20
SILENCE. PABLO’S HEART began to race out of control.
“Well,” Andy cleared his throat, “we gotta problem then.”
“What?”
“I told the kid, last night, you were shopping a talk show for both of you. I needed him to get your head back on straight.”
“Fuck.” Keisha’s voice reverberated over the control room speakers. “Does he know it’s been picked up by Netflix yet?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t say anything to Pablo, and let’s work on the down-low.”
“But I sold the concept on—”
“You’ll make The Keisha Kash Show happen Mr. Andy,” she said, with her voice crawling into creepy land. “And when it announces, we’ll just tell him that Netflix wanted me as a solo host. He’ll believe anything, and it’ll be too late anyhow.”
“Done.”
There was a pause. A shuffle.
“I need you to destroy this…”
“Is that blood?” Andy asked.
“No more questions!” She screamed.
“Sorry.”
Andy apologizing? Pablo couldn’t believe his ears.
“If you don’t get rid of this, my has-been mother will get outta prison.”
“Your mother’s not a good look for you right now.”
“My mother’s never been a good look for me.”
“Got it. So what if I—”
Loud, high-pitched feedback echoed from the speakers hanging above the sound board. Pablo’s eardrums rang.
“Ah, shit, my mic is still…” Keisha’s voice went mute.
Pablo sat in the sudden silence of the control room. The all too familiar sensation of being discarded rushed over him. Alone. Betrayed. Abandoned. He knew these feelings well. De La Renta had been right. He’d spent his entire life seeing the best in people and subsequently placed too much faith in those who’d ultimately let him down. For years he’d gotten up and moved on, despite the hole in his soul. Now, Pablo wanted to crawl under a rock and curl up into a fetal position. Grabbing his jean jacket, he pushed through the big metal door of the control room and fled the studio. He would never eat Dulce de Leche again.
* * *
Everything was blindingly white. Pablo couldn’t see anything. He was frightened. Visually impaired. He shut his eyes tightly and covered them with his trembling hands.
“Nurse Marge,” a voice said. “Take him…she doesn’t even want to hold him for minute.”
Pablo removed his hands and cautiously opened his eyes. It was still bright, but through the haze he could see two nurses talking to each other standing near a hospital doorway. A large retro dial clock on the wall read, one-minute past twelve. It must be just past noon, he thought. Slowly things came into focus. The brightness wasn’t nearly as harsh, but everything seemed surreal. The heavyset nurse, Marge, held the baby as she walked down the hall. Pablo followed her past the equipment stacked up alongside the passage. An orderly almost bumped into him without saying, excuse me. How rude.
The nurse abruptly changed direction and headed towards a nursery. She turned her back to the double doors and used her behind to pop open the entry. She made no eye contact with Pablo, even though they were nearly face to face. He followed her in the room and watched as she unwrapped the newborn child and carefully placed him on a padded counter. She turned the water on in a nearby sink, ran water over a washcloth, but still had not acknowledged Pablo’s presence. He had the eeriest feeling about the room. It looked strange. Old. Out-dated. Ethereal.
“Time to clean you up, little one.” She lifted the tiny arm. The baby wailed at the immediate shock of wet against his skin. Pablo felt a sting of pain at the sudden sound of the child’s scream. His tiny lungs were so strong. “Shhhhh, you’re OK. It’s OK. It’s nice and warm.” The baby boy calmed to the sound of her soothing voice.
“Cooo…” The baby smiled, or was that gas? Pablo almost laughed.
“Until we find you a family, I’ll call you David.” She turned and reached for something that Pablo couldn’t quite see and when she finally moved back to the child, he could see Marge fastening a name tag around the little boy’s ankle. It simply had David written on it in big block letters with a barcode underneath. No last name. That was all that identified him. A sudden jolt of anxiety coursed through Pablo’s body. Panicked, he whipped his head around. There was no one standing at the nursery window loving this newborn baby from afar. His eyes filled with tears.
“Argh.” Pablo bolted upright. He was hot. Lost. Abandoned. His heart raced. He looked around at the faint shadows that were morphing into the familiar contours of the bedroom of his Seventh Avenue apartment. This same dream—or was it a nightmare?—had haunted him for years until Keisha came into his life, becoming a part of his family. Now it was back tormenting him, again. Pablo flopped back on his bed, backhanding the wetness on his cheek and closed his eyes. Emotionally drained, he stared up at the ceiling and tried to focus on his breathing, so he could stop his mind from churning round and round.
3 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX
A few short hours later, leaning against the headboard of his bed, Pablo gazed out at the Manhattan skyline from his 15th story apartment window. Even One World Trade Center looked alone. He had tapped snooze on his iPhone alarm several times already. He wasn’t expected to be on the set today, anyway. Pablo wasn’t sure he would ever go back. Through a slit in the drapes, a thin beam of sunlight touched his dark mood. Everything he’d accomplished, everything he’d created from his career to his apartment seemed pointless now.
“Hey Siri, what time is it?”
“It’s 9:26 a.m. Good Morning.” Pablo hated that his iPhone was having a better day than him already. He felt like he’d been awake the entire night. Maybe he should have a pajama day and just stay in bed, but he had to eat something. Groaning as he got up, he looked at himself in his floor length Philippe Starck Caadre mirror.
