The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  “Honey, you can’t fit what I like in a box.” Aunt Peggy slapped the ass of one of her girls. “Forty. Cash, for one minute. And you call from here where I can listen. Make sure this ain’t no fix-up with the guards.”

  Brenda handed over the cash and a signed T-shirt.

  “Keep that cheap shit swag.” Aunt Peggy swiftly chucked her iPhone at Brenda’s head. Brenda caught it midair.

  “Nice catch.”

  Brenda pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket and dialed the unfamiliar New York 917 number.

  “This is Brenda Paris.” She listened for a brief second. “Wait, your voice, is this Pablo Michaels?”

  “You talkin’ to Pablo?” one of the girls squealed. “I love me some of that silver fox.”

  Brenda held her finger over her mouth for quiet. “I literally have less than a minute to talk on this secure line.”

  All three inmates were tuned into what Brenda was saying. Tension tightened the room.

  “Wait. What? How could you possibly know about that?” There was a long pause. “She got the message then…”

  Aunt Peggy sat up a bit taller now. She rubbed her fingers together and tapped her finger on the faux Rolex wrapped around her wrist. “Time’s a wastin’. Got another forty?”

  Brenda, intently listening, nodded her head then blurted, “She what?”

  “Show me, Madison Avenue, or the price goes up.”

  Brenda rummaged around in her pocket and turned up several singles and a five-dollar bill. She tossed the money into Aunt Peggy’s fat hands.

  “That’s 19 bucks.” Peggy counted through the bills. Her scowl then turned into a grin. “I’ll be nice and give you a discount. Another 30 seconds, with a few on the house.”

  Brenda gave a nervous quick smile, but focused more on the call. “I don’t understand? She was wearing a red wig and doing what with the blood vial?”

  “I knew it. Weave, my ass.” Aunt Peggy snapped her fingers.

  “Sorry, I can hardly hear you—you’re breaking up.” Brenda was frustrated. “She destroyed it? That was evidence.”

  “She destroys lives for a living,” Peggy roared. Her minions joined in and cackled along with her.

  “Say what?” Brenda sounded like she was being blindsided by a semi-truck. “You gotta get me outta here,” she pleaded. “I can help you get her in line, but I can’t do anything from jail.” Looking at the duration of the call—1 minute, 28 seconds—she abruptly tapped the red icon, ending the conversation, and tossed the phone back to Aunt Peggy.

  Befuddled, Brenda stood with her jaw clenched, and the normally congenial woman’s face began to morph like Bruce Banner into The Hulk. “That FUCKING bitch better ditch her wig, and learn how to basket weave in Tibet, because when I get outta here, she’s a fucking wrap.”

  “Ooooo, don’t fuck with your mama.” Aunt Peggy clapped her hands and screeched with delight.

  Pablo sat back with a certain satisfaction. Fight fire with fire.

  23

  LIVE TV’S THE BITCH

  2 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX

  CENTRAL PARK WAS partially in bloom. Pink blossoms carpeted the paths. Birds were singing. Spring in New York was when the city was most magical and added to the enchantment the models would experience. Today, they were on a Cinderella style carriage ride through the park. It was times like this, however short lived, that made the reality of their borrowed lives worthwhile, and was a relief from their grueling schedule. Wearing hoodies covering their faces, the three model finalists were slipped through the back entrance of Tavern On The Green, while a pre-announced press op and social media lovefest was in full hoopla out front, under the restaurant’s faded red awnings.

  Posing for journalists, Keisha and the judges smiled and took selfies with shrieking fans gathered ten deep for the rare public, group appearance. Ideally nestled amongst mature oaks and maples in a cul-de-sac at 67th Street and Central Park West, the world-famous restaurant was the perfect Manhattan location to film the new segment that Keisha had created for the finale episode. She planned to use it in future seasons, as well. It was important to have a recap of all lessons the contestants had experienced together and for the judges, especially Keisha, to share their wisdom and advice with their models—muse or not. It also would allow the Supermodel host to pontificate about everything she’d done for the final three. Keisha was all about product placement—she was the product; her show was the placement.

