The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  Keisha’s hate-filled rant ran on a loop in his head. I made him. Throwaway bi-racial baby. I made him. Throwaway…She made me. Tears welled up in his eyes. Why did he believe her in the first place? Because it was she who’d helped him believe in himself, and convinced him their relationship was special. Despite all the warnings, the indications that she couldn’t be trusted, he’d believed her.

  Pablo pressed the Double latte button on his Miele coffee machine. Waiting for the milk to steam, he reached for his iPhone and begrudgingly unlocked it. A flurry of texts and email alerts popped up on his home screen notification center, but only one message caught his attention.

  I.C.E. TEXT: I never heard back from you yesterday. You ok? I hope you didn’t think I was being too pushy. I never meant to offend. Sorry. You’re still on my mind, so hit me up when you get a min. xo

  Pablo’s fingers flew across the screen, typing a quick response.

  Pablo TEXT: No! Soooooo much going on and I didn’t get a chance to write back. Your words of encouragement are everything to me!!! You’ve been right all along! Last night I overheard KK speaking to her manager…she said horrific things about me. Can’t deal. She’s a beast! Now I can’t sleep. Don’t know how I can walk back on set. Ever!

  Pablo pressed send and grabbed the latte like his life depended on it. His iPhone vibrated with an immediate response.

  I.C.E. TEXT: I’m so sorry. This has been my fear all along. You’ve worked hard learning to trust people, don’t let her derail you from your path.

  Pablo TEXT: She destroys anyone who challenges her. Remember her old assistant? He couldn’t find work for 6 months. I’m fucked!

  I.C.E. TEXT: Reacting to her from an emotional level will only put you out in the cold. You’re smart. Take the high road.

  Pablo TEXT: How?

  I.C.E. TEXT: Go back to work and give an Oscar Award winning performance, like she’s been giving you. Play the game but don’t fall for the illusion. Nothing is worth sacrificing your integrity. xo

  Why was life so complicated? Pablo threw his phone on the couch and curled up in the corner of the sofa with both hands clasped around his latte. “Fuuuuuck!” he screamed. Like De La Renta, he was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He felt so manipulated, so played. Carelessly and without much thought, he fired off an impetuous message in response to his mentor.

  Pablo TEXT: I CANNOT let her walk all over me like this! I hear what you’re saying…but I swore I wouldn’t let her bully me.

  I.C.E. TEXT: DON’T DO SOMETHING YOU’LL REGRET LATER!

  A flashing ellipsis alerted him that I.C.E. was writing more. Pablo sipped his latte, waiting impatiently for the long message to finally appear.

  I.C.E. TEXT: Transcend her tyranny and oppression. Taking a stand for yourself is a good thing. But do NOT stoop to her level. It’s your time…don’t forget that! Case in point. I had the opportunity to work with Iyanla Vanzant on the Oprah show years back and we became close. Her wisdom and ability to see the error of her own ways is always an inspiration to me. She uses her gifts to help everyone she can. Read her book, “Acts of Faith.” Here’s one of my favorite quotes from it…

  Pablo stared at his screen, waiting to see the quoted text come through, and within seconds it popped up.

  I.C.E. TEXT: “A wise soldier knows never to draw his sword unless he is ready, able and willing to do battle. A fool draws his sword aimlessly and is prone to cut himself to death.”

  Pablo walked over to the plate glass window on the far side of his living room. Leaning his forehead against the glass with his hands pressed alongside him, he looked like he was about to leap out across Manhattan in a swan dive. Below him was a sea of yellow cabs fighting their way down Seventh Avenue. A circle of white condensation formed on the window, a ghost of his former self, or a new, self-born phoenix rising from the ashes? Abruptly, Pablo pulled back and looked at the expanse before him. This was his world. He owned it. His reflection smiled at him. “Let’s do this.”

