26
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, the 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.
Sasha grabbed the device to look up close. “She’s just a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Mason. And drag doesn’t make a lady, ain’t that true, Miss Thing?”
“She sure don’t! I snapped her from behind at judging. It’s my get outta jail free card, if I need it.”
Mason leaned in to get a better look.
“See. I can easily leak a few of these babies and we could watch the media eat her alive.” Miss Thing kicked off one of his Moroccan slides and threw his giant bare foot on the table. “And what’s real sad? Her dress was uglier than both my bunions.”
The three judges roared with laughter.
“Yo, Missy,” Sasha coughed. “You have an Instagram DM.” She was holding Miss Thing’s iPhone and read the alert notification preview out loud. “I’m still waiting for that pic you promised me! Papa is HORNY and ready to get off.”
Mason pointed a ridiculing finger at Miss Thing. “Do you know what you are possibly risking?”
“You can’t get an STD from sharing photos, Mason. You’re so square.” The model coach snatched his phone, rolled his eyes and unlocked it, flipping over to Instagram.
“No. What if someone posts naked photos of you online? The network will not stand behind you. And I am pretty sure you will be hard pressed to find another gig that is as accepting of your kind.”
“My kind? Kind of what, you conceited closet case.”
“I am just saying; you should be careful. You are no tech genius.”
“Whatever, Hughes junior. I may not be good with this whole Instagram thing, but leave me to handle my shit.” Miss Thing gathered his belongings, stood up and stared Mason down. “Now, before I go beat this face, I’m gonna go beat this meat and snap the ooooooonly photo that’s gonna make my man blow his load.”
Turning his back on his disgusted colleagues, Miss Thing sashayed across the catering area and disappeared into his double-banger trailer, slamming the door.
Sasha slurped the last of her concoction and said, “Well, I hope he uses a filter ‘cause those nuts gotta be older than black thread.”
* * *
It was just past noon and the blistering hot sun beat down on Pablo, who stood in awkward silence next to Keisha on the Intrepid’s main deck. This was the first time they’d seen each other since Pablo was announced as EP. She was clearly avoiding him and planned to ice him out. Pablo no longer wanted to fight with her, though. They would, as she’d once told him, “play, on camera, the way the audience expects us to play.” She wanted to ignore him? Fine. But he now had a new friend. And she wouldn’t like who it was.
The scope of production was huge and several crew members ran around locking things down across the massive expanse. Located at Pier 86, off 46th Street in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of Manhattan’s Westside, the installation showcased the aircraft carrier USS Intrepid, the cruise missile submarine USS Growler, a Concorde SST and the infamous Space Shuttle Enterprise. Its opening in 1982 had been the success of New York developers Zachary and Larry Fisher and philanthropist Michel Stern, who’d saved the USS Intrepid from being destroyed in 1978. The Intrepid became a National Historic Landmark in 1986 and remains one of the hot tourist spots to hit when visiting the city of dreams.
Being escorted by a PA, Miss Thing runway walked and landed on his taped X mark next to Pablo. “Why are we doing this welcome here? It’s hotter than hell.”
“We’re gonna surprise the girls with an impromptu fashion show.” Pablo burst with excitement. “They’re gonna runway walk down the deck. It’ll be chic.”
“Well, can we get a scrim or somethin’? Keisha looks like a drag queen who just walked outta da club at daybreak.”
“You know what, bitch, don’t try me!” Keisha barked, without making eye contact with either of her colleagues.
“A scrim is flying in. I already spoke to Bill,” Pablo said. “You’ll look pretty, don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m snatched. It’s ya good girlfriend you should be worrying about.”
Being an executive producer had its privileges. Pablo wore the concealed IFB earpiece that Rachel and Joe needed him to wear. His work with Celebrity-Buzz TV, the last couple of months, had given him the essential practice that taught Pablo to speak on camera, while listening to his producers—at the same time. He could easily hear the conversation between the Model Muse team sitting across the deck, hidden inside an open-ended tent. Joe, Rachel, Luciana and De La Renta had been watching everything on a monitor and were all listening on their individual radio headsets. Pablo had requested the IFB mic be left on—so he could hear everything. His therapist was still working with him on his control freak issues.
“Miss Thing’s right,” Luciana said. “You guys need to back off Keisha. She’s a LOT to look at in this light.”
“She wanted lashes with rhinestones, and I just do whatever she tells me to,” De La Renta piped in. “She likes it, I love it.”
“Fucking soften her a bit,” Joe yelled, nearly blowing out Pablo’s eardrum. “I can’t shoot her looking like this.”
“I’ll tell you what you can soften, that nasty little man attitude of yours.”
Pablo snickered to himself listening to his witty friend’s clapback, as a large scrim was being placed over their heads. Keisha shot him an evil glance. She had no idea what he was giggling about. She was still refusing to wear the concealed earpiece.
“You feel better with this?” Pablo asked Keisha, kindly.