  The network had negotiated its deal with Tavern On The Green—free meals and shooting venue, in exchange for on air placement. And the on-camera talent were expected to do their due diligence and make an appearance to help promote the classic tourist attraction as a celebrity hot spot. In truth, no star (A-list or Z) would be caught dead eating at Tavern On The Green, unless it was written into their contract. The food was great but it wasn’t trendy anymore, and hadn’t been for thirty years. For one thing, they didn’t serve BBQ ribs and corn bread. It was too bad for Keisha that Virgil’s didn’t have the right aesthetic or enough space to shoot the sentimental scene.

  “I wonder how much the restaurant is paying for this airtime?” Miss Thing asked. “Keisha never does this shit.”

  “Oh, she’s getting her cut and a free meal.” Sasha waved to their adoring crowd. “She’s in heaven.” They clinked their heads together like champagne glasses and smiled for the fans.

  Pablo held back, smiling semi-demurely and checking his watch every two minutes. He felt nauseous standing with his arm around Keisha’s waist, but the network had requested the two of them stand as a pair, and slightly apart from the judges, so fans and paparazzi could snap double shots of them alone. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney of Fashion, the network’s new “dream team.”

  Keisha whispered to Pablo like a ventriloquist, holding the perfect Supermodel smile. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m just afraid I’m gonna be late, that’s all,” he said.

  “Late for what? First, you don’t return my calls and now you’re acting all strange?”

  I’m not acting strange you sad, lonely, idiosyncratic—you’ll have to look that one up—backstabber. “Doctor’s appointment. I don’t feel good. It might be flu.”

  “Ewww.” Keisha took a step away from him. “You can’t be sick. You have the final runway show to produce and host later tonight.”

  “I know.” He lied, “I was trying to head over to my doctor and—”

  “That’s it, everyone,” Keisha interrupted, barking at the crowd. “Harper.”

  “Sorry. Right here…Behind you.”

  “Get me some antibacterial wipes. Pablo’s sick.” The germophobic Supermodel strutted past the rest of the judges towards the double door entrance of the restaurant. “And seat Pablo as far away from me as possible,” she whispered to Rachel who was standing at the threshold. “I really can’t afford to get the flu right now.”

  Who can?

  Followed by two Steadicams, Keisha and the judges walked through the lush décor of the downstairs bar and into a glass walled room that looked out at the green splendor of Central Park. Wait staff dressed in their black and whites bustled in and out of speckled and then sun-drenched light, pouring champagne into glasses and carrying platters of hors d’oeuvres. Beth had already loaded her plate with grilled shrimp and petite pigs in a blanket. Elyssa and Nichole were grazing more demurely. Wide-eyed with the excitement of dreams about to come true, the girls gave the cameras all the material they needed for the show’s Cinderella storyline. After what they had been through, they needed some sweetness in their lives.

  A tower of fruits de mer, raw oysters, shrimps and clams formed a nest around an ice sculpture of Keisha as Venus Rising, a la Botticelli, from a scallop shell. The models stared at the ice Goddess, which Pablo had ordered for the event a while back. That was a mistake. The deific Supermodel had fallen from grace, as far as he was con
cerned. But then goddesses had a notoriously bad reputation when it came to their treatment of mere mortals. The sculpture worked on so many levels, from the first night he’d met the Supermodel hiding behind the catering racks in that cold, slush-filled alley to her present day coldness. Had she changed so much since that fated night, or had she always been a malignant narcissist?

  “Ugh.” Pablo gagged.

  “You look pale,” Mason said.

  “I don’t feel well.” At least, he was telling the truth. Thinking about what he’d put up with over the past few years was making him physically sick. “I just need to get outta here and over to my doctor’s office.”

  Across the room, standing in front of the glimmering ice Venus, Beth’s eyes almost bugged out of her head looking at all the seafood.

  “What are those?” she purred.

  “You’ve never had a raw oyster?” Elyssa seemed shocked.

  “I come from Wisconsin. We only have cream and cheese.”

