The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  * * *

  Season seven didn’t have an international or even a national open cattle call. Not one judge, producer or peon wanted to pick through tens of thousands of desperate girls again. The show was a bonified success and selecting models was the last thing anyone had time for anymore. Instead, Luciana was back to single-handedly finding diamonds in the rough—much to Keisha’s fury. And that was why the casting team was in the 23rd floor conference room at the network ready to present the new cast of hopefuls.

  Keisha chucked her iPhone on the conference room table, impatiently. “I’m done waiting on Broyce. Just show me my cast.”

  Luciana obediently clicked a remote to activate the presentation screen.

  “Okay. So here are your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” Luciana started. A pale redheaded girl in a skimpy bathing suit filled the screen. “First, we have Prenilla. She’s our super fair redhead. She barely passed psych eval, but I think there’s gonna be good story here.”

  “I asked for an albino this season. Is this the best you can do?”

  “Oh come on, she’s a click away! You can give her pink contacts during makeovers,” Luciana snapped.

  “And shave her head,” Joe Vong mumbled to Rachel, “to get a new wig.”

  Luciana took a deep breath. “Can I continue?”

  “Fine. Next,” Keisha sighed.

  “So, for our Keisha wannabe, we have Tyranne.”

  “Sorry for being late everyone.” Broyce walked swiftly into the conference room and smiled at everyone. “Oh, she’s stunning!” he said of the model whose photo was on screen. Her wheat colored hair and hazel/green eyes made her a true knock out. “She kinda looks like you, Keisha.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Luciana’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Both Joe and Rachel sank into their seats. Harper was completely transfixed by the doppelganger image.

  Like a diplomatic emissary, Broyce stayed standing. “I just need to have a word with everyone before we continue.” His presence was magnetic and authoritative. His voice a baritone that could’ve made him a great hypnotist. “We have some statistical information from research that has had us making some changes upstairs, and I want to share with everyone before we finish seeing the cast. Model Muse has extensive growth with young women between eighteen to twenty-four. That age group also has a racially mixed balance; white females watch just as much as Black, Asian and Latina women. But what I really want to share is the new focus group data.”

  Keisha carefully placed both her hands on the conference room table.

  “Sixty-eight percent of viewers love Pablo as Creative Director, and 52% answered ‘no’ to the question, would you watch if Pablo Michaels was no longer on the show; 43% weren’t sure and 5% didn’t care. Reasons included: they liked his male energy, his stability, his kindness, his ass, and they especially like the on-air chemistry between Keisha and Pablo.”

  “Too bad for them then, since you’re about to show us our new creative director in that file folder of yours, right Lucy?” Keisha’s eyes blazed. “Really, Broyce, what’s the point of this and why wasn’t I made aware of new focus group testing?”

  “Well, we did our due diligence and put everyone on tape that you sent over, and,” Broyce looked over at Luciana, who looked down at her computer, “the creative director we found that best fits with the formula of the show is—” Luciana pressed the remote. “Pablo Michaels.”

  Pablo came through the doorway. He’d been watching and listening from the adjacent room, behind the one-way glass wall where executives stood during focus groups.

  “What?” Keisha stood up, angrily.

  “We’ve been talking internally and the fact is when something works, you don’t change the ingredients. So, we sweetened the deal, coaxed Pablo back to the creative director position and offered him an Executive Producer credit.” The strapping executive placed his broad masculine hand on Pablo’s shoulder. “Not only has he signed on for six more seasons, but we’re working with Dawn Gately, over in development, on a new one-hour talk show for our “dream team” that covers fashion, pop culture, teen anxiety, FOMO, and it will serve as a platform to bring back past Model Muse contestants—like a Housewives Reunion show.”

  Keisha looked like she’d swallowed a firecracker and was about to blow up.

  “What the fuck, Broyce?” Joe Vong’s voice screeched higher than normal. “You made me the EP of Model Muse. How’s that all gonna work?”

