by Jay Manuel
“All of them?”
“Shit! Just keep your mouth shut. Network legal is on set and they can’t catch wind of this.”
Pablo looked over to where Sasha was buzzing around the room, bumping into walls and looking a little wide-eyed and out of her mind. He was about to go rescue her when the bubbly Harper magically appeared and took Sasha by the arm, leading her away from the legal team. Good ol’ Harper.
Out of the corner of his eye, Pablo caught Miss Thing slithering his way over to Mason.
“Hey, Master Hughes the third,” the model coach said, with a forced smile.
Something was up. Pablo grabbed Mike’s arm standing to his right, holding the sound boom. “Can you kill Mason’s, Miss Thing’s and my audio real quick?” he said.
“Done and done,” Mike replied.
Miss Thing acting all sweet and coy was a sure sign he had something up his sleeve. And the best way to thwart Miss Thing’s hijinks was to know what he was up to ahead of time. Pablo slipped a little closer to eavesdrop.
“And here I was thinking you were just hired because of your good looks, British accent and being straight.” Miss Thing thrived on the art of the sting and timed his fatal blows so his victims were deboned and dethroned, simultaneously. “Too bad our contestants aren’t little brown boys! You’d be so much lustier if they were.”
Mason’s face froze.
Hearing Miss Thing quote Pablo—verbatim—was all he needed to be completely convinced that Miss Thing had taped his argument with Mason. He was furious. Pablo pounced on the slick model coach. “You can take the boy outta the South Bronx, but you can’t take the South Bronx outta the boy, can you Tyreeq Levern Jackson. You wanna get street?” Pablo held up his iPhone illuminating the dick pic Miss Thing had sent him a few days earlier. Full screen. “I’ll send this photo to every media hungry outlet because I’m so fucking fed up with your backstabbing. I know it was you who sent that video to that gossip-hungry fiend, Harvey Levin, at TMZ! Payback’s a bitch, bitch.”
“Oh, well I ju…” Miss Thing stammered innocently.
Pablo jabbed his flat hand in front of the model coach’s face and lowered his voice an octave, so he sounded like Keisha when she got weird and demonic. “How about you start using that pea-sized brain of yours and STOP trying to sabotage this show.”
For once, Miss Thing was speechless. Mason tried to burble a relieved thank you, but Pablo wasn’t done yet, though. “And lemme make this clear, so you don’t misinterpret my actions. I don’t care about you.” He pointed at Hughes. “I care about the show.” He glared at the two guilty judges. “And maybe you should both get on board and start treating working here like a job, not your own private FUCKFEST!”
From across the studio, Broyce caught Pablo’s eye and mouthed, “Good job.” For a panicked second, Pablo was afraid his mic had been on, but Mike had turned all three of their levels down—as requested. Instead, Broyce was simply praising him for the photoshoot. Working on a reality show for years taught Pablo to be mindful of what you say when mic’d up for sound—everyone can hear everything you say. Pablo simply waved back as he walked over to the hair/makeup area, gesturing at Mike to turn his audio back up.
“OUCH. That fucking hurt.” Kayla made a face as the makeup artist pulled an FX bald cap over her head. Pablo rolled his eyes. Nearby, a Steadicam operator was filming the scene.
“You think that’s uncomfortable?” the stylist quipped. “Wait till I glue this sucker down with Pros-Aide adhesive and you get under those lights.”
Pablo flipped back into Pablo Michaels mode. “Models are always expected to find the beauty, no matter what they’re wearing.”
Kayla glared back at him with the same look she gave Andy after he showed off his two-pump chump moves—if she’d only known Pablo had seen the whole thing go down.
Creating the illusion that none of the models had any hair, Elyssa, Beth and Kayla all had special FX bald caps secured on their heads now to resemble Nichole’s unwanted makeover. Pablo had stacked white ladders on the clean white backdrop, so that the models would be grouped together but at different levels. They were dressed in demure pink, knee-length, corseted Versace dresses. Donatella was a personal friend.
