by Jay Manuel
Harper was a fashion train wreck who wore saggy jeans that fell halfway down her butt, ugly sneakers and a nylon fanny pack that solidified her spot as the least fashionable person on the crew, after Joe Vong. But no one cared how she dressed because she was the kind of person who never seemed to have a bad day and never said anything nasty about anyone, which said a lot in their business. Getting a warm hug from her on a bad day was enough to change anyone’s mood; she gave good back rubs too. In a boot camp of drudgery, she infused such positive energy Pablo appreciated but often wondered what anti-depressant she was on. Or was it Lithium?
“I also told the judges Keisha was recording voiceovers,” Harper said. “They seemed to buy it.”
Rachel looked at Pablo. “That girl is going places.”
Pablo had to agree. She may act like the Pollyanna of Primetime TV but she was inventive, efficient and a good liar. All excellent character traits for a producer.
“Well, De La Renta is gonna need some Febreze. When Miss Thing catches one whiff of smoked pork ribs coming off Keisha’s wig, there’ll be hell to pay,” Pablo quipped. “I gotta ask him why good human hair wigs hold so much odor.”
“Great. Why don’t you go over to Keisha’s dressing suite and ask him now?” Rachel mocked. “And while you’re there, tell them to hurry the FUCK UP. I need her like, yesterday.”
“I was just trying to have a little fun, jeez. Take my head off why don’t you.”
Rachel pointed to a close-up of Miss Thing on a different monitor while she struggled to utter the appropriate politically correct term. “You can’t sneak much past her. I mean him, them, whatever! Just get me Keisha, please. Miss Thing is gonna start throwing a tantrum, if we don’t do something fast.”
Sure enough, down in the judging room, while the studio buzzed with crew members setting up lights, taping marks on the floor and producers frantically running around trying to look busy, Miss Thing was perched in his chair, looking not just annoyed but like trouble in the making.
Mike, the goofy looking sound engineer, all legs and arms and very little torso, walked up to Miss Thing with his sound rig, holding a wireless microphone pack.
“If we’re just shooting God damn reaction shots, with no audio, why do I need a mic, Mike?” Miss Thing screamed at the top of his lungs.
Completely unphased by the outburst, Mike smiled. “Ah, come on, Miss Thing. After six seasons, you know the rules. Plus, I’m the only person you actually like on this set.”
“It’s true. I love to be mic’d by Mike. But it’s just because you gotta juicy ass and your girlfriend doesn’t mind me flirting with you.”
Mason coughed and cleared his throat. “Do all the boys you like have girlfriends?” Winding up Miss Thing was one of Mason Hughes’ favorite past times.
“Lemme make one thing very clear. I don’t like boys.” Miss Thing stopped him mid statement. “I like men. Your arrogant ass might wanna examine why your ‘wife’–who does way too much yoga, I might add–looks like a prepubescent teenage boy, herself.”
Mason’s face flushed red. “Your rude and insinuating comments about my wife are—”
“Is there something you’re not telling us about Sukhdeep?” the model coach interrupted, glaring at the Brit. “She don’t pass to a trained eye like mine, ya know. And P.S. she might wanna stay outta harsh daylight. Hashtag just saying.”
“What are you implying?” Mason sputtered.
“Zip it, King Arthur.” Miss Thing flipped his hand up in Mason’s face and dismissed him. “Queer fear is so last century.”
Chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her words slurred together, Sasha leaned over toward Mason. “I heard you saved your wife from a sex trafficking ring in India.”
Simultaneously, Mason stood up as Miss Thing pushed back his chair.
“Annnnnd they’re off,” Sasha mocked.
“Tell Rachel, I’ll be in my trailer.” Mason stormed off the set like he had a cricket bat and two balls stuck up his arse.
“Tell Rachel, I’ll be in my trailer too.” Miss Thing grabbed his makeup purse, a miniature reproduction of a doctor’s bag. It was a race between Mason and Miss Thing to see who could leave the set first and most dramatically.
Sasha’s head spun around to watch them flounce away, then passed out with a loud thud, her head on the table.
