The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  Pablo had her attention now. She had stopped typing and was glaring at his reflection.

  “Lemme break it down for you. Translation? You should really be more diligent about turning off your mic after you leave set.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Pablo?” She swiveled around in her makeup chair, facing him head on.

  “Ohmigod, enough,” he barked. Pablo found his confidence. “You sound insane playing these childish games. It’s exhausting. I thought I knew—”

  “Knew what?” she said. An insidious smile grew on her lips.

  “Really? Really? Fine. I heard Andy telling you that Netflix greenlit our talk show together. And you pulling me off the project. Did you really think you’d get away with betraying me like this?”

  Almost tripping over his hair kit laying by his feet, De La Renta slipped out the dressing suite door in a mad dash.

  Calmly, Keisha closed her left eye slightly and fiddled with her fake eyelash. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Netflix was only interested in this experimental talk show because my name was attached.” She fluttered her lashes and fixed her gaze on Pablo’s face. “Don’t you think it’s time you start building your own empire, without me spoon feeding you?”

  How dare she. After all he’d done. Pablo wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing the ire she’d provoked in him. “You’re right,” he said, matching her indifferent tone.

  * * *

  Sitting next to Mason behind the judging table was a welcome relief for Pablo, because it meant that he was one seat further away from Keisha, and the rod that was stuck up the uptight Brit’s butt would attract any lightning bolts sent his way from the angry Supermodel. Hell had no fury like a woman scorned, but Hell had never seen Keisha Kash. Pablo’s watch read 5:23 p.m.—not bad for a final judging. Maybe they would wrap on time for once and he could duck out to the safe haven of his own apartment. No wrap party. No dinner with Keisha at Virgil’s. Pablo’s celebration was going to be on his couch with a glass of white wine, bowl of popcorn and his favorite movie—The Matrix (part one, of course). Sometimes he felt like working for Keisha was the equivalent of taking the red pill that Morpheus offered Neo. One big, awakening, red pill that forced him to stay in Wonderland, with Keisha showing him how deep the rabbit hole goes.

  Pablo should’ve taken the blue pill.

  “Elyssa.” Keisha looked like a beautiful grim reaper as she began the winnowing of hope among her hopefuls. “You have done what no other model has done before. You have used your body as your pallet. You are the art and the canvas. I think you will go far in our industry, but you still have some weaknesses that need to be worked on.” The other judges chimed in on her weaknesses. Elyssa didn’t care. She walked up and hugged a cold and withdrawn Keisha, who barely knew how to receive such effusive emotion, and then without warning, the illustrated girl stepped around the judging table and hugged each judge individually. Pablo had to admit he adored her. Before leaving the set, Elyssa waved happily good-bye to the cameras.

  It was between Kayla and Nichole now. Keisha’s eyes darted back and forth between the two adversaries, now holding hands and standing on the runway in front of her. “Two of you stand before me, but only one of you is a Model Muse,” Keisha said.

  The jib camera swept up high in the air, capturing a dramatic wide shot of the judging set.

  “I look at you, Nichole,” Keisha continued, “and all I see is that beautiful face that the camera loves. But the judges wonder if you’ll be able to take the harsh criticism the fashion industry dishes out, almost every, single, day.”

  Pablo was half listening. He’d heard Rachel and Joe run these lines with Keisha—ten times already during the camera reset.

  “And Kayla, you consistently became the frontrunner model to beat, week after week, in Pablo’s amazing photoshoots.”

  Pablo held his breath. Was their super slick Supermodel going to go rogue on him?

  “But pulling off fierce poses and looking beautiful is not what being a Model Muse is all about; integrity is a model’s best feature.”

  Rogue? Pablo snapped his head left. He looked over at Joe Vong, angrily whispering into his IFB. Keisha had gone off script. Kayla was slated to win because Joe had convinced everyone that she would destroy Model Muse and Keisha’s reputation by blabbing to the media, no matter what her contract said. Yes, the network could sue Kayla, but what would they get? Nothing but a smear campaign. Nichole was to be the sacrificial lamb.

