The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown Page 3

Silence.

  “Hello?” She sounded annoyed. “You awake?”

  “Uh huh.” He did have eyes open, at least.

  “I got the idea last night when I was making Vinny watch that movie we watched.”

  “Babes in Arms?”

  “That’s the one. You and I are gonna pitch a show that allows real girls–like the ones on Instagram–to have someone like me support their dreams. Do you know how much I wish someone had helped me? Now I can be the guru of Supermodels in the making.”

  It didn’t sound at all like the movie they watched, but Pablo didn’t say anything.

  “Of course, we’ll push their viral antics all over social. It’ll give us a huge platform.”

  “How exactly is that any different from America’s Next Top Model or The Face?”

  She chortled so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Hellooo? Keisha Kash!” She reiterated her name, in case he’d forgotten who she was. “I’m the one who’s relevant with the kids today. And I repost potential models on my social accounts all the time. That’s like an endorsement. Plus, I’m constantly being begged for advice and mentoring. I should be paid to do that, and on camera.”

  He’d stopped nodding in the dark and was sitting upright. “Well, you’re gonna need some kinda hook.” Pablo was definitely listening now. “Especially if you’re gonna sell this to a network in today’s crowded streaming landscape.” He jumped out of bed and pulled up the blackout blinds covering his window. This idea needed light, and he was getting more and more excited as the conversation continued.

  “I knew you were the person to call. What are you doin’ later today?”

  Sleeping, he thought. “Meeting you?” he said. He looked out at the grey light of a winter, New York morning. A rat, the size of a small Rottweiler, scurried down an alleyway across the street. The muffled beep of the garbage truck had moved down the block, beckoning like his destiny.

  Their first unofficial production meeting was held in Pablo’s second-floor walkup. Keisha arrived with more Chinese takeout. This time, she paid for it, though. Pablo had taken a cocktail of Aspirin, Tylenol and protein to counteract his hangover from the night before. The last thing he needed was more MSG, but Keisha was so excited to work on her new TV idea that he couldn’t tell her he needed another night to recover. When Pablo’s roommate came home from work, he did a double-take at the incognito Supermodel spread sumptuously across their couch. Malaki was so tickled by the whole situation that he popped popcorn and sat crossed-legged on the floor at her feet like an acolyte. They stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, brainstorming format, idea, pitch.

  Keisha tossed some popcorn at Pablo’s head. “Why don’t you be on the show?”

  “Gee, Judy. I dunno. You’re the one with all the talent.” Pablo tried to sound as much like Mickey Rooney as possible.

  Keisha squealed with laughter. “I’m serious! You’re hot. Smart. Talented. You’ll be our Creative Director. People love to feel like they’re behind the scenes. You’ll be the backstage guy.” She looked like a queen bestowing a knighthood. “You follow my lead and play your cards right. Give it a couple of years, and I’ll get you that talk show you’ve always wanted.”

  “For real? A talk show?” Pablo squealed with excitement.

  “It’s like Christmas, only better.” Malaki joined in the excitement, the two of them leaping around in the apartment, hugging each other. Grabbing ahold of Keisha, the threesome were popping up and down like the popcorn they’d already eaten three bowls of.

  It was all too much excitement. Yawning, Keisha sinuated her way through their twelve-foot-long apartment and peeked into Pablo’s bedroom. “Is this your cave?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Minutes later, they could hear her snoring like a buzz saw from his room.

  Pablo lay awake on the couch, his body twitching with excitement. His flesh felt like it was humming with electricity. Hook, line, and sinker. Pablo was in! Keisha was his champion. His family. His muse. His brain churned with excitement until he finally fell into the deep sleep of the emotionally drained.

  While most models were at spas recovering from fashion week, Keisha was pushing Pablo to help formulate her idea into a full-fledged television show. She loved every idea he threw at her, and for the first time in his life, he felt genuinely accepted and applauded. Nourished by the confidence that she could bring anything he could imagine to fruition, he let his ingenuity run completely unbridled. If Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney could put on a show in three days, so could Pablo and Keisha. Nothing was getting in their way.

  Like her secretary, Pablo scribbled notes on napkins as Keisha’s brain worked overtime on the idea. While she was napping, he honed the concept and polished it so when he gave the pages back to her, it looked better, more professional, and like a real TV show. Flipping through the pitch deck he’d drafted, complete with images to illustrate the show’s concept, Keisha leaned back on the sofa in her loft and sighed. “I think we’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To pitch.”

  Pablo felt the strength in his legs drain out of him. They couldn’t possibly be ready.

  “Here’s my phone, call this executive and pretend to be my assistant.”

  Pablo rolled his eyes but did what he was told. Seconds later, Keisha was chatting with the President of the network on speakerphone and, within minutes, they had a meeting set with the head of development.

  “How’d you do that?” Pablo asked as she hung up.

  “I’m Keisha Kash, baby, and don’t you forget it.”

  He genuflected in her direction.

