19
4 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX
WITH PRODUCTION BACK in full swing, the crew was summoned to the studio with an unusually early call time of 5:30 a.m. to set up for the second attempt at filming the judging of the semi-final round. The network had decided to nix the failed attempt of the previous episode’s elimination, and the Kash-branded beauty shoot, per Pablo’s suggestion, instructing Joe Vong to edit the episode with the cancer awareness photoshoot and a new judging, a scene that did not have their Host’s meltdown. Reality TV executives had no qualms about re-writing reality.
Pablo and De La Renta always arrived early at Silvercup so they could find the time to have breakfast together and, even with an early call, that was not different. Well, Pablo had breakfast. De La Renta usually had coffee and some “brown stuff.” The hair/makeup artist did not go for anything green or plant based.
“Is Mother here yet?” Pablo greeted his friend.
“Would I be sitting here if she was? She thinks I can do her hair and makeup as fast as Usain Bolt can run the 100-meter race. But do I get an Olympic Gold Medal for doing it that fast? Hell no.”
One day Keisha showed up expecting the works in fifteen minutes and De La Renta actually asked her what she’d prefer most, hair or makeup. He wasn’t kidding. Keisha chose “hair,” and he threw her a tube of concealer and an old dried up Mac lipstick, as she walked out on set. Never fuck with your glam squad because they could make or break you. It was a sort of marriage and if things went south, things got ugly. Literally and figuratively.
“Can I buy you breakfast?” Pablo offered as they headed to the catering cart.
“I got my morning Joe.” De La Renta slurped his latte.
Pablo ordered his protein fix–five soft boiled eggs and two bowls of oatmeal with sliced banana and nuts.”
Seated at their favorite corner table, the cook brought over Pablo’s order and served De La Renta some brown stuff.
“That bowl is for you.” Pablo shoved the oatmeal under his nose.
“It looks like vomit.”
“Well, it is brown,” Pablo giggled.
De La Renta pulled out his iPhone and took a selfie gagging over the steaming porridge. “Help. My friend is trying to kill me!” his caption read, as he posted it on Instagram. “Frank,” he yelled up to the truck, “can I get me some bacon and biscuits—hold the eggs. Extra salt, please.”
“You can’t put salt on bacon,” Pablo ridiculed. “Bacon is nothing but salt.”
De La Renta licked his lips.
When the cook shuffled back and plopped his food order and a plastic saltshaker in front of De La Renta, he complained, “Where’s the little girl with the white umbrella?”
“This is all we got.”
“This is fake salt.” He kissed his teeth in disappointment.
“It’ll still kill ya,” Pablo said.
De La Renta licked his fingers, sloppy and happy. “Shit, this bacon is gooooood. I’m gettin’ my life!”
“Don’t you wanna at least try and eat healthy?”
“Nope.” De La Renta crunched down on another piece of bacon and slathered a flaky southern biscuit with butter spread. “I’m good right here.”
It was Pablo’s turn to mock-vomit.
Where Keisha and Pablo were the Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney of Fashion, De La Renta and Pablo were the Laurel and Hardy of Glam. Pablo not only watched his diet, he exercised regularly; De La Renta was a junk food hound with an HBO habit.
“So what’s goin’ on, Boo?” De La Renta crunched on a second helping of crispy bacon. “You got that Star-Spangled Banner look in your eyes.”
Pablo could barely contain his excitement. “Don’t roll your eyes, but, you know it’s been my dream to get a talk show, well—I said, don’t roll your eyes—it’s about to come to fruition.”
“Fru-who? Girl, you and your Harvard dictionary vocabulary. Don’t hurt what few brain cells I’ve got on salary this early in the morning.”
Pablo stuffed a humongous spoonful of his oatmeal in his mouth. De La Renta mimicked him by licking the butter off his biscuit.
“Andy told me Keisha’s been pitching a talk show that she and I will co-host together. Everything I’ve accomplished on Model Muse is finally gonna pay off.”
De La Renta shook his head. “Girl, look at you. All wide-eyed and dumb as a bag of rocks. Haven’t you learned, yet?” His southern accent softened the harsh truth—which was something De La Renta was accustomed to. His own mother dropped him off at his grandmamma’s house when he was six years old with no warning or time to pack for the move. After she left, his mother didn’t come back to visit for nearly eight months. A harsh reality to deal with as a child.
Pablo sighed. “This is gonna be different.”
“Are you sure this is something you wanna do? With her? Really, Pablo?” De La Renta cautioned. “Need I remind you that Mother is out of her mind, and that you were afraid of her a day ago.” His eyes practically bulged out of his head.
Too much salt? Pablo wondered. “Don’t you think I’m good enough for Daytime Television?”
“Who said dat? Of course, I think you’re good enough.”
“Thank God,” Pablo exhaled. If De La Renta didn’t believe in him, he’d really be lost.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” De La Renta shook a spare piece of bacon under Pablo’s nose. “She’s not gonna let you stand out on your own. Mama don’t share and she don’t play well with others.”