  “The next Model Muse is…” Keisha dragged this moment out, like she always did, to make Nichole and Kayla suffer, for almost a full minute, in staged silence. Nichole had tears in her eyes. Her chin quivered. Kayla looked almost as upset—minus the tears and sorrow.

  Keisha bowed her head, the cue to the visual department that she was ready for them to display the winner’s photo on the giant LED wall.

  “Nichole,” Keisha screamed.

  Nichole immediately let go of Kayla’s hand and fell into Keisha’s arms. “Oh my God,” she sobbed, “I wish my mother could’ve seen this moment.”

  Keisha rubbed the bald model’s back, trying to console her. Having Nichole as the winner made the Supermodel look good, just like Pablo had said. And clearly Keisha wasn’t going to be blackmailed. She must’ve had a plan B, or played a good game of chicken.

  “What bullshit,” Kayla screamed. “You’re an idiot, Nichole.” She moved toward Keisha. The camera operators frantically shifted their angles. Harper jumped out of her seat, covering her mouth with her hand, and Joe dropped the pen he had clenched between his teeth.

  “She almost kicked you off the show a week ago for cursing her out and she stole your fucking hair. Did you look at her wig? That’s your hair, dumbass.” Kayla lunged towards the host and grabbed the ends of her long red tresses. Keisha contorted and dipped her body, back and forth, looking like a Jiujitsu master, but Kayla had hold of it and the wig flew off. Leaving Keisha with her bare cornrows and skinny head shining under the LED lights.

  Keisha flung herself at Kayla. The wig flew through the air and landed at Nichole’s feet. As Keisha and Kayla tore at each other’s clothes and faces, Nichole took her hair and placed it back on her head and smiled for the cameras.

  “That’s a cut.”

  Kayla had face planted into the platform. Keisha was straightening her outfit. “Are we clear?” she yelled over at video village.

  “We’ll need to do some pick-ups.”

  Keisha walked over to Nichole and ripped the wig off the Model Muse’s head. “I’ll be in my dressing room.” She strutted down the runway, leapt off the platform to the fire doors and the hallway leading to her dressing suite. Like a pro, she plopped the wig on and slid the lace-front into position. “De La Renta, I need you.”

  “Wait,” Pablo yelled. He jumped out of his seat and ran after her.

  “Oooooo, this is gonna be a good one.” Miss Thing grabbed his makeup purse. “Come on.”

  Sasha and Mason leapt up to join him. Keisha looked like the Pied Piper, leading Pablo, the judges, producers and several of the crew down the empty hallways of Silvercup Studios.

  “You can’t leave things like this,” Pablo pleaded. “We’re gonna have to speak at some point.”

  Abruptly, Keisha did an about face and took a couple intimidating steps towards Pablo. He froze on the spot. Like an old western standoff, they stood face to face about fifteen feet apart. Everyone else gathered around, not saying a word.

  “So? Speak,” she provoked.

  “Well…I…” Pablo felt uncertain.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted? My attention?” Keisha was relentlessly firing questions. “You’ve got it. Thirty seconds. Say your piece.”

  “Maybe we should find a private place to talk.”

  “I’m DONE spending any time with you outside these walls. This is your last chance to speak with me when the
cameras aren’t rolling, so speak.”

  Pablo hesitated. The words were jammed up in the back of his throat and wouldn’t come out. Frustrated now, she stood with her hand on her hip, pose number 32, like she usually did when shooting the Veronika’s Privates catalogue.

  “How do you expect us to work without speaking and shoot a show together?”

  “I’ll be just fine and we’ll play, on camera, the way the audience expects us to play.” She spoke slowly, sounding cool and collected. “But when the cameras are down, I really don’t feel the need to nurse your insecurities anymore.”

  “My insecurities?”

  “Oh come on, your sad little poor adopted boy story, it’s tiring and manipulative.”

  “You’re adopted?” Miss Thing blurted.