  “You’re not the only EP on this show,” Broyce chuckled. “There are five or six of us. And now we have one more.” He then turned to Keisha. “The execs upstairs love everything you and Pablo do for our ratings. A talk show is how we capitalize on you and Pablo, and all the two of you bring to the table. It was the only way to get Pablo to come back.”

  “I thought we had an understanding, Mr. Pablo?” Keisha’s creepy girl’s voice uttered, cutting off her superior.

  Pablo beamed. He felt in control of her—for once.

  She stared into his eyes, innocently, and said, “We weren’t gonna talk through other people, and now you go behind my back?”

  “We went to Pablo,” Broyce said. “This is a network decision.”

  Keisha looked unconvinced and slowly reached for her iPhone, never breaking her eye contact with Pablo. Her words were slow and deliberate. “Game on.”

  Pablo didn’t flinch. He wore his newfound confidence well. And despite all the advice that he’d been given, Pablo couldn’t resist flaunting his newfound power over her. “Certain people in the room should remember I never signed a personal NDA.” He let his gaze drift around the table. “And now that I’m an EP, certain people should tread very, very carefully. You never know what kind of salacious gossip could leak out.”

  “Can we have the room? I need to speak with Pablo, alone,” Keisha ordered. Her eyes began to narrow and Pablo knew what that meant. She was furious.

  Everyone, including Broyce, hastily exited, capitulating to Keisha’s rhetorical request. As the last to leave the room, Harper, being sweetly discreet as possible, carefully closed the conference room. Good luck, she’d mouthed.

  Keisha nonchalantly sauntered around the room, closing all the privacy blinds along the glass walls. Her actions were slow and menacing. Clearly an attempt to intimidate the new executive producer. Pablo played it cool.

  “You’re not scaring me with this routine.” Pablo gazed out the conference room’s window. “I’m not Joe Vong. You’ve got nothing on me.”

  “Oh really? You think you’re sooooo bulletproof?” She plunked herself down at the head of the table. “Whose voice will the press listen to if I happen to make a statement about your unethical practices around here?”

  “Hashtag news flash! Cancel culture is sooooo 2019. I tend to believe people will see right through your lies. Not everyone’s a fan of yours, you know. Hashtag keeping it real.”

  “You’re fooling yourself because those naysayers that you think I have would give up everything for a selfie with me, if they had a chance. Real power is forcing those who hate you to love you.”

  Pablo broke his gaze from the window and stared directly at Keisha. “Will they love you when they find out how much you manipulate the show to your benefit?”

  “That’s reality television. Who’d care?”

  “They’ll care when they find out what you did to Mandy when you yourself were petrified of being pregnant, after having unprotected, indiscriminate sex. The hypocrisy alone will chip away at your social justice warrior facade.”

  “Puh-lease…”

  “Oh really?” Pablo chuckled. “I was foolish to stand by and watch you play Mandy like a puppet. But better yet, it worked in my favor. Bye-bye Miss Keisha good girl.” He felt righteous in admonishing her. “And to think I felt sorry for you, and tolerated you handing me ten urine-soaked pregnancy tests all because you couldn’t bear to look at the results
.”

  The sun now bounced off the conference room presentation screen, illuminating a physical divide between the standoffish duo.

  “You’re showing your ignorance now. If you tried to peddle that story, you’d simply look like a media thirsty employee looking to cash-in on my fame. Mandy made her own choices and I was never pregnant.” Keisha rose out of her chair staring eye to eye with Pablo. “Don’t underestimate the power of celebrity. My fans are tired of gossip, and they’ll fight alongside me as I publicly shame you. You don’t belong to this club, so good luck with summoning any foot soldiers to attack me.”

  In an attempt to leave Pablo alone to consider his fate, the gutsy Supermodel picked up her bag and sauntered past her silent adversary.

  “Bravo, Mommy Dearest,” he spoke up as she was almost out the door. “You’re finally worthy of the golden statue for playing the part of the wicked adoptive mother. Thank God my real mom isn’t like you”

  Keisha turned around without missing a beat and said, “No, your real mother left you the day you were born.”