“You’ve got her all wrong. This time—”
“Lemme break it all down for you,” De La Renta leaned in. “Keisha’s one of those Supermodels who’s actually done something. She can slay a magazine cover, launch a TV show, become the voice for broke-down bitches all around the world—”
“I know that. She’ll forever be a legend,” Pablo interrupted.
“Can I finish? Shit.” De La Renta was annoyed now. “You really think she’s all about, Girl power, Black women, Fat chicks? She could actually give two shits about any of those peeps. It’s all about her. No one else.”
“You think?”
“I know,” De La Renta snapped. “Pablo, she’s only gonna let you stand in her shadow. That’s it. And as my grandmamma always says, ‘If you don’t stand for somethin’ you’ll fall for everything.’”
“This talk show will be a game changer. Even Broyce recognizes that I’m uber-important to the show.”
“Broyce, I trust.” De La Renta made a face. “Miss K-a, dollar sign-h, I-got-a-brand-new-red-haired-wig, I don’t.”
Harper and Rachel were walking across the parking lot to where the two friends were in heated debate and sat down.
“Hey, guys.”
“Are you aware of some creative editing going on around here?” De La Renta asked the women and Pablo. “Hashtag just saying.”
Pablo made a face. “But I rescued Model Muse and kept it from being cancelled.”
The women nodded in agreement.
“And? How’d that work out?” He licked his bacon. “In her favor, that’s how.”
More often than not, De La Renta’s words bore the hard truth Pablo didn’t want to hear, but their friendship meant everything to him. No matter what went down, he knew De La Renta would always be by his side. He was one of the good ones; not a fair-weather friend, but a real one. The kind who knew how to get out and push when things got rough, unless, of course, it meant pushing an actual car. That’s just how De La Renta was made. Bless him.
Pablo cleared his plate and came back to the table to gather his belongings. “I hear you. But I have to follow my dream.”
De La Renta folded his hands in prayer and bowed his head. “Go with God. And watch your back.”
Surprise. The second shoot of the semi-final judging round ran late. Surprise Two. The real drama wasn’t on camera or live streamed. The judges revolted. It seemed Mason Hughes had suddenly grown a set of balls and walked off set. Followed by Sasha and Miss Thing. It was Mutiny on the Bounty without Marlon Brando at the helm. The problem was Nichole had been the one on the chopping block for the previous episode, but since the new photoshoot had been dedicated to her mother, well, they were now stuck with a gorgeous, chisel faced bald girl. Despite what Keisha kept trying to manipulate, the network could not and did not want to dethrone the new fresh face of cancer awareness. From the giant sixteen-panel LED wall, the group image from Pablo’s photoshoot revealed four gorgeous bald models looking down like arch-angels on the last day of judgment upon Miss Thing, Mason and Sasha. It was unnerving. Sort of like going to the ape house at the zoo and realizing the humans are actually on display for the apes.
Elyssa looked incredible, so she was also safe. Her inked arms and legs created the body painting effect that Shiseido cosmetics had tried to corner the market with back in the 1980s. Beth and Kayla were the final two on the chopping block. The fix had always been for season six to announce the first plus-sized model. Keisha, dealing with her own weight problems, entered stage left as the judges were debating the girls’ merits. Busting through a canary yellow silk and Guipure lace frock, her favorite color, Keisha backed the network’s choice. Beth was to be this season’s Model Muse. The judges were supposed to fall in line.
Mason’s critique of Beth was absolute. “There was not a good photo of her in the bunch,” he snorted. “She’s barely giving me any neck.”
“That’s ‘cause she don’t have a neck to begin with,” Miss Thing blurted. “I agree with Mason. I don’t think she’s Model Muse material.”
And then there was Kayla. For all of her slutty tricks, Andy included, she really did look like a superstar in the group photo.
“The energy Kayla’s bringing to this photograph reminds me of a younger, thinner you, Keisha,” Sasha said with a wicked little half smirk.
“Oooooooo.” Miss Thing snapped his fingers. “Leave Big Bird alone.”
Of course, all of their arguments were going straight to the cutting room floor. Whenever any of the judges tried to stick a dagger in Keisha’s back, she just looked over at Joe Vong, who whispered “cut” to Rachel and the fix was in.
“Beth deserves a fighting chance since she represents all plus-sized women,” Keisha argued. None of the judges knew Beth was in fact to win, as senior producers and Pablo kept “The Ringer” secret. Stroking their egos and making them believe they made their own choices had become a weekly ritual, but then Mason stood up and walked out.
“Why pretend you need us, Keisha? This is all your reality anyway,” he said with a dramatic gesture.
“I’m with Mason.” Sasha stood up, one hand on her open water bottle, the other on her bag. She tripped on her purse strap, spilled her wine, and nearly did a face plant into Miss Thing’s crotch.
Miss Thing screamed.
“It’s not like I doused you with acid,” Sasha slurred at him.
“Girl, you nearly crushed my family jewels.”