The Supermodel ignored him all together and leaned over, smiling at Miss Thing. “Tell him I look good in any light.”
“Did you look at yourself, Mary? Believe me, this is a vast improvement.”
Keisha ignored the quip. However, Pablo had more to say. “So, is this what we’re doing now?”
“Oh, the gloves are off. This is gonna be good,” Luciana cracked. “Anyone wanna place a bet on the last bitch standing?”
“Which bitch?” De La Renta said, “There’s a lotta bitches around here, okaaaay.”
Pablo could hear several crew members now snickering, but Joe Vong’s voice raised over the ruckus. “Everyone shut up. She’s gonna hear you.”
Rachel popped her head out of the tent and pulled out her bullhorn, having direct line of sight with the judges. “Ok, since everyone’s roasting out here, we’re gonna skip the pre-roll and do this in one take with the girls.” Her voice echoed.
“Ready on set,” the 2nd AD yelled.
“Ready.”
“Copy that,” Bill yelled. “Girls are walking in three, two, one.”
“Wait. What am I saying again?” Miss Thing stammered to Pablo.
“I’ll lead you. Just give us some funny lines.”
“Don’t I always?”
The two giggled at each other and at the emerging new model hopefuls tromping onto the deck wearing high-heels, tank tops and tiny cutoff shorts, dragging wheeled carry-on luggage and neck pillows.
“Well, hellooooo ladies. Or should I say, ladies of the night.” Pablo took center stage; he was loving the moment. “I dunno, Miss Thing, do these girls look like a group of young models to you?”
“Chiiiiiiile, pale girl in the front, with the nonexistent purple shorts. I ain’t no gynecologist, so I don’t need to see your cervix.” A group of girls in the back snickered at the inappropriate jab.
“Welcome, everyone, to Model Muse, season seven,” Pablo chimed in. “We’ve got amazing challenges planned for you, AND big news. The winner of this season is gonna be personally managed by our very own matriarch, Keisha Kash.”
“Did I fucking miss something?” Joe hissed.
“Oh no. You’re just getting schooled in gay shade,” De La Renta shot back. “Pablo’s setting Mother up.”
Keisha grinned and placed her arms lovingly around Pablo. “That’s right. This season I’ve decided to personally manage the winner with my handsome BFF.” She leaned closer to Pablo, making annoying kissy sounds near his cheek. “Oh, you’re sweating through your makeup, Boo.” Patting the sweat off Pablo’s brow, she smeared his foundation, making it look uneven. “This year, I’ll take one of you under my wing and lift you to new heights—”
“Soooo, we’re not wasting any time today,” Pablo interrupted, stepping all over Keisha’s audio. “You’ll be doing a runway challenge right here on the Intrepid, walking in flight suits.” The models looked confused. “Now, head below deck where you’ll find your wardrobe to change in to. We’ll see you back here, sharp, at thirteen hundred.”
“That’s in ten minutes, you model maggots. Move,” Miss Thing yelled, sounding like a drill sergeant.
It was like the bridge and tunnel crowd coming into the city on a Saturday night; the near naked girls squealed and awkwardly stumbled off in their heels.
“That’s a cut.” Rachel said on her bullhorn, “Judges stay in place so we can get a few closeups.” She then whispered, “Can you PLEASE go in and soften her?”
“I just do hair and makeup,” De La Renta barked. “This right here is a comb, not a magic wand.”
Pablo could now see his new BFF, De La Renta, walking across the deck reaching into his pocket and pulling out his iPhone midway across. He swiped up on the screen and mouthed the words, “what the fuck.” Arriving at their position, he glared at Miss Thing.
“Really girl? We doin’ dick pics on Instagram now? Who are you? Anthony Weiner?”
Pablo grabbed De La Renta’s phone and looked at the screen. “Isn’t this the same dick pic you sent me last season?”
“Oh, y’all sharing dick pics now?” De La Renta snatched his iPhone back. “That’s my exit cue.”
“Wait, what?” Miss Thing grabbed Pablo’s arm with his over-sized hand. “I swear to God, Pablo, I didn’t mean to do this.”
Pablo knew the network took their morality clause very seriously. Nude photos of talent going public was enough to get the model coach fired of his own accord. Another problem he would have to fix.
“Bye-bye, Miss Thing.” Keisha grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “Looks like we’ll be casting a new judge this season too.” The smug Supermodel gave a gentle wave of her delicate hand.
Pablo shifted his gaze towards the horizon. An ethereal vision appeared to float amongst the rippling heat vapors that bounced off the steel warship. He focused his eyes and could now see his knight in shining, new armor.
“What you all really need to be casting for around here, is a new Host,” her voice bellowed from the far side of the Intrepid deck.
Instinctively, Keisha snapped her neck back around to see Brenda Paris looking radiant, outfitted in a Chanel power suit.
“Mama! You’re out?”
“That’s right, Miss Kiki. I’m baaaaack!”