by Jay Manuel
Other critics had scoffed at 432 Park’s slenderness and simplicity. Fashion consultant, Tim Gunn, described the building as, “[It’s] just a thin column. It needs a little cap.” Regardless of what trivial fashion pundits had to say, the now infamous residence had become home to the Model Muse, season seven, contestants.
The crew hastily descended on Keisha and Pablo as they walked through the threshold. Like a surprise tornado twisting its dizzying way towards an unsuspecting target, everything seemed to happen at once. Mike started wiring for sound. De La Renta began touching up Keisha’s makeup. And Harper handed Pablo a fist full of note cards.
“Things are a complete disaster upstairs,” Rachel blurted, seemingly beside herself. “I’ve got girls tearing the place apart, literally throwing expensive art around, while another girl, clearly doped up on some kinda drug, used her suitcase as a bobsled and flew down the stairs.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a gaping hole in the wall where she crash landed.”
Pablo felt discombobulated. “What the…”
“My nerves are already shot—and this is day, fucking, one.” Rachel stopped to catch her breath. “Joe hasn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls, but I think you guys should go in, on camera, and lay the law, ASAP!”
Keisha gently laid her hand on Rachel’s shoulder, as Mike tucked in her microphone wire around her waist. “Joe’s occupied at the moment. We can take it from here. Don’t worry. Hashtag we got this.”
She had finally lost her ever-loving mind. Pablo was convinced.
Keisha smiled at Rachel. “You know? If we’re gonna play this as a whole new scene, I’ll need a wardrobe change.”
Crickets.
They were all gobsmacked. No one knew what to say.
It was like Keisha didn’t hear one thing Rachel had said.
“De La Renta?” she turned to her glam guru. “I’ll also need a remix on this hair and a new lip.”
“Copy that, Mommy.”
“Where can I go freshen up?” she asked.
“You can use the manager’s office,” Rachel said, in disbelief. “It’s just down that hall, to the left of the concierge desk.”
“Perfect,” Keisha chirped. “I’ll freshen up, and Pablo can go upstairs and get the lay of the land. Cool?”
Now you wanna be nice to me? Pablo thought. “It’s a plan,” he said, taking the high road. “Can you be ready in 15 minutes? Please?”
“I’m still a Supermodel, after all. I can change hair, makeup and clothes in 5.” She raised her eyebrow at Pablo. “Good for you? Mr. Executive Producer.”
Can’t you just fucking faint and accidentally knock yourself out? Pablo’s internal dialogue was starting to sound like Joe Vong. Models fainted regularly on the show, but now he actually needed it to happen. Keisha knew exactly how to push his buttons, always had. She repeatedly found ways of winning the battle, no matter what odds were stacked against her. “Fine,” he said.
Keisha smirked.
Turning and taking Rachel by the arm, Pablo ushered her towards the elevator banks. “Let’s see what’s goin’ on upstairs.” He glanced back and saw Keisha being escorted towards the side hallway. He yelled, “I’ll come back downstairs, so we can film our arrival from the lobby. Okay?”
Keisha didn’t say anything, but he knew she heard him. She heard everything.
Pablo’s ears had popped twice on the rocket launch ride upstairs to the 72nd floor. Perfectly situated in a large utility room, one floor down from the girls’ apartment, Rachel had been set up to monitor the contestants on an 85 “screen TV with several camera views laid out in contact sheet form. This satellite control room had become her base of operations, while covering the girls in their new 56-million-dollar abode that had yearly real estate taxes and common charges totaling enough cash to buy a Hollywood actor’s offspring entrance into University of Southern California. The utility room was stuffy and smelled like feet. Rachel’s most likely. Rubber Crocks made your toes sweat. Pablo really had to get over his obsession with smells. Sitting alongside Rachel, Luciana, and Harper, they fixed their eyes on the mammoth screen and watched several scantily clad model contestants walking around in underwear, unpacking their bags, etc.