14
MR. FIX-IT
LEAVING THE COMPARATIVELY calm sanctuary of the control room, Pablo walked down the three flights of stairs and onto the soundstage dedicated for elimination scenes. Rolling his eyes, he entered the hot and oddly humid space, annoyed. The judging set had been redesigned for the start of the new season, and Pablo couldn’t get used to how similar it was to his apartment. Keisha had loved his new pad, called it “super modern fierce.” Did she really need to steal every idea he had? Of course, this was a woman who plagiarized an entire book. Why was he even surprised anymore?
Pablo zeroed in on crew members—including Rachel, who’d taken the elevator ahead of him—gathering around Sasha passed out on the judging table. Joe Vong, of course, was screaming and making his way through the crowd. “Wake her the fuck up. And where the hell is Miss Thing and Hughes Junior?”
Rachel pulled Joe aside trying to diffuse the situation. “She’s beyond coffee, and Miss Thing has locked himself in his trailer.” She sounded relieved now. “At least Mason’s walking back to set with a PA.”
“How could you let this happen?” he hissed.
As if on cue, celebrity guest judge Christian Siriano interrupted the two by tapping Joe on the shoulder. “I know I’m just here doing a cameo, but this is running really late. And I have to fit Christina Hendricks in an hour.”
Joe Vong’s face lit up at the thought of the buxom redhead. “I wouldn’t mind holding that measuring tape. You need my help?”
Siriano looked disgusted. “I’m leaving. It’s been, well, interesting.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Joe went apoplectic. “You can’t just leave.”
Christian didn’t respond and proceeded to walk out. Pablo raced after him. “Christian, I’m so sorry.”
The designer looked Pablo up and down. “And I thought fashion shows were crazy. This is totally insane. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Neither do I, sometimes. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, just call me. Maybe Sunday brunch?” Christian shrugged and shook his head. That was a ‘no’. Another fashion star bit the dust. Pablo watched the studio door slowly shut in his face. If this continued, he was going to lose his reputation with the designers the show dissed. He would never be taken seriously by Christian Siriano, again. And if word got around that the set was a cluster fuck of incompetence and Keisha delays, no one would agree to come on the show as a celebrity guest judge, ever.
Joe Vong didn’t even care. He acted like everyone was replaceable. “Get me another guest judge now,” he yelled at Pablo.
“Get your own,” Pablo yelled back at him. “I’m not putting my contacts and reputation in jeopardy of your temper.”
Across the studio floor a gaggle of producers were trying to revive Sasha.
“I’ll get a judge,” Harper responded with cheery excitement. “Who are you thinking of?” When there was no reply, she opened her mouth to repeat the question.
“Some Fashion Fuck! I DON’T CARE,” Joe exploded.
Sprinting over to the producer’s table, Harper scrolled down a list on the computer screen and then dialed a number. “Hi. This is Harper Phibbs, segment producer on Model Muse. I was wondering if Anna Wintour was free this evening to come and…Hello? Hello?” she looked dumfounded. “Well, that was rude!”
Pablo shook his head in disbelief. Did she really think she could simply call up and get the editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine to pop round for a quick cameo? Wintour was like the Fort Knox of fashion—no one got through her security w
all of personal assistants. Clearly, Harper hadn’t seen or read The Devil Wears Prada.
Pablo pushed the studio door open and made his way out to the parking lot, where the talent trailers were hooked up, in hopes of manipulating Miss Thing back to set. Pablo’s first order of business was to delete the incriminating text and photo he’d sent from Virgil’s—before it came back to haunt him. Stroking egos was not part of his job description, but then, most of what he did on the show wasn’t. When he wasn’t caressing Keisha’s ego, he was soothing Miss Thing’s. The best way to keep Miss Thing complaisant was to listen to all of the model coach’s tall tales and never confront the gossip he spread like manure, in hopes of creating a stink. As long as the runway diva felt he was operating in stealth mode, he was happy as a pig in shit. Well, almost.
Outside the catering truck, “Switzerland”—as the crew now lovingly referred to De La Renta—was carrying a blue slushie and a bag of pretzels. The hair/makeup guru made an effort to stay out of any and all drama on the set because, as he often said, “I got one lane, and I stay in it. No one is fucking with my check.”