  Planning a show in three days had been tough, preparing to pitch a show in less time was even worse. Nerve-racking didn’t begin to describe the level of stress Pablo fell under. Organizing concept boards, teaches and challenges, photoshoot creative, sketches of sample set designs and putting together a list of potential fashion icons they could bring on the show, Pablo forgot what sleep felt like. Every night was an all-nighter. Keisha ordered take-out and helped by being encouraging when she wasn’t being distracting or distracted. While Pablo worked on complex renderings to create a slick-looking presentation—she Instagrammed and Tweeted with her fans.

  “I don’t think you need to work so hard.”

  “It needs to be love at first sight, Keisha.”

  “It always is.” She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re only going to get one shot at this. It can’t just ride on your name.”

  “Why not?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to make sure that she looked like a serious television show producer, not just a Supermodel, and that was his job. They took an Uber to the network. By the time they walked into the TN Network building, Pablo was semi-delirious, had lost five pounds, and looked like one of those heroin-chic runway models he so despised. In the lobby, they received name tags from security and, with clearance, headed to the elevator.

  In the elevator, Pablo jiggled his portfolio against his thigh.

  “Don’t fidget,” Keisha whispered.

  “I’ve never done anything like this.”

  “Act as if you have.”

  The elevator flew up to the twenty-third floor, revealing an open concept, studio style office. Staff, dressed in everything from casual jeans and sneakers to designer suits and Louboutins, milled about the water cooler and communal printer. As they walked in, heads turned, and hushed whispers of awe followed Keisha as they beelined to the receptionist.

  “Keisha Kash is here for her three o’clock,” Pablo said.

  “And you are?”

  “Pablo Michaels.”

  “Her assistant?”

  He bristled but didn’t know what else to call himself, so he nodded. The receptionist picked up her phone and listened for a moment. Seconds later, a well-turned-out executive in a pencil skirt and the new Botte
ga Veneta pumps came through the door.

  “Dawn Gately, head of development. It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Kash.” She shook Keisha’s hand and nodded to Pablo. “And you are?”

  “My assistant,” Keisha said brightly. “Pablo Michaels.”

  They walked into an airy office with couches and comfortable chairs. “Would either of you like some water?”

  “I only drink Bling H2O or Fillico,” Keisha told her.

  The exec snapped her fingers and an assistant disappeared.

  “The others will be here in a sec,” Dawn informed.

  Pablo, too nervous to drink anything, began pulling out concept boards and setting them up on the easels. He was ready and waiting in the room when the full team entered. Two execs introduced themselves. One was VP of Development and the other, the network’s Original Programming Coordinator. Pablo was impressed. He knew Keisha had clout on the runway, but to have garnered top brass at a major network was impressive.

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Pablo whispered to Keisha.

  As water bottles were poured into glasses, someone pressed a remote control and black screens drew across the windows. “Privacy,” Dawn mouthed to Pablo. His mouth went dry. Keisha crossed her famous legs and nodded at Pablo with the model’s signature petit pomme smile.

  He unrolled the concept with finesse and forgot his anxiety. “Imagine a young girl, working a cash register in Walmart, selling magazines with Keisha Kash on the cover—wishing she could be her. Now, Keisha’s offering them the opportunity to become a brand—like herself. Think Project Runway, but for models. We’re looking at a one-hour episodic competition show where we plan on selecting a group of wannabe models from social media to live in a model’s apartment—like in the old days—and compete for the chance of becoming a real fashion icon. Each week’s episode will start off with a teach segment so they learn what it’s like to be a real model.”

  Pablo paused to gauge the executives’ enthusiasm. They all sat with blank faces as if he were telling them about his grocery list. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard and continued as if nothing was amiss. “We’ll follow with a challenge segment based on the lesson they received. Girls can win immunity from elimination that week, or prizes. A big part of every episode will be the photoshoot, and in some cases, a TV commercial or other motion capture. This exciting all-access, backstage, insider look will give viewers a sense of weekly themes, crazy model antics, and set the contestants up for the last segment of each episode, judging!” He’d practiced the pitch enough that when his part was done, all he had to do was turn to the star of the show.

  Now cued, Keisha rose above the executives so their chins followed her skyward. She smiled down at them, then did a slow seductive walk, drawing her index finger along the backs of their chairs. “That’s right. Judging is where we’ll eliminate the weakest contestant each week with a panel of fashion experts—led by me, of course—until we find our winner.” Stopped at Pablo, who now revealed the last board with the logo he’d designed for the show, she did her twenty-grand Supermodel spin and said, “I’m Keisha Kash, and this is Model Muse.”

  The show was greenlit on the spot.

  * * *

  “Mom! I have a job! On TV!” Pablo shouted into his phone.

  “On TV?”

  “I’m gonna be the Creative Director on a new model show with Keisha Kash.”

  “Is she famous?”

  He laughed at how provincial his parents were. “She’s only, like, the biggest model in the world, Mom.”

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  “I’m gonna be in charge of all the photoshoots, the runway shows. And I’ll be directing the contestants.”

  “It’s a game show?”

  “Noooo…it’s a reality TV show.”

  “Honey, how can anything on TV be reality?”

  He gave up trying to explain more. “I just wanted you to know that your faith in me has paid off. I’m living the dream, Mom. Thank you.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to thank us. We’ve always been proud of you.”