  21

  DUCK FACE

  THE CAMERAS WERE already rolling when Nichole, Elyssa and Beth filed into the newly transformed studio at Highline Stages. Studio C was set to look like some secret headquarters in a DC Comics film. Gigantic old-fashioned computers, circa 1960s, lined the makeshift walls; each monitor housed an LED screen with Keisha’s face on it. Her expression alternated from soft and relaxed to the strained pout, cheek sucking visage of Duck Face. Rachel motioned the models towards their taped X marks on the floor.

  Bang.

  The lights went out.

  As if on cue, the girls screamed.

  Blue and yellow computer lights began to blink madly, illuminating the room. Fade Up: purple LEDs. Keisha stood statuesquely on a glass and steel platform, wearing a silver spandex catsuit. As she turned her back to the cameras, a long silver cape unfurled with the hand stitched logo of a duck, initials “D.F.” on the back. Reality TV 101–use crazy visuals to keep viewers watching. But jumping the shark could be inevitable. Clearly this was the kind of material late night TV Hosts dreamt of using in their opening monologues.

  Whipping her extra-long, newly woven wig of red hair, Keisha glared down on the girls. She looked like she had just eaten a lemon. “I’m Supermodel Duck Face.”

  “What, in hell?” Pablo nearly bust a gut trying to keep from laughing. The entire camera crew, producers, ADs, PAs, even Harper struggled to refrain from laughing out loud. The models had it much worse. The smirks on their faces couldn’t be retouched out in post.

  “I’m here to teach you how to conquer the lens of any camera, with the power of the Duucckkkk Faaaacccceeeee.” Keisha’s last words echoed across the studio.

  “Is this today’s teach?” Beth leaned over to Elyssa and muttered under her breath.

  “Maybe she’s punking us,” Elyssa whispered back.

  “Nobody even does the Duck Face anymore,” Nichole added.

  Keisha’s voice roared like an auto-tuned lion. “Now, you three must go behind my face recognition supercomputer and change into your own power Duck Face suits.” She waved her hands in front of her face and whispered, “Be back here in a super-flash Model Muse moment.”

  “Reset for Duck Face challenge.” Rachel’s shrill voice pierced the blackness.

  Nichole stopped and stared at Keisha’s head before joining the others. As the three model finalists moved rather reluctantly around the flimsy set wall, a piece of gaffer tape broke free and an iPad fell off the ridiculous replica of HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Pablo dropped his head in his hand. All his hard work trying to get this show to be taken seriously and now this?

  “Can someone walkie for the scenic gal and get this fixed immediately?” Rachel begged.

  “Copy that,” a PA confirmed.

  “Harper?” Keisha shielded her eyes from the bright lights.

  “So sorry. Right here.” Harper flew in from the shadows, panting and apologizing for nothing at all. “What can I do for you?”

  Pablo watched the young producer with pity, and then realized he himself had been just as apologetic and subservient in the past.

  “Email my trademark attorney. I want the copyright on Super-flash Model Muse Moment.” Keisha took the perspiring producer’s face in her hands. “Make sure he puts it through today, so we can start using it on social ASAP.”

  “Got it. I’ll make sure to add this to the list of terms for all on-camera talent to use when addressing the girls too.”

  “Fierce.” She snapped her fingers. “You have my phone?”

  “I sure do, Darlin’…” Harper chimed. Pablo nearly threw up. “Here you go. And, I have some water with a yellow straw for ya.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Keisha fussed.

  Blushing at the rare compliment, Harper hiked up her sagging jeans and ran back into the shadows where she belonged. Keisha didn’t move from her
Plexiglass platform of honor. Clicking away on her phone, she ignored the crew as they reset. She seemed oblivious to the fact that Pablo hadn’t said hello to her, but then she probably didn’t even know he was there. He’d snuck into video village and was hiding there with De La Renta, Joe, and Rachel.

  Thrusting the studio door open Andy Levenkron strolled in, chatting away to some underling listening on the other end of his white AirPods.

  “Hey, Boo.” Keisha waved. Andy waved back and strutted across the studio, double tapping his AirPods to hang up the call.

  Joe Vong’s face was redder than usual as he stamped up to Keisha’s manager. “Where have you been, Levenkron? This is a fucking joke. It’ll ruin the show. You’re supposed to be her fucking manager. Manage her and stop this.”