Clearly, his grandmamma’s teaching.
“Heading into Mother?” Pablo asked De La Renta.
“What da fuck Pablo? You had to take her to Virgil’s before shooting today? Her piece smells like you two were rolling around in a platter of pork ribs.”
“You think I dragged her to Virgil’s? I was here two hours early when she ordered me back into the city.”
De La Renta rolled his eyes. “I shudda known. I tell you, I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired. Making her a new wig every other week is not what I signed up for. It’s like she eats them.”
“Put some barbecue sauce on that wig and I’d agree with you.”
“And now she’s insisting I stitch up some new locks she just threw at me the other day—by tomorrow. She’s tired of wheat/blonde and wants to go red. Tell me, Pablo, do I look like a wig machine? Do I?”
Pablo knew the routine all too well, but they had to be careful speaking about Keisha’s “lid” in public. She professed to the world that she was “proud of wearing a weave,” but the truth was that she wore a full custom-made lace-front wig over thinning cornrows and a receding hairline.
“You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”
De La Renta took one long slurp of his slushie and crossed his eyes from the brain freeze. “Egg-zackly. And she’s in there talking about how she’s gonna launch her own makeup line. I told her you ain’t no makeup artist. Girl can barely draw her own eyebrows on straight.”
What new branding strategy was she cooking up now?
“Just watch your back,” De La Renta hugged Pablo and whispered in his ear. “When Broyce Miller called to reprimand her for being so late to set, she said that you made her go to Virgil’s, not the other way around. Don’t be a fool. She’ll throw you under the bus to save herself. It’s always about her. Always has been. Always will be.”
De La Renta’s words hit him like a sucker punch. He felt nauseous. Broyce was the one person left he really wanted to respect him, and the one man who could help him with his own career goals. Had his servitude served him, at all, or left him vulnerable to whatever whim struck Keisha’s fancy? The fact was, the entertainment industry lived in a perpetual state of adolescence. No one wanted to take responsibly for anything they said or did, unless it was a success. There were no consequences and as such, the industry bred these power-hungry monsters. Pablo was starting to learn Keisha Kash was no exception. Reality TV was spawning and unleashing these demon-like people, and like a virus they had jumped species, now populating Washington, Wall Street and the world over. Pablo had to move on. Giving his friend a tight squeeze back, as if to say “thanks,” he darted over to the talent trailers.
The Queens traffic hummed like annoying, never-ending tinnitus. Pablo peered in through the half-drawn curtain of Miss Thing’s Double Banger trailer to see what the miserable model coach was up to. Perched in front of his makeup vanity, he grimaced at the stubble on his chin and his reflection in the mirror.
“There’re only so many dick pics you can take,” Pablo teased. He entered the trailer and sat himself on one of Miss Thing’s vanity stools.
“I don’t know how you stand it, Myrna,” Miss Thing said to Pablo’s reflection. It was the pet name he’d given Pablo, who affectionately hated it. “You clean up her messes like a maid, and when she says, ‘jump’ you’re the first to say, ‘how high?’”
“First of all—”
“Oh. Hold on. Lemme check my box of Altoids. I’m sure your tiny balls are rattling around in there somewhere.”
“Well, with that breath, I’m surprised you even know where your Altoid mints are.”
“Okay, bitch, two points for that clapback,” Miss Thing roared. “So, is she here yet?”
“Yup. De La Renta’s just finishing her up,” Pablo lied.
“Then she can sit on set and wait for me for a change.”
“You can’t sit here all night and keep everyone on punishment.”
“Da fuck I can’t.”
“Tyreeq Levern Jackson.”
“Myrna, if anyone finds out my real name, I’m comin’ for you.” Miss Thing’s eyes bulged out of their eye sockets. Pablo picked up the model coach’s phone and snapped a photo of him.
“Look at yourself, fool.”
The runway diva unlocked his device and scrolled through to the camera roll. “So what? I make stupid faces and post them on the gram, all the time.”
“Can I see it, again?”