  Pablo only had eyes for Keisha now. He’d been preparing for this blowout all day knowing that after final judging, he was going to tell her he was leaving Model Muse. He didn’t think she would stoop so low, but it didn’t matter anymore. So, what, he was adopted. Loads of kids were adopted. At least he had caring parents who had raised him and loved him.

  “We all have pain. But I certainly don’t use mine to manipulate everyone. People barely know I’m adopted.” Pablo surveyed the crowd, standing around them, to elicit support. “You, on the other hand, play out your abandonment issues by living in Keishavision land where you’re blinded by your own anointed celebrity. You completely betrayed me, which shouldn’t be a surprise, since your own mother is a convicted felon.”

  “Excuuuuuse me?” Keisha railed at him. “Get outta here, you bunch of rubber neckers, and leave us alone.” The judges, producers and crew all scattered, disappearing, like ants into the woodwork. She snatched De La Renta by his hoodie as he tried to leave. “You stay.”

  “I gotta get…” he squawked.

  “I need a witness.”

  The glam guru exhaled heavily and propped himself up on a nearby equipment crate.

  “So, tell me, oh wise and intelligent one, where does my pain come from?” She stared down at him with a look of disgust.

  Pablo rose to his full height and faced Keisha head on, eye to eye unafraid of the ramifications of what he was about to say. “This entire television and fashion world, that’s mostly run by men, has hardened you, and I totally get that. I see you. I always have. That’s why I’ve been here all this time, by your side.” He took a big breath. “I cared, and wanted you to have someone who loved you for YOU!”

  “How sentimental,” she condescended.

  “And being a black model? It must’ve been maddening for you to work in a business obsessed with women staying young—that mostly celebrates the white aesthetic.”

  Keisha laughed, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m sure the industry made you feel subpar because you’re black—then, you were chucked aside when you matured and became a woman.”

  “Oh, and now you’re an expert on racism, sexism and ageism in this country?” Keisha stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands twitching as if she were about to draw a gun at any moment.

  “Pablo…” De La Renta muttered, warning his friend.

  “No. I just understand self-induced pain caused by rejection. It had to have been hard on you and your brother—it’s perfectly clear all your actions are motivated by pain, not by helping people.”

  “Don’t go there, Pablo,” De La Renta urged, speaking louder.

  “Trust me when I say this.” Pablo continued without listening. “People are soooo tired of seeing you play the martyr. You have millions in the bank. You’re obviously self-obsessed. But transparent as a piece of Cling Wrap. And I hate to break it to you, but you’re no one’s Model Muse—or any muse for that matter.”

  “Annnnnd, he went there,” De La Renta yelled, throwing his hands in the air. Hopping off his crate, he bolted for the fire door to his right, leaving Keisha and Pablo alone in the hall.

  Pablo was on a roll and continued. “Your shitty life is no excuse for treating others like shit!”

  A sinister smile spread across her face. “And your shitty life is? You used me to get what you wanted. You manipulated me to give you a part on my show and then tried to upstage me?”

  Pablo squinted at her. “Huh?”

  “You coerced me. Fawned all over me. Took advantage of my good nature. Got me to trust you and then betrayed me, Mr. Pablo. You betrayed me. I can never forgive you for everything you’ve done to me, and after everything I did for you.” Her amber eyes were simultaneously teary and flint hard. “I thought we were real friends, but all you’ve done is slap me in my face.”

  What planet was she on? He couldn’t believe her version of events. Let alone her version of reality.

  Facing each other, eyes locked, Pablo made his last move. “I’m leaving the show. I’ve already fulfilled my contract. So legally, I can walk.”

  Keisha dangled the potential horn of plenty before his eyes. “The network plans on picking us up for six more seasons. Do you know how much money you’ll be throwing away by not renegotiating? And keep in mind, Celebrity Buzz TV will drop you as soon as you leave too.”

  “Everything isn’t always about money, Keisha,” he said. “Integrity means so much more. But clearly, it’s not your best feature.” Pablo threw the words she had just used on Kayla back in her face.

  Keisha’s jawline tightened.

