The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  “This talk show will be a game changer. Even Broyce recognizes that I’m uber-important to the show.”

  “Broyce, I trust.” De La Renta made a face. “Miss K-a, dollar sign-h, I-got-a-brand-new-red-haired-wig, I don’t.”

  Harper and Rachel were walking across the parking lot to where the two friends were in heated debate and sat down.

  “Hey, guys.”

  “Are you aware of some creative editing going on around here?” De La Renta asked the women and Pablo. “Hashtag just saying.”

  Pablo made a face. “But I rescued Model Muse and kept it from being cancelled.”

  The women nodded in agreement.

  “And? How’d that work out?” He licked his bacon. “In her favor, that’s how.”

  More often than not, De La Renta’s words bore the hard truth Pablo didn’t want to hear, but their friendship meant everything to him. No matter what went down, he knew De La Renta would always be by his side. He was one of the good ones; not a fair-weather friend, but a real one. The kind who knew how to get out and push when things got rough, unless, of course, it meant pushing an actual car. That’s just how De La Renta was made. Bless him.

  Pablo cleared his plate and came back to the table to gather his belongings. “I hear you. But I have to follow my dream.”

  De La Renta folded his hands in prayer and bowed his head. “Go with God. And watch your back.”

  Surprise. The second shoot of the semi-final judging round ran late. Surprise Two. The real drama wasn’t on camera or live streamed. The judges revolted. It seemed Mason Hughes had suddenly grown a set of balls and walked off set. Followed by Sasha and Miss Thing. It was Mutiny on the Bounty without Marlon Brando at the helm. The problem was Nichole had been the one on the chopping block for the previous episode, but since the new photoshoot had been dedicated to her mother, well, they were now stuck with a gorgeous, chisel faced bald girl. Despite what Keisha kept trying to manipulate, the network could not and did not want to dethrone the new fresh face of cancer awareness. From the giant sixteen-panel LED wall, the group image from Pablo’s photoshoot revealed four gorgeous bald models looking down like arch-angels on the last day of judgment upon Miss Thing, Mason and Sasha. It was unnerving. Sort of like going to the ape house at the zoo and realizing the humans are actually on display for the apes.

  Elyssa looked incredible, so she was also safe. Her inked arms and legs created the body painting effect that Shiseido cosmetics had tried to corner the market with back in the 1980s. Beth and Kayla were the final two on the chopping block. The fix had always been for season six to announce the first plus-sized model. Keisha, dealing with her own weight problems, entered stage left as the judges were debating the girls’ merits. Busting through a canary yellow silk and Guipure lace frock, her favorite color, Keisha backed the network’s choice. Beth was to be this season’s Model Muse. The judges were supposed to fall in line.

  Mason’s critique of Beth was absolute. “There was not a good photo of her in the bunch,” he snorted. “She’s barely giving me any neck.”

  “That’s ‘cause she don’t have a neck to begin with,” Miss Thing blurted. “I agree with Mason. I don’t think she’s Model Muse material.”

  And then there was Kayla. For all of her slutty tricks, Andy included, she really did look like a superstar in the group photo.

  “The energy Kayla’s bringing to this photograph reminds me of a younger, thinner you, Keisha,” Sasha said with a wicked little half smirk.

  “Oooooooo.” Miss Thing snapped his fingers. “Leave Big Bird alone.”

  Of course, all of their arguments were going straight to the cutting room floor. Whenever any of the judges tried to stick a dagger in Keisha’s back, she just looked over at Joe Vong, who whispered “cut” to Rachel and the fix was in.

  “Beth deserves a fighting chance since she represents all plus-sized women,” Keisha argued. None of the judges knew Beth was in fact to win, as senior producers and Pablo kept “The Ringer” secret. Stroking their egos and making them believe they made their own choices had become a weekly ritual, but then Mason stood up and walked out.

  “Why pretend you need us, Keisha? This is all your reality anyway,” he said with a dramatic gesture.

  “I’m with Mason.” Sasha stood up, one hand on her open water bottle, the other on her bag. She tripped on her purse strap, spilled her wine, and nearly did a face plant into Miss Thing’s crotch.