From behind where Mason was shooting in burst mode, multiple clicks reeled off as Pablo directed, “Werk it Nichole. If Donatella could see you now—she’d LIVE.”
Pablo’s iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Discreetly pulling it out, he saw a response from his In Case of Emergency mentor and advisor—a day too late.
I.C.E. TEXT: Just play it cool.
Great. He’d asked for help and gotten a platitude. Pablo shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Okay girls, so let’s try something…”
The models were no longer paying any attention to him. He turned to follow their stunned gazes.
Floating into the studio with all the grandeur of a cream puff, crowned by her own bald cap and a monstrous pink chiffon gown, Keisha descended upon the set with her arms outstretched like Christ on the cross. Behind her, a production assistant was following, live streaming the Supermodel’s entrance. She looked like she was ready for Vogue’s exclusive MET Gala. The gown’s twelve-foot-long train of pink feathers and micro-beading rippled along the floor.
“What’s she doing?” Joe Vong hissed.
“I told you this bitch is crazy.” De La Renta was laughing. “You wanted an apology? Well, now you’re getting the mother of all apologies. Catch it. Live on Social Media!”
Looking like a bald alien-angel, halo lit from behind, Keisha reached for Nichole’s hands. “I misjudged you.” The Supermodel choked on her own tears. There was a collective gasp from models, crew and Pablo alike. “I’m here for you. And to show my support honoring your dearly departed mother, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I want you to know that I too have experienced extreme pain in my own life. But if you want to be a true Model Muse, you need to find a way to use that pain and overcome it with your strength and beauty.” She turned her best side for the camera. Tears streamed down her face.
Eye drops or onions? Pablo wondered.
Nichole stood in stunned silence as Keisha dramatically turned, speaking directly to the Model Muse cameras by breaking the fourth wall, and in turn, with the PA still live streaming, also spoke to her fans on Instagram Live.
“I’m here for all women suffering from breast cancer. God forbid I should ever experience what these women go through. I’ve made my living off these breasts and I can’t imagine the pain of not having them.”
Turning away from the camera, Keisha looked as if she was about to break down. Hand to forehead, she reached behind her and squeezed Nichole’s hand one last time before swaying like a parade float towards the studio exit.
“Got it,” the production assistant said. “I ended the Live Stream.”
“Fab. Link it to all of my social media accounts,” Keisha ordered. As the fire doors slammed behind her, the pink feather beaded train got trapped in the door jam. There was a loud rip of fabric and a shriek. The door opened a crack, and like a cat flipping its tail, the train flipped in the air. The door slammed with a thud. A spare pink tuft still stuck out.
“Will somebody hold this fucking door,” Keisha screamed as she cracked it open again. Three PAs and a producer ran to help. The look on every crew member’s face was unanimous: Bat, shit, CRAZY!
De La Renta broke the silence. “Now, that bald-headed bitch knows how to make an exit,” he joked.
Pablo tried not to smile. He’d known the plan, of course, but didn’t expect the cringe worthy remarks that came out of her mouth. The network would have to edit around that. Keisha had forced the network’s hand. Live-streaming her apology had sealed the deal. The network couldn’t shut the show down now, and they’d have to include her in the final edit of the segment. Batshit crazy, as a fox!
Broyce glanced over at the legal suits. They hesit
antly nodded their approval. “Looks like you folks are back in business,” he exclaimed. “Don’t screw it up.”
The crew erupted in cheers. In relief, Joe and Rachel slumped down in their chairs. Everyone was kissing and hugging each other. Dancing around the room in celebration. The models had no idea about the drama that had been happening around them. “Are you telling me, the show almost got cancelled?” Nichole asked Pablo.
“Of course not,” he laughed. He was almost as good at lying as Harper.
With the segment in the can, Pablo rushed down the hallway toward Keisha’s dressing room to congratulate her on her stupendous, though mildly disturbing, performance. The dressing room door had been left ajar to accommodate the dangling train of pink chiffon and feathers still partially in the hallway. From inside, he could hear Keisha’s speakerphone crackling with static.
