commercial breaking an egg onto a hot griddle—“This is your brain on reality TV. Fried.”

  Maybe he was overreacting. For all he knew, the girls were happy. Maybe they didn’t feel misused and abused, but he didn’t dare ask. Maybe they were living their dream and would dine out on their celebrity for the rest of their lives when they went back home to Podunk, wherever. Maybe he had it all wrong and didn’t know shit. Maybe he was just overwhelmed by exhaustion. Maybe he was depressed.

  Making TV was like waging war. A fierce and exhausting campaign. A constant uphill battle against the relentless enemies of deadlines, stingy budgets and colossal egos. Making a successful TV show required a lot more than talent; it required herculean stamina and dedication, despite the collateral damage. Keisha went through stylists and assistants as quickly as she ate a platter of pork ribs. She left behind a spectacular body count. Only De La Renta and Pablo seemed impervious, and sometimes he wished he wasn’t. By season six, the show’s jack-of-all-trades, Pablo did more off-camera than on and seemed to be running just about everything behind the scenes. Why? Because Keisha trusted him and no one else.

  “Mr. Pablo, can you UPS the box of autographed Model Muse swag I have sitting in my dressing suite? Send it to Mama. No one else can know. Use your home address and my fake name on the shipping label.”

  “Pablo, I’ve just had such a hard day of taping. I’m gonna take some quiet time and chill in my dressing room. Meet with Joe for me to run down details for tomorrow?”

  “Pablo, ugh, can you come over to my place? Horrible date at Soho House. No chemistry. The dude just talked about himself the entire time, with horrible breath. Need to vent with ice cream and back rub, ASAP.”

  “Pablo…”

  Pablo felt compelled to do whatever she asked in exchange for all she’d done for him. They worked in an industry that normally forged friendships of convenience and proximity, not real friendship. Pablo was lucky to have found so much more with Keisha. She’d gotten him on TV, after all. Four years later, he was now a household name. She’d handed him the career and the life he now had. Even his mother understood what he was doing for a living, and that was really saying something.

  Had it really been four years since he’d met Keisha at the Michael Kors show and they’d shared their first pint of ice cream? Unfathomable. How many gallons had passed between them since then? She hid it well. The thing about being five foot eleven is that she really could sock it away. Almost. Overindulgence, however, was now starting to catch up behind her.

  It was one thing for Keisha to run him ragged. She deserved his loyalty. But Joe Vong and the rest of the senior producers were now equally demanding. “Pablo, book that venue. Pablo, get that designer. Pablo, retouch these images. Edit this music video. Get a stylist for wardrobe…”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he’d confided in De La Renta.

  “Oh, I do. You’re just fucking overused and abused—like the toilets in Port Authority. Join da club.”

  Like always, De La Renta preached the truth. Pablo was emotionally drained and was suffering the deep exhaustion of the exploited and disenfranchised. They were now nearing completion of their sixth season, with hiatus just a week away. Their ratings were higher than anyone had predicted, and there was talk of a three-year
contract renewal. Churning out two seasons of Model Muse a year was brutal. Pablo wasn’t sure he could survive another three years. The rose-colored glasses—or in his case the silver-grey contact lenses—had been peeled away and unveiled a rough reality. What started as a creative step to career salvation had turned into a dizzying psychological pattern of bewildering emotional, personal, and spiritual challenges. Everything in Pablo’s life was dangling on gossamer thread: his devotion to Keisha, the show, and his values.

  Overworked or not, Keisha relied on Pablo to save the day. Failure was not an option. And while he might not always have the most ethical approach to problem-solving, he was the show’s fixer, as well as Keisha’s.

  Was it worth it? Sometimes he wasn’t sure. He was also beginning to doubt whether Keisha actually cared about him, or if she was simply using him the same way she used everybody. Worse, he now doubted himself—who was he without his connection to Keisha? Was he really a fraud, incapable of achieving the heights of the fashion industry on his own? Was he using her? He was close to spiraling into a morass of serious self-doubt. His loyalty to Keisha had become so twisted and strange, that it left him wondering if it would soon vanish like last summer’s fashions.

  The associate producer who typically babysat the models when they were off-camera wandered off to the craft service table. Contestants were not supposed to speak unless the cameras were rolling and they were mic’d up with sound. If they dared to speak to each other, someone would hiss, “On ice.” Off-camera conversations were contractually forbidden and a sure way to be dismissed immediately.

  The last four survivors of one harrowing fashion trial by fire after another were backstage, huddled together like best friends in ‘the cupboard.’ Over the weeks, they’d forged a bond, but Pablo knew firsthand they didn’t feel anything like gladiators in the fierce fashion competition. A stray audio headset that someone had left on his chair still had some battery power and Pablo could hear the girls whispering to each other. It was a rare moment to slip into their world, a world that he had no part in, except when he was one of their on-camera mentors and sometimes one of their comforters.