GUY FRIDAY

BOUNDARIES

        Today my client is Devon Shae. Actress. Most actors only need an hour with their acting coaches to prep for roles. The time-consuming part is basic line memorization. Devon usually uses me for three hours. Full day pay. Always. Five hundred dollars. Some clients need me for the full twenty-four hours. Twenty dollars an hour. I never double book. If Devin calls me later that night for more memorizing, I'm there. Devon can not call later to ask me to bring her a tampon. Line memorization only. Communication. Boundaries.

        Devon can hire me for the day to go shopping, pick up dry cleaning, and then memorize lines. Today is just lines.

        Devon lives in a house in West Hollywood. I arrive five minutes early. Always. Sometimes I actually arrive twenty minutes early to make sure I am five minutes early. Today my timing is perfect. I park my blue Jeep Compass, walk to the door, and ring the bell. Devon answers in cut-off denim shorts and a white-t-shirt.

        "Friday! Babe, come on in."

        Back yard. Pool. Lines. I notice a man sitting underneath a lemon tree.

        "Devon, who's that guy?"

        Devon turns toward the lemon tree, "What guy?"

        I blink. I can clearly see a man sitting beneath the tree. Blink. He's gone.

        "Friday? Nobody's there."

        "I thought I saw something," I say.

        "Fucking paparazzi," Devon mutters.

        I nod my head thankful for the logical explanation provided.

*

        I leave four hours later and drive back to my apartment on Sunset. Exit the elevator and into my apartment. I hear a phone alert. A client needs someone to watch their house in Malibu for a week. Nina Rossin. Fashion emergency in New York. Her house was burglarized a few years ago, and even with a half a million dollar security system she still prefers a stand-in. Nina is another regular client of mine. I look over the details and start a shower.

        Exit shower.

        I dry off, click the TV on mute, and turn on a music playlist. Another client alert. Three-day gig. Miscellaneous errands. Another regular client. Richard Beene. Screenwriter. A needy screenwriter. Simple stuff, he's not that bad. I accept the gig in Malibu with Nina. Thirty-five hundred dollars. I lay in bed and suck in my hash vape. Two days off until Malibu.

        I should probably visit Diamond at the Candy Club. It's only nine in the evening. I take out my DICE pills and swallow a 2-DOWN. I immediately fall asleep and wake up two hours later. Catnap. I head out and walk a couple of blocks down Sunset till I reach the Candy Club. I see Diamond and we meet in a private booth.

        "Hey Guy, what you need?"

        Diamond directs me to another private booth. A dancer in a neon pink wig hands me a bag with my DICE and hash oil. I walk back home down Sunset. Apartment building. Elevator. Up. Up. Up. Blink. Man.

        Out of nowhere, the lemon tree guy is standing next to me in the elevator.

        Blink. Still there. Blink. Gone.