“Your call is being recorded by the California Institution for Women correctional facility. You are receiving a collect call from…”
“Brenda Paris.”
“If you accept these charges, please press one now. If you…”
Keisha must have pressed the number one because he could hear her saying, “Mama? Is that you?”
“Hey, Miss Kiki. I’m checking in on you. You OK?” Her mother sounded truly concerned.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Well, during recreation time last night I got to see Celebrity-Buzz TV and they were showing you having—”
“I’m fine, Mama. Fine.”
There was an audible beep on the line to remind them that the call was being recorded.
“Miss Kiki, remember what they’re tryin’ to do to you. Don’t let them steal your shine, and don’t let anyone take you down, especially a man.”
“Mama, I’m a grown woman. Not a little girl…”
“Don’t sass me. You can open your legs and let them in, but don’t ever let them in your heart. We’re meant to be on top. You hear me? On TOP.”
“Mama.” Keisha’s voice began to ascend the scales by octaves until she sounded like the scary child in Poltergeist, again.
There was a long crackly sounding pause before Brenda continued. “So tell me, you receive any exciting gifts lately?”
Keisha nervously answered. “I got a little something from Kimoru.”
“Don’t misplace my love.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You being a good girl?”
“Always.”
“That’s my Miss Kiki.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Mama.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“Bye, Mama.”
“Bye, Miss Kiki.”
Keisha hung up the call and flicked off her phone.
Waiting a moment before he entered the room, Pablo watched Keisha reach into a wig box on the counter and withdraw a new, exceptionally long, redhaired, custom lace-front wig and secured it over her bald cap. He recognized the wavy locks at once. Keisha had stolen Nichole’s hair.
She tossed her new hair back and forth, flirting with her image in the mirror. “Fierce,” she said. And then she cackled like Cruella de Vil about to scalp some Dalmatians.
Pablo was horrified and backed away from the door. He now understood the Samuel Butler quote his mentor had often posted on his social feeds: “Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.”
19
REVELATIONS
4 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX
WITH PRODUCTION BACK in full swing, the crew was summoned to the studio with an unusually early call time of 5:30 a.m. to set up for the second attempt at filming the judging of the semi-final round. The network had decided to nix the failed attempt of the previous episode’s elimination, and the Kash-branded beauty shoot, per Pablo’s suggestion, instructing Joe Vong to edit the episode with the cancer awareness photoshoot and a new judging, a scene that did not have their Host’s meltdown. Reality TV executives had no qualms about re-writing reality.
Pablo and De La Renta always arrived early at Silvercup so they could find the time to have breakfast together and, even with an early call, that was not different. Well, Pablo had breakfast. De La Renta usually had coffee and some “brown stuff.” The hair/makeup artist did not go for anything green or plant based.
“Is Mother here yet?” Pablo greeted his friend.
“Would I be sitting here if she was? She thinks I can do her hair and makeup as fast as Usain Bolt can run the 100-meter race. But do I get an Olympic Gold Medal for doing it that fast? Hell no.”
One day Keisha showed up expecting the works in fifteen minutes and De La Renta actually asked her what she’d prefer most, hair or makeup. He wasn’t kidding. Keisha chose “hair,” and he threw her a tube of concealer and an old dried up Mac lipstick, as she walked out on set. Never fuck with your glam squad because they could make or break you. It was a sort of marriage and if things went south, things got ugly. Literally and figuratively.
“Can I buy you breakfast?” Pablo offered as they headed to the catering cart.
“I got my morning Joe.” De La Renta slurped his latte.
Pablo ordered his protein fix–five soft boiled eggs and two bowls of oatmeal with sliced banana and nuts.”
Seated at their favorite corner table, the cook brought over Pablo’s order and served De La Renta some brown stuff.
“That bowl is for you.” Pablo shoved the oatmeal under his nose.