  “Stop Keisha?” Andy settled on one of the cast couches and smiled up at Vong. “We just closed on a huge deal with Apple for her new Duck Face App. You’re gonna be hearing ‘Duck Face’ from everyone this season and you can be sure it’ll go viral.”

  Scrolling through Instagram, De La Renta muttered to Pablo, “Duck Face is about as stupid as that Smize crap. I tell ya, these Supermodels think they’re all that and a bag of Doritos. Ain’t nothin’ new.”

  “She should have the initials ‘TB’ on that cape,” Pablo sneered.

  The glam guru looked puzzled.

  Pablo mouthed the words, ‘The Bitch.’

  “Watch that tone, missy! Don’t bite my head off just because you and Mother fell out.”

  Pablo looked reluctant to continue. “I haven’t even told you what happened…”

  “And I don’t wanna know.” De La Renta held up his hands in the air, then leaned over and whispered real low, “Not here, later.”

  Rachel popped two Xanax in her mouth and closed the bottle. “We’ve got bigger problems than this Teach right now.” She pointed to her iPhone. “You guys been reading the production group chat? Check the latest update on our newest Bogie.” A long screed from the associate producer that governed the axed contestants, locked up in the hotel, divulged the indiscretions Kayla had with Keisha’s manager. Kayla was planning on nailing the show, the network and Keisha. But she was offering the producers a deal.

  “I may have gone to Harvard,” one of the producers said, “but even I can’t write our way out of this one.”

  “You fucked one of our models?” Joe was in a dysmorphic rage and hissed at the self-satisfied manager, busily planning a viral Duck Face App takeover. “Are you fucking nuts?”

  Andy was dazed and confused. “What’s the problem?”

  “Kayla claims she got gonorrhea from you and is threatening to go public with an exclusive on TMZ if we don’t make her the winner this season.”

  “She could’ve gotten gonorrhea from Bill, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You fucked her too?” Joe turned and screamed at Bill.

  “Only oral,” Bill assured him. “And I don’t have STDs.”

  “Anymore,” De La Renta scoffed.

  “All she needs is to accuse you. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, which you both have just assured me it is.” Joe nervously began pacing around the studio, running his hands through his thinning jet-black hair and exposing his all-white, one-inch roots. “At least on OFFICERZ the crew obeyed the law.”

  “Where are we with finding dirt on her,” Rachel fired.

  “Close,” a producer replied. “We still need to follow up on a—”

  “You knew about this, Rachel?” Joe yelled.

  “Hell no. This Andy thing is news to me.”

  It wasn’t news to Pablo, but instead he said, “Why don’t you just throw her back into the competition during the final runway challenge as a surprise twist?” He didn’t know what else to say; he was trying to protect the show. “And she can win.”

  De La Renta nodded in agreement. “Egg-zackly. In the past y’all have randomly eliminated two girls in one episode, why not throw a bitch back in and change it up? The kids at home watching will liiiiiiive when the other models see Kayla and gag.”

  “That might actually work.” Rachel looked cautiously optimistic. “We could stage the scene with Keisha backstage announcing Kayla’s return, right before the runway segment. It’ll raise the stakes for the finale.”

  “Ummm, excuse me, white lady? Ain’t that what Pablo and I just said?”

  Rachel looked embarrassed.

  “Just make it work,” Joe growled at the two lotharios. “You two had better hope to God Keisha doesn’t find out about your indiscretions, or you’ll be the ones on camera going to the doctor for an HIV test.”

  Pablo’s phone vibrated. Mommy Dearest was on the screen. He looked up at Keisha, peering from the darkness that surrounded her. She had her phone pressed to her ear now. Pablo showed De La Renta his glowing iPhone.

  “Nope,” he snapped. “I don’t wanna fuck with either of you. I’m out!” De La Renta then got up and made his way to the craft service table.

  Pablo let his phone go to voicemail. He had nothing to say to her, yet.

  “Ugh, can we hurry up?” Keisha barked.