  Bitch. It was clear they were both ready for a fight. Now, Pablo feared that waging war on a formidable force like Keisha Kash might leave him reeling from the poison of her vindictive venom. “At least my real mother isn’t a jailbird,” he barked.

  “How do you know, David?”

  26

  EVENING THE SCORE

  THE FIRST DAY of filming, on yet another new season, brought the crew in early on a steamy July morning. Catering was pumping out a special hot breakfast, including brioche bread French toast and homemade stuffed sausage links. Not the kind of food you’d expect on a modeling competition show, but many of the crew’s waistlines made up for the lack thereof on the model contestants. Pablo loved the smell of breakfast wafting from the catering truck. He loved the smell of his brand new full-sized trailer even more. Parked right alongside the dining tables in the catering section, the light grey leather interior reminded him of the Learjet he’d flown in with Keisha to Florida, memories he’d soon rather forget. He watched as various producers and grips walked in and out of catering catching up after hiatus. His new home away from home, equipped with one-way privacy glass, allowed him to see everything that was going on, but no one could see him. He’d arrived early at Silvercup, before any of the crew were at the studio, and needed to prepare for the biggest “welcome” they had ever attempted to shoot.

  Season seven needed to be bigger and better, mostly because his name was now attached as one of the EPs, and he needed to show Keisha he could be America’s next top producer. He’d shifted the tone with their team’s first pre-production meeting by saying, “I encourage all of you to come to me with any creative ideas. We’re in this together. Let’s make a show we’re proud of.”

  Keisha had skipped all Pablo’s meetings and Joe sat in silence, looking evil. It was like they both wanted him to fail, but that wasn’t Pablo’s style.

  Harper, now officially working on her second season of the long running mannequin maker, suggested they open the first episode with a “mega model march” on New York’s legendary Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, one of the city’s biggest and most iconic harbor attractions. “It’ll be in support of our veterans and a dignified way to promote the new season during sweeps at the network,” she’d said. Pablo loved the idea and presented the creative to Broyce, who had called it a “slam dunk” with advertisers.

  Model Muse was now a pop culture phenomenon, and other countries around the world were filming international franchise editions—Model Muse Canada, Model Muse Germany, and Model Muse China were the first to launch. Model Muse Britain, which Mason had hoped he could host, tapped Kate Moss and the UK edition blew up. Rumors surfaced that Keisha and Calvin Klein’s muse had a falling out. Pablo knew the time would come when the show’s format would stand on its own, without its indigenous Supermodel host. Model Muse would also continue on with or without the original judging panel, and they all knew it. Looking like a Brown Paper Wasp sucking nectar out of a flower, Sasha Berenson, seated directly below Pablo’s lounge area window, slurped through an impossibly tiny straw from her thirty-two-ounce plastic sippy cup. Holed up at the corner table wearing big dark sunglasses and a black zip-up sweatshirt, Sasha used Miss Thing, who was seated next to her, as a shield trying to remain below the radar.

  Mason walked in looking rock bottom, unshaven and plunked himself next to his fellow judges exhaling for attention. Pablo opened his window a bit, to clearly hear their conversation.

  “That looks like the same damn pinstripe suit you wore to the final judging last season,” Miss Thing said, waving his hand in front of his nose. “And smells like it too.”

  Sasha released her straw coughing and spitting. “Ooooo, my favorite scent. Chardonnay.”

  “I have been living over at The Carlyle on the Eastside for the last several weeks. Sukhdeep and I had a huge fight. She kicked me out and will not take any of my calls. I have not even seen her, or rather, she will not see me.”

  “Ewwww, The Carlyle? You’re kinda slumming it, aren’t you King Arthur?” Sasha hiccupped on the word Arthur and took another sip from her vat.

  “Just because my family is wealthy, does not mean I squander my funds.”

  “Sooooo, is that why you wouldn’t pay for Sukhdeep’s snip-snip?” Miss Thing was quick to jump in. “I can see why she’s pissed.”

  “Stop being so presumptuous about my wife. And shut your traps, both of you. My life is absolutely horrible right now and you two delight in taking a piss out of me!”