  Miss Thing screamed.

  “It’s not like I doused you with acid,” Sasha slurred at him.

  “Girl, you nearly crushed my family jewels.”

  “Honey, those aren’t even semi-precious stones.” She sauntered off after Mason.

  It was a dramatic but unnecessary mutiny, which added another hour to the clock. Everyone was used to overtime by now and Pablo was beginning to think he’d be able to pay off his mortgage early if the delays continued into Season Seven. Coercing the defectors back to set took a while. Harper, always up for a difficult task, got it done and finally had everyone in line behind axing Kayla, if only because of the way the elastic on her panties kept slipping to her ankles whenever a man was near.

  Pablo sat and watched the chaos from the safety of the control room with Rachel all night. He wanted zilch to do with the foul energy soaring around the studio. Nothing was going to ruin his day. He only had his future with Keisha to look forward to and their talk show together.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and his mother’s face appeared. “Hi Mom,” he whispered. “Just a sec, I’ve gotta get to a quiet area.” He scampered out of the control room and out the fire doors, where he leaned against the wall. “How are you?”

  “Just fine, Sweetheart. I’ve just been thinking about you a lot and you know, mother’s intuition, worried. Are you okay?”

  “I’m great, Mom.”

  “That’s a relief. I must just be getting old and senile.”

  “Never. You look fab for being thirty-nine and holding,” he chuckled.

  “Bless you. I do love my annual fortieth birthdays.”

  “I was actually going to call you. I have some awesome news.”

  “Really?”

  “Keisha and I are gonna have a talk show together.”

  “You mean like Kelly and Ryan, well, whoever Kelly’s flavor of the month is?”

  “Shady, Mom. No more lunches with De La Renta when you come in town.” They both laughed.

  “Oh, sweetheart, this is all wonderful news. Everything you’ve ever wanted is finally coming to fruition.”

  He had to chuckle at the word “fruition”—De La Renta didn’t know that Pablo’s Harvard dictionary was none other than his mother—Helena Michaels.

  “Please be careful, though.” She sounded concerned. “I saw Keisha on Good Morning America the other day, and something’s not quite right. You can see it in her eyes.”

  Pablo let out a heavy sigh. “Keisha’s just lonely, Mom. And she’s desperately trying to keep herself relevant.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Pablo thought he saw a sliver of yellow fabric slip through the fire door to his right. It couldn’t be her; weren’t they still filming?

  “Listen, Mom, I gotta go. We’re shooting today. I’ll call you later.”

  “Whenever you can. I just had to know my boy was okay. Love you, Sweetheart.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  He hung up the phone and sighed happily, then turned to head back into the mayhem. Two steps, and he got a text message. Bing.

  I.C.E. TEXT: You’ve been on my mind. Just wanted to reach out and remind you that you’re BEYOND talented and generous. Innocence is dangerous in this biz. Take off your blinders. KK’s not a leader, she’s a usurper. Don’t let anyone define you. Real success comes when you find faith in who you are. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. xx

  It was like I.C.E. and his mother were p
sychically communicating or something. Pablo walked back into the control room just as Rachel was shouting into her IFB. “Hey, guys, Mike, Jesse, make sure you keep Kayla long enough in her exit OTF. We need an actual shot of her crying, for once.”

  “You guys wrapped already?” Pablo asked.

  Rachel pulled off her headphones. “Yup. Five minutes ago.” She stood up to walk out of the room. “You gonna hang out here much longer? I’m heading down to the floor. I need to show Harper what’s needed for tomorrow’s teach and challenge.”

  “I’m just waiting for Keisha.”

  “Cool. Turn out the lights when you leave.” Rachel kissed his cheek and disappeared.

  Pablo took a moment, looking around the room. Keisha’s mic was pushing the red zone on the sound board. What was wrong now? He leaned forward and raised her mic level so he could hear her audio over the loudspeakers.

  “Andy, I’ve told you how many times? You won’t, no, can’t fuck up my shit. This has got to stop.” Her low demonic voice boomed across the room. Pablo quickly lowered the levels to avoid hurting his own ears.