  “Girls almost ready,” a PA yelled.

  Pablo’s phone vibrated, again. This time a text message popped up.

  Broyce TEXT: 911! Can you be red carpet ready tomorrow night?

  Pablo TEXT: I’m filming the final runway challenge. Why?

  Broyce TEXT: I can get you out of shooting MM for the night, but keep between us.

  Pablo TEXT: Done.

  Broyce TEXT: I got you a huge gig. A producer is going to call you shortly. And no need to thank me, I owe you one!

  Pablo TEXT: Intrigued!!

  22

  RELIABLE SOURCES

  CALIFORNIA INSTITUTION FOR WOMEN, CHINO

  911#, FOLLOWED BY a phone number, has a whole other meaning in a state prison. So, when a guard slipped the note to Brenda Paris, she knew she had to act and act fast. Payment for the special delivery was a Model Muse sweatshirt with Keisha’s authentic signature on it.

  “For my niece,” the guard mumbled.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Brenda had been selling Model Muse swag to inmates and guards ever since the show had gone viral. It had become every felon’s favorite reality show, after Judge Judy. It was a good business that kept her in Juul Vapes and raised her profile among the more hardened criminals, especially the Mama of them all—Aunt Peggy, the only inmate with the a cell phone.

  A jewel thief is one thing. A murderer is something else. Aunt Peggy kept her rap sheet fairly quiet, but the huge garish scar on her face and the torn earlobe inspired gossip and respect, if not outright fear. Holding court in her private cell, Aunt Peggy had her own TV, a desk neatly piled with the latest Michael Connelly and James Patterson novels, and two bookcases of beauty supplies that rivaled the inventory of any black hair salon on the Southside. It cost a hefty price to make an un-monitored call, but if Aunt Peggy liked you, there was a cell to be had at a price. Brenda’s price was Keisha.

  “If it ain’t Madison Avenue.” Aunt Peggy’s face clouded over at the sight of Brenda. “You got nerve showin’ your face in here after that shit swag you passed last month.”

  “I didn’t know it was subpar quality. I told Keisha never to send me that crap again.”

  “Not so tight.” Aunt Peggy swatted at the girls adding cornrows to her scalp. “Stop watchin’ Judge Judy and pay attention to my head.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Peggy,” the young inmate groveled as Judge Judy passed sentence. “If it weren’t for morons like you in the world, I wouldn’t have a job.”

  “That stuck up Supermodel,” she patted the hairstylist’s hand, “thinks her shit don’t stink.”

  Brenda nodded in agreement. Like Keisha, you had to agree with everything that came out of Aunt Peggy’s mouth or she wouldn’t grant any favors.

  “Aunt Peggy c
ouldn’t stop laughing when she went cray-cray on that bald, white chick the other day.” The old murderess showed her hair crew the animated meme of Keisha’s rant on Facebook. Through the cracked screen of the old iPhone 6, the tagline read: When Monday’s gotcha looking like…

  The three laughed hysterically.

  “I have a 911,” Brenda said.

  Peggy spit out a wad of chewing tobacco into her wastebasket. “Yo, Keisha Kash is one stuck up bitch who don’t love her mama. You don’t need to run and fix her 911 crisis call.”

  “It’s not from her.” Brenda didn’t know who it was from, in actual fact. The number wasn’t familiar to her. She stooped over and wiped up the tobacco juice that Aunt Peggy had spat across the floor with the cuff of her sweatshirt. She would’ve kissed her feet if it helped.

  “Miss Madison Avenue, Aunt Peggy feels for you. Your kids don’t deserve a mother like you. Do they?” She turned to her yes-girls.

  “Dat’s right, Aunt Peggy. That Superbitch don’t love her mama.”

  “Kind of money she makes. What you still doin’ in the joint? She could’ve gotten you the best lawyer in America. Hell, she could fuck him and not have to pay his fee. Instead, she leaves you here to rot with her leftover swag scraps.”

  “I’m gonna get out,” Brenda said. “And when I do, I’ll be sending you a big fat care package of everything you like.”