“Honey, those aren’t even semi-precious stones.” She sauntered off after Mason.
It was a dramatic but unnecessary mutiny, which added another hour to the clock. Everyone was used to overtime by now and Pablo was beginning to think he’d be able to pay off his mortgage early if the delays continued into Season Seven. Coercing the defectors back to set took a while. Harper, always up for a difficult task, got it done and finally had everyone in line behind axing Kayla, if only because of the way the elastic on her panties kept slipping to her ankles whenever a man was near.
Pablo sat and watched the chaos from the safety of the control room with Rachel all night. He wanted zilch to do with the foul energy soaring around the studio. Nothing was going to ruin his day. He only had his future with Keisha to look forward to and their talk show together.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and his mother’s face appeared. “Hi Mom,” he whispered. “Just a sec, I’ve gotta get to a quiet area.” He scampered out of the control room and out the fire doors, where he leaned against the wall. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Sweetheart. I’ve just been thinking about you a lot and you know, mother’s intuition, worried. Are you okay?”
“I’m great, Mom.”
“That’s a relief. I must just be getting old and senile.”
“Never. You look fab for being thirty-nine and holding,” he chuckled.
“Bless you. I do love my annual fortieth birthdays.”
“I was actually going to call you. I have some awesome news.”
“Really?”
“Keisha and I are gonna have a talk show together.”
“You mean like Kelly and Ryan, well, whoever Kelly’s flavor of the month is?”
“Shady, Mom. No more lunches with De La Renta when you come in town.” They both laughed.
“Oh, sweetheart, this is all wonderful news. Everything you’ve ever wanted is finally coming to fruition.”
He had to chuckle at the word “fruition”—De La Renta didn’t know that Pablo’s Harvard dictionary was none other than his mother—Helena Michaels.
“Please be careful, though.” She sounded concerned. “I saw Keisha on Good Morning America the other day, and something’s not quite right. You can see it in her eyes.”
Pablo let out a heavy sigh. “Keisha’s just lonely, Mom. And she’s desperately trying to keep herself relevant.”
Out the corner of his eye, Pablo thought he saw a sliver of yellow fabric slip through the fire door to his right. It couldn’t be her; weren’t they still filming?
“Listen, Mom, I gotta go. We’re shooting today. I’ll call you later.”
“Whenever you can. I just had to know my boy was okay. Love you, Sweetheart.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
He hung up the phone and sighed happily, then turned to head back into the mayhem. Two steps, and he got a text message. Bing.
I.C.E. TEXT: You’ve been on my mind. Just wanted to reach out and remind you that you’re BEYOND talented and generous. Innocence is dangerous in this biz. Take off your blinders. KK’s not a leader, she’s a usurper. Don’t let anyone define you. Real success comes when you find faith in who you are. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. xx
It was like I.C.E. and his mother were psychically communicating or something. Pablo walked back into the control room just as Rachel was shouting into her IFB. “Hey, guys, Mike, Jesse, make sure you keep Kayla long enough in her exit OTF. We need an actual shot of her crying, for once.”
“You guys wrapped already?” Pablo asked.
Rachel pulled off her headphones. “Yup. Five minutes ago.” She stood up to walk out of the room. “You gonna hang out here much longer? I’m heading down to the floor. I need to show Harper what’s needed for tomorrow’s teach and challenge.”
“I’m just waiting for Keisha.”
“Cool. Turn out the lights when you leave.” Rachel kissed his cheek and disappeared.
Pablo took a moment, looking around the room. Keisha’s mic was pushing the red zone on the sound board. What was wrong now? He leaned forward and raised her mic level so he could hear her audio over the loudspeakers.
“Andy, I’ve told you how many times? You won’t, no, can’t fuck up my shit. This has got to stop.” Her low demonic voice boomed across the room. Pablo quickly lowered the levels to avoid hurting his own ears.
“You better be glad I took care of things tonight. What were you thinking? Fucking Kayla? Have you even heard of the Me Too movement?”
Pablo’s heart jumped into his throat. He knew where she was going and wondered if she was going to fire him or just emasculate him?
Andy didn’t even try to defend himself. “I’ve convinced Netflix to ink a deal with Kashing In Productions for The Keisha & Pablo Show, worldwide rights. They love what you bring as a team, onscreen chemistry, fashion know-how, wit. Pablo’s great sense of timing and humor offsets your serious, quirky side.”
“Mr. Andy,” Keisha’s voice register had risen to something sounding more innocent, more conniving, “Miss Keisha has decided she wants her own talk show.”
Pablo’s throat stretched down into his stomach. He gagged. Felt physically ill.
“Everyone loves little Pablo but they forget,” her voice dropped two octaves, “I MADE HIM! Model Muse is my fucking show. I created it. It was my idea. All he does is ride around on my coat tails. And I’ll be damned if some throwaway bi-racial baby is gonna crawl outta the gutter and steal my shine. I don’t need Pablo Michaels and neither does Netflix.”