  “You better be glad I took care of things tonight. What were you thinking? Fucking Kayla? Have you even heard of the Me Too movement?”

  Pablo’s heart jumped into his throat. He knew where she was going and wondered if she was going to fire him or just emasculate him?

  Andy didn’t even try to defend himself. “I’ve convinced Netflix to ink a deal with Kashing In Productions for The Keisha & Pablo Show, worldwide rights. They love what you bring as a team, onscreen chemistry, fashion know-how, wit. Pablo’s great sense of timing and humor offsets your serious, quirky side.”

  “Mr. Andy,” Keisha’s voice register had risen to something sounding more innocent, more conniving, “Miss Keisha has decided she wants her own talk show.”

  Pablo’s throat stretched down into his stomach. He gagged. Felt physically ill.

  “Everyone loves little Pablo but they forget,” her voice dropped two octaves, “I MADE HIM! Model Muse is my fucking show. I created it. It was my idea. All he does is ride around on my coat tails. And I’ll be damned if some throwaway bi-racial baby is gonna crawl outta the gutter and steal my shine. I don’t need Pablo Michaels and neither does Netflix.”

  20

  SCRIPT CHANGE

  SILENCE. PABLO’S HEART began to race out of control.

  “Well,” Andy cleared his throat, “we gotta problem then.”

  “What?”

  “I told the kid, last night, you were shopping a talk show for both of you. I needed him to get your head back on straight.”

  “Fuck.” Keisha’s voice reverberated over the control room speakers. “Does he know it’s been picked up by Netflix yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t say anything to Pablo, and let’s work on the down-low.”

  “But I sold the concept on—”

  “You’ll make The Keisha Kash Show happen Mr. Andy,” she said, with her voice crawling into creepy land. “And when it announces, we’ll just tell him that Netflix wanted me as a solo host. He’ll believe anything, and it’ll be too late anyhow.”

  “Done.”

  There was a pause. A shuffle.

  “I need you to destroy this…”

  “Is that blood?” Andy asked.

  “No more questions!” She screamed.

  “Sorry.”

  Andy apologizing? Pablo couldn’t believe his ears.

  “If you don’t get rid of this, my has-been mother will get outta prison.”

  “Your mother’s not a good look for you right now.”

  “My mother’s never been a good look for me.”

  “Got it. So what if I—”

  Loud, high-pitched feedback echoed from the speakers hanging above the sound board. Pablo’s eardrums rang.

  “Ah, shit, my mic is still…” Keisha’s voice went mute.

  Pablo sat in the sudden silence of the control room. The all too familiar sensation of being discarded rushed over him. Alone. Betrayed. Abandoned. He knew these feelings well. De La Renta had been right. He’d spent his entire life seeing the best in people and subsequently placed too much faith in those who’d ultimately let him down. For years he’d gotten up and moved on, despite the hole in his soul. Now, Pablo wanted to crawl under a rock and curl up into a fetal position. Grabbing his jean jacket, he pushed through the big metal door of the control room and fled the studio. He would never eat Dulce de Leche again.

  * * *

  Everything was blindingly white. Pablo couldn’t see anything. He was frightened. Visually impaired. He shut his eyes tightly and covered them with his trembling hands.

  “Nurse Marge,” a voice said. “Take him…she doesn’t even want to hold him for minute.”

  Pablo removed his hands and cautiously opened his eyes. It was still bright, but through the haze he could see two nurses talking to each other standing near a hospital doorway. A large retro dial clock on the wall read, one-minute past twelve. It must be just past noon, he thought. Slowly things came into focus. The brightness wasn’t nearly as harsh, but everything seemed surreal. The heavyset nurse, Marge, held the baby as she walked down the hall. Pablo followed her past the equipment stacked up alongside the passage. An orderly almost bumped into him without saying, excuse me. How rude.