  “OMG. They are amazing. Come to think of it,” Elyssa burst out laughing, “Kayla told me her boyfriend said they taste like sex.”

  “They’re so good.” Beth and Nichole slurped one up.

  “Or maybe she tasted like the oyster.”

  “Yuck.” Beth gagged, but kept eating anyway.

  “I’m still getting over the fact that she has a boyfriend,” Nichole said.

  Camera C pushed in for a close-up of the models chowing down at the raw bar, while Camera A captured reaction shots of Keisha and Camera B followed the judges.

  “If you guys can have a seat,” Rachel suggested. “We can start with Keisha’s greeting. We need to wrap out of this location, taillights, by 1 p.m. sharp.”

  “Settle.” Bill’s voice carried across the room.

  Keisha took her position at the head of the table, looking like a radiant and slightly disturbed schoolmarm. “I feel so fortunate to find myself here at the end of this season, looking at three beautiful faces, which I’ve made even more beautiful over the past weeks. I feel like a proud mama about to send her children out into the world. Even though only one of you will be a Model Muse.”

  Keisha droned on about her days as a model and preached about her endless contributions to society, as a leader of women’s empowerment. Pablo watched as heads began to nod. Rachel and De La Renta were practically leaning on each other taking a nap. At least the models looked rapt with attention. Innocent of the larger ruse, they played for the cameras looking truly inspired by their superstar role model.

  Sasha cleared her throat and stood up, cutting into Keisha’s moment. “Listen girls, as the world’s highest paid Supermodel, lemme break it down for you. Don’t fool yourselves. At the end of the day, you’re still selling your tits and ass—for a check!”

  “Amen chile’,” Miss Thing chimed in. “And remember to walk the walk, don’t talk the talk. No one cares what a model thinks.”

  Keisha glared at both of them.

  “Ladies.” Mason stood up and gave a little bow in their direction. “We just want to make sure that you are all prepared for the scrutiny you will face in this business.” He shifted the tone. “Having a strong mind and sense of self, will serve you in the long run.”

  Keisha smiled condescendingly at her faithful Brit. The three contestants kept their sweetest smiles pasted on their faces, hip to the fact that the scene being played out was not about them. For Elyssa, it was about having a little precious time with her mentors. For Nichole, it was about righteous retribution for, after fighting her way to the top, shaming Keisha on camera. For Beth, it was about having a decent meal.

  “Thank you, judges.” Keisha cut them all off. “It’s been a long road and my finalists are here: the daughter of a brave woman who lost her battle with breast cancer, our trendy tattooed work of art, and our first plus-sized model.” Beth’s face contorted as the cameras focused on her. The look on her face was not even slightly attractive. Her mouth twisted. Her eyes bulged and watered. Suddenly she lurched forward and projectile vomited all over Keisha.

  Beth fell to the floor, rolling around gasping for air and groaning.

  “Yuck!” Keisha screeched and spat at the model. “Yuck. Get it off me.”

  “Medic!” Rachel screamed. One of the wait staff ran over to perform a Heimlich maneuver.

  “Get me the Medi-Kit. She isn’t choking,” the waiter yelled at one of his coworkers. “She’s going into anaphylactic shock.”

  “How do you know?” Rachel yelled at him.

  “I’m pre-med,” he fired back.

  Beth’s lovely face was turning blue.

  “Is she allergic to oysters?” Nichole asked.

  Another waiter ran into the room pulling out an EpiPen from the emergency medical kit and raced to the thrashing model’s side.

  The waiter pulled Beth’s skirt up.

  “What are you doing to her?” Rachel was beside herself with panic.

  “Saving her life.” He stabbed her in the thigh, twisted the pin and held it against her leg. “One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.”

  Silence engulfed the cast and crew as they watched poor Beth’s distorted face and ballooning neck. Nichole had tears streaming down her face. Elyssa hugged her.

  Beth gasped for air.

  A collective sigh of relief cascaded around the room.

  “Everyone, give her some room.” The waiter pressed her eyelids open and shone a flashlight into her pupils. Took her pulse.

  Rachel was shaking. “Ohmigod, you saved her life.”

