The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  15

  MELTDOWN

  IT HAD BEEN a long day and it was about to get even longer. Officially in overtime, Joe Vong paced the back of the studio like a caged panther. At least there were five judges, including Pablo’s surprise guest, Coco Rocha, seated in their assigned spots. Sasha was still passed out, face down. But she was there.

  Bill yelled over at Joe. “Are we gonna shoot her like that?”

  “Just fucking roll on a four shot. When she wakes up, we can get the full wide shot and hopefully some usable close-ups of what’s left of her face.”

  “I got a few reaction shots of her, earlier,” Harper chirped.

  Joe grabbed a handful of Twizzlers from a nearby jar and began tearing them apart ferociously.

  “It’s hotter than hell in here today, and I love it!” De La Renta whispered to Pablo.

  “Mother’s pissed,” Pablo whispered back. “She told Rachel to get the A/C fixed ASAP or there’ll be no judging next episode.”

  “Oooooo. Rachel must be poppin’ major Xanax upstairs in the control room,” he giggled. “As long as Mother’s makeup don’t melt, I could give two shits. I’m so sick and tired of freezing in here.”

  “I just need this judging over with before Keisha has a meltdown and I’m forced to fix the A/C myself.”

  “Settle,” Bill yelled across the studio floor. “Quiet on set.”

  “Quiet on set,” the 2nd AD echoed.

  “Rolling.”

  The lights rose, changing the doldrums of the cardboard looking set into a fantasyland of glitz and glamor. Under the full intensity of the camera lights, the on-camera talent became doll-like versions of themselves. Safely tucked away in his usual spot next to De La Renta, Joe and a few producers in video village along the “fourth wall” of the judging set, Pablo sighed with relief as Bill began his countdown. “Models walking in on three, two, one.”

  The four remaining contestants strutted out trying to look saucy and brave. If the delay had worn on anyone it was them. No one had told them what was going on, and, unlike the judges, they didn’t have a private trailer to escape to. Lining up in two rows on the multi-level platform across the runway, they looked to Keisha, standing solo center in front of the judging table flanked by the other judges—two on each side.

  “Welcome ladies,” Keisha began her usual introduction with all the charm and charisma of a Stepford Wife. “This week we’re joined by the ‘Queen of Pose’ and the founder of her own Model Camp, Miss Coco Rocha.”

  Coco’s beautiful heart shaped smile spread across her face as she waved encouragingly to the girls. They fawned appropriately and waved back excitedly. Even Pablo had to smile—Coco was one of the sweetest women he’d ever met. In or out of the fashion industry.

  Keisha squinted her eyes at the “model media darling’s” enthusiastic reception. She had that fake tight smile pasted on her face. Trouble was afoot. What now? Pablo fretted.

  “This week, you all had surprise branding makeovers and your photoshoot was all about adopting your new Kash-branded look. But, before we begin evaluations, I have an announcement to make.”

  Joe ripped his headset off. “What fucking announcement?” He glared at Pablo.

  “I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about,” Pablo snapped back. He was so fed up with the way Vong treated him.

  Keisha gestured to the seat where the celebrity guest was always seated. “You ever notice how the really famous models have interesting names? Different names like Coco?” She paused and stared down each of the contestants. “She wasn’t born Coco Rocha you know.”

  Sweat sprouted on Pablo’s forehead. He saw the betrayal on the wall in BIG LETTERS. On the fateful night he met Keisha, talking about their real names—his was David unknown, hers, Kiki Grimes—and then in a Chinese dumpling, ice cream and champagne induced haze, he’d told her, “Coco’s mother nicknamed her ‘Mon petit Coco’–and from kindergarten on, it became her name.” That Venus Fly Trap of a brain of hers had grabbed that little tidbit and filed it away to pull out and use later.

  Coco’s eyes darted over to video village alongside the judging set and gave Pablo an ice cold high-fashion stare.

  “Oooooo, you gettin’ a certain stink eye now, Pablo,” De La Renta scolded. “What’d I tell you about fucking with these bitches?”