  The nurse abruptly changed direction and headed towards a nursery. She turned her back to the double doors and used her behind to pop open the entry. She made no eye contact with Pablo, even though they were nearly face to face. He followed her in the room and watched as she unwrapped the newborn child and carefully placed him on a padded counter. She turned the water on in a nearby sink, ran water over a washcloth, but still had not acknowledged Pablo’s presence. He had the eeriest feeling about the room. It looked strange. Old. Out-dated. Ethereal.

  “Time to clean you up, little one.” She lifted the tiny arm. The baby wailed at the immediate shock of wet against his skin. Pablo felt a sting of pain at the sudden sound of the child’s scream. His tiny lungs were so strong. “Shhhhh, you’re OK. It’s OK. It’s nice and warm.” The baby boy calmed to the sound of her soothing voice.

  “Cooo…” The baby smiled, or was that gas? Pablo almost laughed.

  “Until we find you a family, I’ll call you David.” She turned and reached for something that Pablo couldn’t quite see and when she finally moved back to the child, he could see Marge fastening a name tag around the little boy’s ankle. It simply had David written on it in big block letters with a barcode underneath. No last name. That was all that identified him. A sudden jolt of anxiety coursed through Pablo’s body. Panicked, he whipped his head around. There was no one standing at the nursery window loving this newborn baby from afar. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Argh.” Pablo bolted upright. He was hot. Lost. Abandoned. His heart raced. He looked around at the faint shadows that were morphing into the familiar contours of the bedroom of his Seventh Avenue apartment. This same dream—or was it a nightmare?—had haunted him for years until Keisha came into his life, becoming a part of his family. Now it was back tormenting him, again. Pablo flopped back on his bed, backhanding the wetness on his cheek and closed his eyes. Emotionally drained, he stared up at the ceiling and tried to focus on his breathing, so he could stop his mind from churning round and round.

  3 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX

  A few short hours later, leaning against the headboard of his bed, Pablo gazed out at the Manhattan skyline from his 15th story apartment window. Even One World Trade Center looked alone. He had tapped snooze on his iPhone alarm several times already. He wasn’t expected to be on the set today, anyway. Pablo wasn’t sure he would ever go back. Through a slit in the drapes, a thin beam of sunlight touched his dark mood. Everything he’d accomplished, everything he’d created from his career to his apartment seemed pointless now.

  “Hey S
iri, what time is it?”

  “It’s 9:26 a.m. Good Morning.” Pablo hated that his iPhone was having a better day than him already. He felt like he’d been awake the entire night. Maybe he should have a pajama day and just stay in bed, but he had to eat something. Groaning as he got up, he looked at himself in his floor length Philippe Starck Caadre mirror.

  “Pathetic.” Padding barefoot across the whitewashed oak floors of the living room, he considered making a cup of loose-leaf herbal tea but decided it was too much work. He didn’t feel like drinking or eating. His body felt encased in the concrete of a broken heart.

  “Hey Siri, turn on the lights.”

  Slowly, a glow rose from around all his furniture, and kitchen cabinets.

  “Hey Siri, play On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter.”

  The robotic sounding voice confirmed, “On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter Orchestra and Lorenz Dangle now playing.” Nothing better suited the sorrow and grief of the human experience, and the sense that there’s a purpose, or at least a grandeur to life, than the wailing of Richter’s melancholy music. It set the mood for Pablo’s forlorn day.

  Yesterday, he thought he had it all. His dream of having a talk show had been just a handshake away. Now he had nothing, not even the friendship he’d believed in and done so much for. Keisha had robbed him of it all. His job was to create fantasies and bring dreams to life, but his own dreams felt like a distant destination he would never now reach. The depth of love and acceptance he craved had left him. How could he go on in a business that made him feel so rejected? The expectations he had of Pablo Michaels versus the reality of who he really was would never measure up.

  He wanted to be so much more than a creative director on a model competition show. He wanted to do something important in the world he loved; share his insights on life, art, spirituality. He wanted to connect with others, learn about their passions, what they liked to read, listen to, and eat. He wanted others to connect with him too, and see beyond the preconceived stereotype of who he appeared to be; the glossy, perfect on camera personality, with silver grey hair and eyes. He felt trapped by the price of fame that he was only now learning he had to pay.