“Pathetic.” Padding barefoot across the whitewashed oak floors of the living room, he considered making a cup of loose-leaf herbal tea but decided it was too much work. He didn’t feel like drinking or eating. His body felt encased in the concrete of a broken heart.
“Hey Siri, turn on the lights.”
Slowly, a glow rose from around all his furniture, and kitchen cabinets.
“Hey Siri, play On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter.”
The robotic sounding voice confirmed, “On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter Orchestra and Lorenz Dangle now playing.” Nothing better suited the sorrow and grief of the human experience, and the sense that there’s a purpose, or at least a grandeur to life, than the wailing of Richter’s melancholy music. It set the mood for Pablo’s forlorn day.
Yesterday, he thought he had it all. His dream of having a talk show had been just a handshake away. Now he had nothing, not even the friendship he’d believed in and done so much for. Keisha had robbed him of it all. His job was to create fantasies and bring dreams to life, but his own dreams felt like a distant destination he would never now reach. The depth of love and acceptance he craved had left him. How could he go on in a business that made him feel so rejected? The expectations he had of Pablo Michaels versus the reality of who he really was would never measure up.
He wanted to be so much more than a creative director on a model competition show. He wanted to do something important in the world he loved; share his insights on life, art, spirituality. He wanted to connect with others, learn about their passions, what they liked to read, listen to, and eat. He wanted others to connect with him too, and see beyond the preconceived stereotype of who he appeared to be; the glossy, perfect on camera personality, with silver grey hair and eyes. He felt trapped by the price of fame that he was only now learning he had to pay.
Keisha’s hate-filled rant ran on a loop in his head. I made him. Throwaway bi-racial baby. I made him. Throwaway…She made me. Tears welled up in his eyes. Why did he believe her in the first place? Because it was she who’d helped him believe in himself, and convinced him their relationship was special. Despite all the warnings, the indications that she couldn’t be trusted, he’d believed her.
Pablo pressed the Double latte button on his Miele coffee machine. Waiting for the milk to steam, he reached for his iPhone and begrudgingly unlocked it. A flurry of texts and email alerts popped up on his home screen notification center, but only one message caught his attention.
I.C.E. TEXT: I never heard back from you yesterday. You ok? I hope you didn’t think I was being too pushy. I never meant to offend. Sorry. You’re still on my mind, so hit me up when you get a min. xo
Pablo’s fingers flew across the screen, typing a quick response.
Pablo TEXT: No! Soooooo much going on and I didn’t get a chance to write back. Your words of encouragement are everything to me!!! You’ve been right all along! Last night I overheard KK speaking to her manager…she said horrific things about me. Can’t deal. She’s a beast! Now I can’t sleep. Don’t know how I can walk back on set. Ever!
Pablo pressed send and grabbed the latte like his life depended on it. His iPhone vibrated with an immediate response.
I.C.E. TEXT: I’m so sorry. This has been my fear all along. You’ve worked hard learning to trust people, don’t let her derail you from your path.
Pablo TEXT: She destroys anyone who challenges her. Remember her old assistant? He couldn’t find work for 6 months. I’m fucked! 
I.C.E. TEXT: Reacting to her from an emotional level will only put you out in the cold. You’re smart. Take the high road.
Pablo TEXT: How?
I.C.E. TEXT: Go back to work and give an Oscar Award winning performance, like she’s been giving you. Play the game but don’t fall for the illusion. Nothing is worth sacrificing your integrity. xo
Why was life so complicated? Pablo threw his phone on the couch and curled up in the corner of the sofa with both hands clasped around his latte. “Fuuuuuck!” he screamed. Like De La Renta, he was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He felt so manipulated, so played. Carelessly and without much thought, he fired off an impetuous message in response to his mentor.
Pablo TEXT: I CANNOT let her walk all over me like this! I hear what you’re saying…but I swore I wouldn’t let her bully me.
I.C.E. TEXT: DON’T DO SOMETHING YOU’LL REGRET LATER!
A flashing ellipsis alerted him that I.C.E. was writing more. Pablo sipped his latte, waiting impatiently for the long message to finally appear.
I.C.E. TEXT: Transcend her tyranny and oppression. Taking a stand for yourself is a good thing. But do NOT stoop to her level. It’s your time…don’t forget that! Case in point. I had the opportunity to work with Iyanla Vanzant on the Oprah show years back and we became close. Her wisdom and ability to see the error of her own ways is always an inspiration to me. She uses her gifts to help everyone she can. Read her book, “Acts of Faith.” Here’s one of my favorite quotes from it…
Pablo stared at his screen, waiting to see the quoted text come through, and within seconds it popped up.
I.C.E. TEXT: “A wise soldier knows never to draw his sword unless he is ready, able and willing to do battle. A fool draws his sword aimlessly and is prone to cut himself to death.”
Pablo walked over to the plate glass window on the far side of his living room. Leaning his forehead against the glass with his hands pressed alongside him, he looked like he was about to leap out across Manhattan in a swan dive. Below him was a sea of yellow cabs fighting their way down Seventh Avenue. A circle of white condensation formed on the window, a ghost of his former self, or a new, self-born phoenix rising from the ashes? Abruptly, Pablo pulled back and looked at the expanse before him. This was his world. He owned it. His reflection smiled at him. “Let’s do this.”