  Pablo went cold.

  “Born Mikhaila Rocha, she borrowed the beloved Coco Chanel’s legendary name, to elevate her own brand,” Keisha scoffed. Obviously, the jealous Supermodel host had Googled Coco’s legal birth name.

  As the “Queen of Pose,” Coco’s expression remained stoic and sophisticated. She didn’t blink an eye. Pablo could feel the psychic dressing down she was giving him, though. Especially since she’d filled in at the last minute as a favor to him. For a brief moment, he could only hear the hum of the A/C units struggling to cool down the soundstage. The studio was that still. And it was hot as fuck now.

  “So, in the spirit of Coco honoring us with her celestial presence, I’m changing my name to a metaphor. Keisha Ka$h—with the ‘s’ in my last name becoming a dollar sign.”

  Unilaterally, the models, judges, producers and crew stared at their narcissistic host in dumfounded shock.

  “Hashtag Flashback Friday.” Miss Thing sounded boisterous and bossy. “Didn’t the singer Ke$ha already rock that look, Keisha? And why not swap out the ‘s’ in both your names?”

  Keisha ignored him. “As much as we’ve progressed with equal pay for women in this business, there’s still a long way to go. My dollar sign will serve as a reminder that Keisha Ka$h is now bankable and here to help young girls—like yourselves—become empresses of their own empire brands.”

  “That’s it. She’s lost her mind. Officially,” De La Renta quipped. “And clearly the bitch is bad at math. Everyone knows female models earn thirty times more than male models. Equal pay for who?”

  Bill looked over at Joe with a confused expression. The flustered EP simply twirled his stubby index finger signaling, keep rolling. But Pablo was pretty sure what he meant to say was, “Fuck my life, fuck Keisha and FUCK Model Muse.”

  “So remember girls, we are all brands and we need to redefine who we are to stay relevant in this, sometimes, spiteful world of fashion.” Standing with the air of a deity, Keisha’s multi-million dollar smile beamed. “Ok then. Nichole, you’re first up for evaluation.”

  The newly bald model hesitantly stepped down from the second row and walked across the long runway directly toward the boastful host. Her porcelain skin and chiseled features looked radiant under the lights.

  “Nichole, I challenged you with your new Ka$h-branded look, but by the disturbed expression on your face, I don’t think you handled it very well.”

  Nichole smiled and interrupted the star. “Actually, I’m extremely proud to rock my bald head because,” she paused for a moment, swallowed, “my mom fought a long and painful battle with breast cancer.” Droplets of tears formed along her lower lash line. “Listening to what you just said, reminded me of true inner strength and integrity that my mother instilled in me…”

  Keisha tried to cut the teary-eyed model off. “Oh, that’s sweet but—”

  “And,” Nichole cut the Supermodel off, a second time, “having my long, red hair shaved off, gives me a far more noble cause than your TV ratings. ‘Bald is beautiful’ will be my new identifier—my brand. So, I thank you for freeing me from wanting to model myself after you.” Nichole’s smile was radiant. Victorious. Lethal.

  Pablo’s body levitated into the air. The judges, everyone, even Joe Vong was gobsmacked. No one could believe that a model contestant was actually standing up to Keisha and calling her out—on camera. It was a bit like watching a giant cyclone building onstage. There was a reason her brother used to call her Gollum—Keisha’s eyes bugged so far out of her head that she looked like she was about to blow her lid—literally.r />
  Over the headsets, Pablo could hear the low-pitched rumble of Keisha’s don’t fuck with me demonic possession voice. “Do you know who I am? Do you know where I’ve come from and what I’ve gone through? Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m a proud bald woman, who’s going to raise breast cancer awareness and raise money to stop this awful disease.” Nichole’s eyes blazed with defiance.

  “Brilliant,” Harper accidentally chirped out loud.

  Pablo had never seen Keisha like this, but the scene felt like a déjà vu. This would undoubtedly haunt her for the rest of her career.