Prenilla was in the kitchen. The flame-haired model was eating an obscene amount of cantaloupe. She carefully ate each slice without letting the food touch her lips. Pablo thought it looked odd, as he imagined the three other models watching Prenilla with fascination did. Ava, and two other new contestants, made their way over to the asymmetrical monolith where the redhead was gorging.
“God. You really looooove cantaloupe,” Ava said.
Prenilla swallowed the last of what was in her hand. “Yeah, I have a delicate stomach. It’s pretty much all I can eat.”
“Cantaloupe is all you can eat?” Ava snapped, not looking satisfied with the response. “What about rice or mashed potatoes?”
Prenilla began to shake. Her eyes darted around the room. She took off for a nearby bathroom and slammed the door.
Ava turned to the other two and said, “Man, that is a sensitive stomach.”
“Uh-huh. Lemme count it down,” one of the girls chuckled. “In three, two, one. Projectile.” She then whispered, “Bulimic.”
Prenilla’s audio levels thrust into the red zone as she vomited in the bathroom.
“Are you kidding me?” one of the other girls said. Standing in a bra and panty, she started squirming around. “I gotta take a piss so bad right now. Is that the only nearby bathroom?”
“Yup. And there are chicks taking serious dumps in the other ones we’re allowed to use.” Ava chuckled and then whispered, “Laxatives…”
“I can’t hold it.” The fidgety model ripped off her white lace Veronika’s Privates and, like a gymnast hopping on a balance beam ready to perform, she bounced up on the kitchen counter with her butt down in the kitchen sink, holding herself up with only her arms. The cameraman and Mike, the sound guy, pushed in for a closeup. The able-bodied girl squealed as she let loose a powerful stream of urine.
“At least run the fucking water,” Ava yelled, while laughing full out. She then turned to the shocked girl, standing with her mouth open, and whispered, “Diuretics.”
One floor down in the makeshift control room, Rachel screamed, “Jesus Christ. What a shitshow cast.”
“Listen. I plead the fifth on this one.” Luciana raised her eyebrows and violently spit her words at Rachel. “Mira. That disrespectful, wig wearing, dumb-as-a-bag-of-rocks pendeja is gonna be mentoring these trashy bitches. AND, managing one from under her wing. Didn’t you hear her earlier? From under her fucking wing. Superstar…mi chocha!”
Harper turned to Pablo and whispered, “What’s a chocha?”
Pollyanna strikes again. Pablo rolled his eyes and quickly typed on his iPhone. He pointed at the screen. The words read: You’re sitting on one!
The main monitor now showed the pissing match champion pulling up her panties as they continued to hear Prenilla’s audio of her vomiting in the bathroom.
Rachel sighed and softly spoke into her IFB. “Roll out on this scene and then get someone in there to sterilize the kitchen sink and bathrooms.”
“Let’s grab Keisha before things really get outta hand,” Pablo instructed.
“Outta hand?” Luciana shrieked. “This makes the Fyre Festival look like a baby christening.”
When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Keisha was standing patiently waiting with a new outfit on—yellow Gucci blouse, skinny black jeans and Jimmy Choo heels. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, she wore vamp red lipstick and she’d donned a new attitude.
“See? What’d I tell you?” She smiled as if she was going to receive the award for Miss Congeniality.
Ping.
Pablo’s ears were ringing now.
He knew the gig was up. She’d been up to something, for sure.
The potent smell of fresh lilacs from the vase atop the round, black marble table next to them should’ve calmed his nerves, instead he felt like throwing up.
Without warning, De La Renta jumped in front of Pablo’s face and powdered his forehead down. “Watch yourself,” he whispered under his breath, “She—”
“Okay everyone, clear the area,” Rachel barked. “I need them upstairs, ASAP!”
Pablo swallowed hard after hearing his friend’s earnest warning. He’d never seen De La Renta so concerned for his wellbeing. The crew moved aside, allowing both Keisha and Pablo to step onto a waiting elevator that had been held for them.
This was one of those times where Pablo imagined a movie soundtrack playing in his head. A disassociation method he’d recently taught himself. It helped him process stressful real-life situations and allowed him to feel as though he were watching a film and not experiencing reality. It calmed his nerves. Pablo conjured up the Avatar film score. Specifically, the haunting sound of wailing voices, blaring brass instruments and pounding kettle drums as “Hometree” was brought to the ground. Man could be such a destructive force. But Keisha? She was a destructive force unto herself.