“It looks like vomit.”
“Well, it is brown,” Pablo giggled.
De La Renta pulled out his iPhone and took a selfie gagging over the steaming porridge. “Help. My friend is trying to kill me!” his caption read, as he posted it on Instagram. “Frank,” he yelled up to the truck, “can I get me some bacon and biscuits—hold the eggs. Extra salt, please.”
“You can’t put salt on bacon,” Pablo ridiculed. “Bacon is nothing but salt.”
De La Renta licked his lips.
When the cook shuffled back and plopped his food order and a plastic saltshaker in front of De La Renta, he complained, “Where’s the little girl with the white umbrella?”
“This is all we got.”
“This is fake salt.” He kissed his teeth in disappointment.
“It’ll still kill ya,” Pablo said.
De La Renta licked his fingers, sloppy and happy. “Shit, this bacon is gooooood. I’m gettin’ my life!”
“Don’t you wanna at least try and eat healthy?”
“Nope.” De La Renta crunched down on another piece of bacon and slathered a flaky southern biscuit with butter spread. “I’m good right here.”
It was Pablo’s turn to mock-vomit.
Where Keisha and Pablo were the Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney of Fashion, De La Renta and Pablo were the Laurel and Hardy of Glam. Pablo not only watched his diet, he exercised regularly; De La Renta was a junk food hound with an HBO habit.
“So what’s goin’ on, Boo?” De La Renta crunched on a second helping of crispy bacon. “You got that Star-Spangled Banner look in your eyes.”
Pablo could barely contain his excitement. “Don’t roll your eyes, but, you know it’s been my dream to get a talk show, well—I said, don’t roll your eyes—it’s about to come to fruition.”
“Fru-who? Girl, you and your Harvard dictionary vocabulary. Don’t hurt what few brain cells I’ve got on salary this early in the morning.”
Pablo stuffed a humongous spoonful of his oatmeal in his mouth. De La Renta mimicked him by licking the butter off his biscuit.
“Andy told me Keisha’s been pitching a talk show that she and I will co-host together. Everything I’ve accomplished on Model Muse is finally gonna pay off.”
De La Renta shook his head. “Girl, look at you. All wide-eyed and dumb as a bag of rocks. Haven’t you learned, yet?” His southern accent softened
the harsh truth—which was something De La Renta was accustomed to. His own mother dropped him off at his grandmamma’s house when he was six years old with no warning or time to pack for the move. After she left, his mother didn’t come back to visit for nearly eight months. A harsh reality to deal with as a child.
Pablo sighed. “This is gonna be different.”
“Are you sure this is something you wanna do? With her? Really, Pablo?” De La Renta cautioned. “Need I remind you that Mother is out of her mind, and that you were afraid of her a day ago.” His eyes practically bulged out of his head.
Too much salt? Pablo wondered. “Don’t you think I’m good enough for Daytime Television?”
“Who said dat? Of course, I think you’re good enough.”
“Thank God,” Pablo exhaled. If De La Renta didn’t believe in him, he’d really be lost.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” De La Renta shook a spare piece of bacon under Pablo’s nose. “She’s not gonna let you stand out on your own. Mama don’t share and she don’t play well with others.”
“You’ve got her all wrong. This time—”
“Lemme break it all down for you,” De La Renta leaned in. “Keisha’s one of those Supermodels who’s actually done something. She can slay a magazine cover, launch a TV show, become the voice for broke-down bitches all around the world—”
“I know that. She’ll forever be a legend,” Pablo interrupted.
“Can I finish? Shit.” De La Renta was annoyed now. “You really think she’s all about, Girl power, Black women, Fat chicks? She could actually give two shits about any of those peeps. It’s all about her. No one else.”
“You think?”
“I know,” De La Renta snapped. “Pablo, she’s only gonna let you stand in her shadow. That’s it. And as my grandmamma always says, ‘If you don’t stand for somethin’ you’ll fall for everything.’”