  “Stop talking,” Keisha screamed. “When I speak, you listen. Everybody listens.”

  The shouting woke Sasha up. She swiveled her head toward Miss Thing. “What’s going on?”

  “Meltdown alert.”

  Like a gunslinger, Sasha reached between her recently plumped breasts, pulled out her iPhone and from her comatose vantage point, aimed.

  “How dare you challenge me? You were nothing before you came here. You think you’re better than all the other girls who fought like hell to get here? You’re nothing. A no one. And you’re done. You can leave. Now. Go back to Grandmama’s house and sleep on that ratty-ass mattress with your brother Davey and his club foot.”

  “Well, I…”

  Keisha pointed at Nichole’s body with a look of disgust. “You think this is gonna last? Men are gonna tire of you and find the next hot, young thing. Designers will turn on you too. Everyone will leave you in the end. Everyone.”

  “Wait a min,” Nichole yelled.

  “BE QUIET,” Keisha shrieked. Her voice echoed throughout the soundstage.

  Pablo was terrified now. He could feel Keisha’s energy pummeling him from across the room.

  “You know what’s wrong with you?” With an air of superiority, Keisha ran her hands up and down her own curvy body. “You don’t have what I have. We thought you had what it takes, and I actually wanted you to win.” She shook her finger in the girl’s face. The veins on her neck were pronounced and distended like a weightlifter’s. “Supermodels have to be strong. Swallow whatever’s done to them and come out on top. You couldn’t do that. And you just proved to us that you don’t have what it takes. If I went around feeling sorry for myself, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Learn from this.”

  “Is this normal?” Coco looked around the room, confused by what was happening. “I was going to vote for her,” she said to Mason.

  “Look.” De La Renta shoved his iPhone in Pablo’s face, distracting him from the meltdown drama playing out in front of his eyes. Pablo tried to make sense of what he was looking at on the bright screen. WTF? Oh God. No. Instantly, his body experienced the horror of sinking on the Titanic—with no lifeboats left.

  Now upstairs in the control room, Pablo and De La Renta burst in waving an iPhone. Rachel and the group of directors looked like dazed deer caught in a semi-truck’s headlights.

  “Hello?” De La Renta shouted, “Tell me this shit ain’t really Live on Instagram! Somebody better fucking get Keisha outta there.”

  Pablo looked at the wide shot of the judges. Sasha’s head was still lying on the table, but her position had changed and her eyes were now wide open. She had a slew of fake Instagram accounts too.

  Rachel switched her walkie talkie to the producer only channel. “Joe, you gotta get her outta there. Someone on set is Live streaming this.”

  “What?” Joe’s voice cracked over the walkie. “Who?”

  “I can’t see. Just get her off stage.”

  “Fuck,” he yelled as he stood up in video village, down on the studio floor. “This is why I need her wearing a God damn earpiece.” Joe Vong dove onto the stage and grabbed Keisha by her waist, dragging her off the set, kicking and screaming.

  “You have no idea. I’ve put up with them all. I’ve suffered through all the bullshit. I did whatever it took…” The soundstage door shut with a bang, cutting Keisha’s voice off.

  From the judging table, Coco began to applaud.

  16

  LIGHTS OUT

  THE EXHAUSTION HE felt earlier had vanished, and Pablo was now wide awake. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Keisha, but he was also freaked out by what he’d just witnessed. He’d never seen anything like the vitriol spewing from her mouth. She scared him.

  The night was not young, when the Supermodel host had her viral meltdown, but when anything significant goes down on any reality show’s set, the senior producers assemble with military precision. Pablo peered around the oddly silent control room, waiting for the rest of the team to come flying in. Everyone in the room was transfixed, staring at the screens of their own cell phones. He had to go check on Keisha. Hovering in the doorway, he was trying to catch Rachel’s eye. She looked more bedraggled than ever.

  Just then, Joe Vong arrived huffing and puffing. He pushed Pablo back into the control room.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She locked herself in her bathroom.”