The Supermodel nonchalantly flipped through images on her iPhone and addressed Pablo without looking at him. “I have a little bit of news that Celebrity-Buzz TV didn’t have the ‘inside scoop’ on this afternoon,” she said.
At this point, Pablo didn’t even have the energy to panic. His mind, body and soul had been pushed to their limits. He was functioning on what little strength he had left. He sighed. “Okay, let’s have it.”
Keisha didn’t answer. Still looking at her phone, she fluttered her lashes with a childlike smile.
In an attempt to intimidate, like she always did, Pablo tried to stare her down. Instead, his grey contacts fogged up, forcing him to blink rapidly. Thank God she didn’t see me flinch, he thought. Well, he hoped. She saw everything too.
“I’m just so excited to finally meet your mother this weekend.”
“Huh?” Pablo did a double take. “You met my mom a long time ago? Plus, my parents are on a cruise in Russia.”
“Oh, not Helena.” Keisha turned her iPhone screen off and was now looking at Pablo. Innocence was her new visage. “I figured since you ran off and stole my mama that you were finally ready, and desperately needed time with your real mama.”
WTF?
Needle scratch.
Boom! An emotional bomb went off in Pablo’s head. Keisha had hit the right button, again, and he was no longer in control of his mind and body.
A crooked smirk grew across her face. “You didn’t wanna be caught up in a 24-hour news cycle. So, I got better. Your mama and I are sitting down with Robin Roberts on GMA. The topic is—”
“ENOUGH!” Pablo shouted, beside himself with fury. He thrust his hand between the elevator doors right before they were about to close, causing them to recoil. It was time to have it out, once and for all.
Rage coursed through his veins.
Forcibly, Pablo hauled Keisha off the elevator, dragging her out into the stark lobby of veined marble and polished wood. He was now under the influence of his surging emotions and wasn’t thinking clearly, at all. Coupled together as they walked, he had a firm grip of her arm. The clacking sound of Keisha’s Jimmy Choos echoed in the cavernous space as they quickly made their way towards the side hallway near the concierge. The man standing behind the desk was Mason’s doppelganger—tall swimmer’s frame, Nordic appearance—and had the look of condescension plastered across his face.
Pablo no longer cared what people thought. End of story. Period. She was not going to win, this time.
30
I SEE YOU
“GUYS. WHAT’S GOING on?” Harper called out. Her saggy jeans, fanny pack and worn out sneakers were the antithesis of 432 Park’s sophistication.
The elevator doors closed, and without its famous passengers inside. Halfway across the lobby, Pablo had stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t speak. Gurgling bile began rising in his throat. Keisha smiled at him like a mentally-ill schizophrenic. I’ll be damned if some throwaway bi-racial baby is gonna crawl outta the gutter and steal my shine! Her words, he’d heard in the control room, now echoed in his head. Abruptly, Pablo tore off his microphone, then snatched Keisha’s mic pack and slid them both along the slick marble floors in the direction of where Mike, the sound guy, and Harper were standing. The disconnected microphone wire dangled between Keisha’s legs like a pendulum.
No one else dared to say a word as they watched Pablo haul Keisha by the arm, past the mailroom and to the nearby manager’s office. De La Renta was inside packing up his flatiron and lipstick pallets when Pablo shoved Keisha across the threshold. The thrust of releasing her arm caused her iPhone to fall and shatter on the floor. WHAP.
“What in the hell?” De La Renta hollered. He sized up the situation. “Oh, I see this is a wrap. And the only thing better than having plans is, CANCELLED plans. I’m the fuck out.” He scurried out, closing the door behind them.
Alone now, Keisha stood quiet and in control. Pablo bent over and picked up her iPhone, waving the destroyed device in her face.
“See? Just like your life. Falling apart.”
Keisha smiled. “Oh, is it?” She took a seat in a nearby chair.