  “As I see it,” Pablo began to feel more confident about his decision, “there are no incentives here, just more games. And I was just one of your pawns.”

  “Who’s playing games now?” she asked. “Your ego just got bruised because you weren’t good enough to host a talk show with me, and now you repay my charity by abandoning us.”

  “Us?” he scoffed.

  “I made you, Mr. Pablo Michaels.”

  “Pablo made Pablo Michaels. You just put him on TV.”

  “I did a lot more things than that.”

  “A lot of appalling things.” His voice cracked.

  Her face rearranged expressions. Innocent face number 17—cover of Harper’s Bazaar, 2016. Keisha had spent her life baking in pain, raised herself since childhood and learned how to compete in a man’s world by creating a false superhero persona to survive. Pablo, loved and cared for, took years to realize his adoption had given him an advantage. A heart. They were two flawed people sucked into the fake business of entertainment. However, he could see his way out and she clearly couldn’t. Without her fame, her world would come crashing down and she’d end up where her brother is—broken and in isolation.

  “Isn’t there anything I can do?” She raised her hand as if she was extending an olive branch. “Let’s take a little walk. Come on.” Keisha floated past him and grabbed his hand. “Give me one last chance. I can change.”

  Walking in silence, hand in hand, down the hall, Pablo followed her with a sense of dread, like he was heading for the guillotine. At the loading dock doors, she pushed on the gate trimmed with rubber flaps and stood back.

  The path was clear in front of him.

  Maureen Dowd once eloquently wrote in the New York Times that, “Celebrity supersedes criminality. How can you see clearly when you’re looking into the sun?” The veracity of that statement couldn’t hold any more truth in that moment.

  “I wish you the best of luck with all your future endeavors.” Her voice began to sink in register and the demon returned. “Now you can go and do whatever the HELL YOU WANNA DO.”

  25

  A NEW DAY

  SEARCHING FOR SAGE advice that would make sense of his last four years walking on eggshells, while Keisha the tyrant had controlled him, the unemployed Pablo pounded motivational books. He was trying to take back his life and it was time to try a different approach. Give her problem with being a bully back to her. However, he’d made a few mistakes in walking from the show. One, he couldn’t file for unemployment because he hadn’t
been fired. Two, no one was banging down his door asking the reality star to produce runway shows anymore—not that he wanted to do that anyway. Three, because he’d walked from a well-established franchise, there was a question around his loyalty. Doing general meetings with other networks was going to prove difficult. He desperately sought a way to find solace in himself, but he was plagued with doubt.

  Leaving Model Muse had seemed like the only power move Pablo could make. Now it seemed foolhardy. How would he ever get a talk show without his celebrity in place already on television? It’s easier to get a job when you have one, than get one when you don’t. Nothing was permanent. Even huge success wasn’t yours to keep. Celebrity was NOT owned—it was rented! And the rent was due every day. Keisha had been right and he hated it. He’d passed on renewing a lush contract for six more seasons of the hit show, lost his platform on TV and given up a ton of money—before securing a new job. Was integrity worth the tough pill he’d had to swallow? He loved working with De La Renta and the models. He’d loved the creativity that he was able to bring to the set and the show; he even loved the long hours. There were a few red carpet events to co-host on Celebrity-Buzz TV, but not enough to fill his enormous energetic drive or enough money to pay his mortgage. He needed something else, a new project. Some way to fulfill his desires and fill his pockets. Through it all, he was finding the holes in himself and he needed to plug them up on his terms.

  De La Renta had suggested Pablo write a style book. “Your fan base will eat it up.” That was the last thing Pablo wanted to write. He’d witnessed the demise of too many colleagues who, after a brief launch and a lot of hoopla, were relegated to the dusty old section of the bookstore—or worse, Costco—plastered with 70% off permanently affixed to their glossy covers. Pablo looked out on the abyss of Manhattan from his fifteenth-floor apartment and waited for inspiration. He’d saved his soul by leaving the show. But what the hell would he do without it? Oscillating between pity party and proactivity, Pablo welcomed the interruption of his phone ringing on the living room coffee table.