  “I should go see her then.”

  “She doesn’t want to see anyone.”

  “But—”

  “Not even you,” Joe barked. He turned to De La Renta. “Switzerland, go wait outside her door in case she comes out.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice. I’m out.”

  A cadence of heavy footsteps approaching the room reverberated from the hall. Broyce Miller came through the doorway, shaking his head. “What are you guys doing here? How did something like this get out?” He held up his iPhone. The headline read:

  Keisha Crash explodes on the set of Model Muse.

  No one dared make a sound.

  “Don’t we strictly enforce no cell phones on the set?”

  “Yes.”

  “First of all, I want to know who’s responsible. Whoever it is—and I mean whoever, is fired. I want their contract.”

  “It wasn’t any of the crew,” Joe blurted. “No one would dare…”

  “Second of all, the network is putting Model Muse on hiatus, indefinitely.” Broyce ignored him. “You’re dark, as of now.”

  Joe scrambled after the exec. “Wait. No. I’m sorry, Broyce, you can’t do this. Please.”

  “Oh, yes I can, and I just did. Go home. All of you.”

  On his way out the door, Broyce flipped the light switch, plunging them into blackness.

  “Fuck my life,” Rachel muttered in the dark.

  Silence.

  “I’ve got it.” Harper was like a babbling brook even at the worst of times. “Let’s get Mason to recreate that cover he did for the Time Magazine Body Image Issue, only this time—pun intended—he’ll use our semi-finalists. They can be naked, covered only by Nichole’s beautiful long red hair across their bodies.”

  “What about shut down don’t you understand?” Rachel yelled at her.

  “That sounds icky, weird,” someone chimed in.

  Pablo agreed but didn’t say it was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard.

  “And that red hair went missing two days ago,” Rachel said.

  “It was donated, wasn’t it?” Pablo asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “It was supposed to be, but the hair stylist lost track of it.”

  “I promised Nichole it would go to Locks of Love.”

  “Pablo! Not our problem right now.” Joe went over to the light switch and flipped it on. He stared at the cheerful newbie with something akin to appreciation, an emotion Pablo wasn’t sure Vong even possessed. “Pollyanna might be on to something.”

  Pablo did a double take, snapping his head around.

  “What’s your name, again?”

  “Harper.”

  “Okay, first, cone of silence. We can’t let Broyce catch wind that we’re still shooting. Second, under NO circumstances can Keisha find out that the network shut us down.” Joe Vong sounded like he was in c
harge for the first time since the show had first aired. Everyone in the control room nodded, despite the fact that gossip spread through their production like STDs on The Bachelor. “Pablo, you’re with me,” he barked.

  “I should go see if I can calm her down…”

  “This is triage and we’re the MASH unit. Let’s move it people.”

  Pablo followed Joe toward the catering area, outside the talent trailers. Congregated around tables, the crew and judges were gossiping about what had happened and watching Keisha’s meltdown replay on their iPhones.

  “It’s everywhere,” one grip said.

  “I wanna see how she spins her way outta this one,” a PA scoffed.

  One look at Vong’s angry face, they slipped their phones in their pockets and shut up.

  Like a pompous cat washing his face, Mason was dipping his fries into malt vinegar, nibbling them one at a time and then licking his fingers.

  “Mason,” Joe yelled. “I need you and Pablo to recreate that fucking bullshit body image cover you shot for Time Magazine ten years ago.”

  Mason nearly choked on a fry.

  “Oh, it…it is so last decade, Joe.” He struggled for an excuse. “And it has been re-done to death. People see it all the time—”

  “That’s the whole point, Prince Charles. People recognize it. They love it. It’ll touch their stupid hearts. Just do that shit again and prep it fast. You’re shooting it in like,” Joe looked at his Apple Watch, “less than 36 hours.”

  “We cannot possibly recreate…” Mason stammered a list of everything he would need to pull off that shoot at such short notice.

  “Spare me the details,” Joe barked, turning his back. “Just do it.”