The room was bleak and ill-fitted for the prominent address. The banal office furniture didn’t match the aesthetic the lobby had to offer. The space felt very backstage and looked more like a Chase Bank manager’s cubicle.
Pablo chucked the splintered phone into her lap and turned his back on the Supermodel in an effort to regain his composure.
“You know, David, it’s funny what you can dig up about—”
“What did you just call me?” Pablo turned around, glaring at Keisha in contempt. She had picked up her iPhone and was flicking at the glass shards.
“Oh, well, I figured we should use your real name from now on, not on camera, of course.”
“Pablo Michaels is my real name. I told you about David in confidence….”
“Marge says hello, by the way.”
Boom! Emotional bomb number two went off in Pablo’s head. His knees went weak.
“She’s such a HUGE fan of the show. She said something like, always knowing she’d see your name in lights, or something like that. Anyway, she’s been so helpful in connecting me with your mother.”
“Wait…I…how? AND STOP calling her my mother.” Pablo started fidgeting with the black threaded Apriati bracelet around his wrist, and nearly broke it off. He’d never told Keisha about Nurse Marge. Or the fact he’d been in Marge’s care for almost four months before his birth mother had finally signed away her rights to him so he could legally be adopted. The nerve-racking process of having to wait and see if the Michaels’ could bring their son home had been a harrowing experience for both his parents. It had been especially difficult for his mom. Pablo now feared digging up this story, and thrusting it upon his parents thirty years later, would bring all that pain flooding back into their lives. His mom and dad were private people. They wanted nothing to do with the spotlight. Pablo was now facing his worst nightmare and he would do anything to protect his parents. Anything. Keisha had her ways, but how did she know where to start looking for the truth?
The hum of the florescent lights seemed to get louder and louder, the longer he stood in the office. Pablo studied Keisha’s body language. Nothing. He couldn’t read her. Dumbfounded and at a loss for words, he declared the obvious. “Why are you doing all this? It’s gonna tear my family apart.”
“Listen. Broyce wouldn’t hear me out earlier, but I figured out the perfect solution. I just need you to go to the press and say the whole Mason thing was a lie.”
“Ummmmm? Earth to Andromeda. What sci-fi planet are you on right now? I’ll give you a hint, it ain’t FIERCE!” De La Renta’s voice came tum
bling out of Pablo’s mouth. “How will I explain the video recording, when it comes out? Hello?”
Keisha seemed amused at how he was unravelling. “Oh, that’s the easy part. I’ll just say I asked you and Mason to have a fake conversation knowing Miss Thing was there.”
“What!?” he screamed, raising his voice.
Keisha didn’t succumb to his threatening tone and softly said, “We’ll just pass it off as an elaborate sting.” She spoke slowly and conclusively as if convincing herself it were true. “This is how we trapped the culprit who’d been leaking all this naughty stuff about Model Muse.”
Her calculations were petrifying. Pablo sighed, wanting nothing more.
“And who cares about Miss Thing, really? You certainly shouldn’t. He’s fucked all of us over, and it’s time he got kicked to the curb. I’m doing you a favor. Really. And payback’s a bitch. Remember?” She paused. “Please don’t be so naïve; people do this all the time. Someone’s gotta take the fall here.”
He hated when she condescended to him. “That’ll never work.”
“It will work, because I say it will work,” she yelled, raising her voice to match his admonishment. And there they were–Gollum eyes were back. Keisha started vigorously rubbing the destroyed iPhone between her hands. What was she doing? Trying to distract him? She continued and said, “You’ll tell Broyce this story’s fake news and I’ll make a public statement clearing up the whole mess. Miss Thing? A wrap. And good riddance.”
“What?”
“It’s either do as I say, or I go on GMA. I need you to own this, David.” Keisha continued and locked gaze with him. She was hypnotic; he couldn’t look away. “Besides, if I go down and get fired over this, like Harvey Weinstein? You’ll have sealed your own fate. Model Muse is nothing without me.” Her toothy grin looked faker than a two-dollar bill. “It won’t last. And I’m sure unemployment wasn’t fun for you.”