Miss Thing handed over his phone. With the iPhone now unlocked, the quick-thinking creative director flipped over to iMessage and deleted the unflattering image of Keisha that he’d sent earlier. He handed the device back to the dimwit. “Yeah, it’s not that bad. So, can we count on you coming to set at some point tonight?”
“Lemme know when you raise Sasha from the dead and I’m there.” Miss Thing reached into his makeup purse, pulled out a bottle of pills and rattled them in front of Pablo’s face. The prescription label clearly read: Sasha Berenson, Adderall. “This is all that stands between shooting tonight and wrap. The only thing that will wake that drunk bitch up, after her dinner bottle of Chardonnay.”
“Klepto.”
“Annnnnnd what? I took it from Bride of Chucky’s purse.” He smiled wickedly at Pablo, rattling the container loosely in his hand.
Miss Thing stole the weirdest stuff. Pablo had once caught him sneaking around in Keisha’s dressing suite pocketing mini bottles of Scope, travel toothpaste, toilet paper and Zip-lock bags of cold cuts. “Do you spend every waking second of your life trying to find ways to bring misery to the lives of others?”
“Only those who pose a threat to my own celebrity.”
“Did it ever occur to you that sabotaging this show could thwart your own career?”
“Nothing can take an old bitch like me down.” He was still playing with the prescription bottle.
Pablo did what any good creative director would do—he snatched it and dashed for the door. “You really wanna be here all night? Let’s get this shit done. One of us needs beauty sleep tonight, and it isn’t me. Grab your makeup purse and let’s go.”
“It’s not a purse. It’s an antique doctor’s bag!”
“Whatever.” Pablo shoved the bottle of Adderall in his pocket and headed out the door.
Vanquished, Miss Thing followed mumbling, “I guess you do have a big set of balls after all.”
Halfway across the parking lot to the soundstage, Joe Vong yelled at Pablo, “I see you’ve solved the thing problem.”
“Problem?” Miss Thing shrieked. “I’ll give you problems all night long. Problems you can’t even reach with your little step ladder.”
Joe ignored the hyped-up star and glared at Pablo. “I need you to get one of your overrated fashion friends here no
w to be our guest judge.”
“I thought your genius producers were on it.”
“You’re the one who took her to Virgil’s. You fucking fix it.” He scuttled off looking like an angry elf in Nikes.
“Ouch. You just got Vonged,” Miss Thing snickered.
Kashed and Vonged, Pablo thought. Then yelled, “I didn’t take her to Virgil’s, FYI.”
“Little turd.” Miss Thing screamed across the parking lot at Joe Vong’s retreating back. “We’re not overrated.”
Dragging his feet now, Pablo headed back to the soundstage, Miss Thing in tow. Finding a major fashion celebrity to be a guest judge and have them show up to shoot within the hour was next to impossible. Pablo flipped through his iPhone and scrolled Instagram. One photo caught his eye. He slipped over to iMessage.
Seconds later, he punched the air like he’d just scored the winning goal in the World Cup Final. “Yaaaassss!” Pablo screamed. “Celeb guest judge flying in.”
Miss Thing made a sucking sound with his lips.
“Now. Please, pretty please, go sit on set and powder your makeup down. You’re starting to steal everybody’s shine with that forehead and nose.”
Miss Thing wagged his abnormally long finger in Pablo’s face. “Oh, you gettin’ real brave.” He sashayed away with his famous runway sweep, stepping toward the soundstage. Pablo flagged a harried looking PA running from craft service with a cup of coffee.
“I need you to crush these up into a Diet Coke.” Pablo shook the bottle of Adderall in the dazed kid’s face. “And get Sasha to drink the entire can. Then put the bottle back in her purse and zip it up. Do NOT let Miss Thing near it.”
And that was that. Mr. Fix-It had done it again. He’d deleted the photo of Keisha sucking on a rib bone, freeing himself of the damning evidence. Miss Thing was back at the judging table. Sasha would be awake in twenty minutes. And Coco Rocha was on her way to fill in as the guest judge. Pablo stretched his back and took a deep, well deserved breath. What else could possibly go wrong?