  From the top of the stairs, emergency medics came racing in with a stretcher.

  “I expect a good tip,” the waiter chuckled.

  “You know? A good model who can hold down her oysters and her Flaming Hot Cheetos is hard to find,” De La Renta quipped.

  Rachel cornered him with her eyes. “Not funny, Switzerland.”

  An hour later, the producers were still trying to decide whether to finish the shoot in the restaurant or just skip the whole set up. Sitting in a private office downstairs in the restaurant, Joe paced and fumed. Keisha was sitting in a white chef’s uniform and kitchen clogs. “I’ll need new wardrobe if we do a reshoot,” she told Joe.

  Rachel was talking to a physician on the phone and shaking her head. She put the doctor on hold and turned to the team. “This is Dr. Bernstein. He can speak to us now that I’ve gotten her HIPAA statement, but the prognosis isn’t good.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Joe cussed.

  “They’ve got her on IV fluids now.”

  “Fuck fluids. We need to know if we can at least get her back for final judging tomorrow.” Joe snatched the phone out of her hand and pressed speakerphone. “Dr. Bernstein? This is Joe Vong, executive producer of Model Muse.” He sounded unnervingly polite.

  “What’s that?” the voice echoed from the phone.

  “It’s one of the top reality shows on television.”

  “Was this some kind of TV stunt?” He was not impressed.

  “Not at all,” Joe assured him. “Can you catch us up with the latest on Beth?”

  “She had an allergic reaction to shellfish, but she has also developed Vibrio Vulnificus.”

  “Got it. But can we get her back by tomorrow morning to resume shooting? I can push it to afternoon, if that’s better.”

  “Vibrio Vulnificus is an infection that can cause severe blistering, skin lesions.”

  Dr. Bernstein continued. “Many people with this virulent infection require intensive care or limb amputations. Fifteen to thirty percent of infections are fatal.”

  “What exactly does that mean for us then?” Joe sounded panicked now.

  “It means she’s covered with derma layer vesicles and we’re evaluating whether we need to amputate her left leg or not.” Dr. Bernstein sounded resolute.

  Joe went ballistic. “Fuuuuuuu
ck.” Rachel grabbed her phone quickly and put it on mute. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This season is cursed.”

  “You know,” Keisha said, excitedly, “if we keep her as the winner, this could work for us. We’ve never had a plus-sized model win…but imagine the headlines for a plus-sized amputee.”

  “She has blisters all over her fucking face and body,” Joe reminded her.

  Pablo was horrified that he’d once believed Keisha was sane. She was unhinged and deranged. What could possibly be swirling around in that pretty head of hers?

  “I think we need to use this situation to our advantage and swap out Beth for Kayla,” Rachel suggested as she got off the phone with the doctor.

  “Right.” Joe snapped his fingers. “We can play out the scene tonight at the girl’s apartment before the final runway. Keisha, you’ll deliver the news that Beth isn’t coming back. And surprise, Kayla’s back in the competition.” Joe sounded relieved now.

  “The underdog fights her way back and wins the competition.” Keisha pondered the narrative. “I like it. We’ll just do a plus-sized winner next season.”

  “Hello? What about Nichole?” Pablo asked. “Social media is gonna hate her losing. Do you know how many girls have lost mothers to breast cancer around the world?”

  Joe sighed. Keisha glared at him.

  Pablo took a long hard look at everyone in the room playing each other like puppets. They were all fully aware of what was at stake, but no one had the balls to say it out loud. Kayla had them all by the short and curlies.

  “If Kayla doesn’t win, she’ll definitely go public with a sex scandal,” Pablo laid it all out for the bunch of spineless pussies. “If she does win, she may go public at some later date. Model Muse is fucked either way and is gonna take a hit. So, let’s just do the right thing, for once.”

  “I thought you had the flu,” Keisha sneered.

  “Well, I have something.” Pablo stood up and left the team alone in the restaurant office. They could decide their own fate. Nothing else was going to ruin his day. He had an appointment with destiny on the red carpet of the Primetime Emmy Awards.