  Pablo thought of all the times he hadn’t felt like enough; times he felt like he had to prove to his parents that he was worthy of being adopted. His eyes smarted. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too. Even though I don’t understand what it is you’re doing, I’m very proud of you, dear.”

  4

  STYLE HIM FAMOUS

  THE IRONY WAS that Pablo hated reality shows. They lacked empathy for people’s feelings, and social media made the humiliation all the more public. Mockery and bullying against wannabe stars almost always went viral. Of course, society loved to snoop into the lives of others and reality TV was like the village busybody on steroids. Pablo called and texted friends about his good fortune and received loads of support. Even his childhood idol, whom Pablo had stalked on social and who in turn became his mentor, texted back with a “Congrats,” followed by a second and more cryptic text a few seconds later.

  I.C.E. TEXT: Warning…working on a Reality show is the modern day version of the Roman gladiator, without the blood! Trust me, I know. I’ll be here if you need me.

  Pablo took the message under advisement. He and Keisha were going to make reality television a better place, though. Something that really helped young people make a career out of their gifts. The thing that really bothered him on these kinds of shows was seeing someone in pain, or worse, seeing someone rejected. There had to be an element of that in their show, but Pablo hoped to approach everything from a positive standpoint. That’s what would give the show its real edge. Pablo’s golden rule—Never quit people; Everyone deserves a chance—would be his standard.

  And what a chance it would be for him too. From an unwanted baby, adopted by loving and supportive parents, and backstage handler to being a part of a new television show. Keisha had single-handedly validated Pablo’s belief that anyone can work in the fashion industry if given a chance. Model Muse was going to be all-inclusive. It was going to represent all the areas of the business: photographers, designers, creative directors, hair/makeup artists, stylists, set designers, and fashion journalists, as well as models. This was definitely a win.

  The soundstage for the fledgling show was to be at Silvercup Studios in Queens. The raw space was pretty raw. It needed a fresh coat of paint and a clean floor. Wires dangled from the rigging where lights would be hung when production started. Keisha and Pablo did a walk through, figuring out where the models would be held, and what the judging set might look like. “It doesn’t look like much,” Keisha murmured. Her voice reverberated through the empty space.

  “It’s like Cinderella before the ball,” he said.

  “More like, we need to turn this frog into a princess.”

  Outside on the street, they stared up at the large red-lettered sign arching over the rooftops of Long Island City.

  “We did it.”

  She smiled down at him in a strange, almost pained way.

  “You feeling okay?” he asked, slightly concerned.

  Just then, a teenager with braces and horne-rimmed glasses walked past them, then turned around and stared up at the Supermodel.

  “Excuse me, my mama loves you. Can I get a selfie?”

  “I don’t do selfies.” Keisha turned away from the child, dismissively. Pablo was shocked. She always took selfies. Why was she being so rude to the poor kid, who clearly needed a self-esteem boost? He watched the girl’s stooped shoulders as she slumped away.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Her mama,” she scoffed. “And she was butt ugly.”

  “I seem to recall you were too, once.”

  “Not that ugly.” Keisha made Gollum eyes at Pablo and slapped his arm, teasingly. “So, listen, before our production meeting I wanna give you a makeover.”

  “A makeover?”

  “If you’r
e gonna be on TV next to me, we have to get you gorgeous. Besides, don’t you think you should have the same kind of makeover our models are gonna have? That way, you can empathize with their experience.”

  Pablo thought empathy was the one thing he had loads of, but he didn’t say anything.

  “De La Renta, my miracle man, will see you in the morning.”

  “What’s he gonna do to me?”

  “Whatever he likes.”

  The studio’s car pulled up to the curb and the driver got out to open the door. “Hashtag I got this.” Pablo gestured and winked at the handsome chauffeur, holding the door open for his BFF. He was about to crawl into the backseat when Keisha pushed him away.

  “I’m headed up to Vinny’s and traffic’s gonna be more of a bitch than I am!” Keisha laughed and kissed the air. “See you tomorrow, 10 a.m. sharp. Don’t keep him waiting, Mr. Pablo, or he’ll make you look like the Bride of Frankenstein.” She slammed the door shut and tapped the window, smiling up at him.

  Pablo forced a smile and waved. He couldn’t shake the sense of rejection. Butch up, he chided himself. You’re about to get everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

  * * *

  Ringlets of Pablo’s black tresses drifted through the air to land in a hairy crop circle beneath De La Renta’s chair. Pablo felt like he was being shorn like a sheep. Would slaughter be far behind?

  “Can I look?” he asked the hair master, who sported perfectly braided cornrows.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, I see how this works now.”

  De La Renta slapped him and chuckled. “You the new kid on the block and Mother wants you to look the part, as well as play it.” He had a soft southern lilt to his voice that made Pablo feel calmer.

  “I thought I looked pretty good.”

  “You and me both. But what Mother wants, Mother gets.”

  Pablo relaxed into the leather chair and let De La Renta get on with it. If Keisha trusted her own personal hair/makeup artist, why shouldn’t he? De La Renta coated all Pablo’s hair with some color and set him in the corner with no mirrors. “Fifty-five minutes,” he told him, “and no peeking.”