  Miss Thing pulled a small travel bottle of Le Labo fragrance out of his makeup purse and sprayed the entire area around Mason. “It certainly does smell like piss around here.”

  Pablo quietly chuckled to himself. Miss Thing had a great sense of timing. The public needed to see that side of the model coach. Pablo made a mental note.

  “Shit, it’s hot as fuck out here,” Sasha said, grabbing the empty paper plate laying on the table. She began fanning herself.

  “Well girl, take the hoodie off already.” Looking like he was smelling shit, Miss Thing’s expression overexaggerated his large features.

  Sasha took off her sunglasses, slowly unzipped her sweatshirt and carefully peeled off her hoodie. With all her hair matted down and her forehead full of sweat, the entire crew stopped talking. Plates of food hit the asphalt.

  “Really?” Miss Thing shrieked, only moving his lips. “What the fuck have you done to your face?” He clutched his pearls in horror.

  “It’s just a little swollen. It’ll go down in a few days. You’re such a drama queen, God.”

  “At least I’m not a fucking Siamese Cat.” The model coach was horrified.

  “Yes, for the clapback,” Pablo muttered, to himself.

  After a brief awkward moment, the crew continued eating and chatting, leaving the talent to discuss amongst themselves. Mason was now staring off at the NYC skyline.

  “Anyway, did you hear?” Miss Thing paused for dramatic effect. “We gotta new boss, well, he’s not that new.”

  “Come on, before I pop a stitch.”

  “It’s Pablo.”

  “Keisha’s golden boy?”

  “Former.” Miss Thing leaned in. “From what I hear, they haven’t spoken since we wrapped last season and they had that blowout.”

  Mason snapped to. “What happened to Pablo?”

  “Your fantasy man is now your boss. So, you really need to check your package around him.” Abruptly, Miss Thing grabbed Mason’s crotch and swooned, “Oooooo, Mason.”

  Sasha reached in her purse. “If you queens are gonna go at it, I’ll need more Percocet.” She pulled out a large bottle of pills. “Fuck. This opioid crisis is killing me.”

  “No, what’s killing us is the fact that Keisha’s been dulling our shine so the bitch shines brighter than all of us put together. And word on the street is, t
he network’s planning on refreshing the judging panel next season.”

  “I just got my face done.”

  “Well, Gigi Hadid has more followers on social, so bye, bitch.”

  “Who told you they’re looking for new judges?”

  “I have my sources.” Miss Thing paused. “Keisha’s got nobody’s back, and if I get fired, that twat—”

  “Language, Miss Thing.” Mason took command. “Small mice have big ears, and you do not need anything getting back to her.”

  “Da fuck I care. Do you know how many photos I got on her?” Miss Thing pulled out his iPhone and started scrolling through his camera roll.

  “Hold up there, buddy. I am not falling for that trick.” Mason covered his eyes.

  “What trick?”

  “Puh-lease,” Sasha jumped in. “Everyone with an ounce of testosterone on this set is hip to your ways.”

  “Girl, what are you talking about?”

  “If I gotta dollar for every time you accidentally showed Mike, the sound guy, one of your dick pics, I’d have this face paid for already.”

  “I’d just focus on that pussy-cat face problem.”

  “Shut up, you fashion don’t! I said I was just swollen.”

  Mason stood up and forcibly wedged himself between his fellow judges. “Now, now, let us all play nice.”

  “Catwoman over there started it.”

  Sasha made a feline clawing gesture mimicking a cat. “Meeeeoooooow.”

  “I have a ton of these babies.” Miss Thing continued flipping through his camera roll and unearthed a snapshot of Keisha from behind. Pablo squinted to bring the tiny photo into focus. Keisha’s outfit was wide open in the back. The zipper to her dress had barely been pulled up a third of the way. Tape, pins and shoelaces had created an intricate latticework that seemingly held the frock to her body.

  “Good Lord. That is not appropriate for a Lady,” Mason said, now looking at the iPhone through his fingers.