So there you go. Whoever this John of yours is, he can’t be Max Friedlander.
Oh, how I wish I’d been there that night you brought him to Fresche for our inspection. I could have told you straightaway he wasn’t Max.
I blame myself.
Is the Xanax I slipped you in the ladies’ working yet?
XXXOOO
Dolly
To: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
From: Max Friedlander <photoguy@stopthepresses.com>
Subject: You are a dead man
What is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you messing around with my aunt’s next-door neighbor? The reporter from the Journal? And doing it UNDER MY NAME???
Are you mental? I told you to walk Aunt Helen’s dog. That’s all. Just walk the stupid dog.
So why am I getting phone calls from my agent saying that that Dolly Vargas broad, the one I know from the Journal, has been calling around asking a bunch of questions about me? Specifically, how can I be in New York, going out with her friend Melissa, when I’m supposed to be in Key West, doing Vivica?
This is bad, dude. Really bad. I am in a bad place here, and you are just making things worse. Vivica caught me messing around with the maid—which was so totally not my fault: The woman wouldn’t keep her hands off me—and now she’s gone.
Which is admittedly something of a relief, so far as my finances are concerned. But there is no telling what she’s going to do when she gets back to New York. Blow my cover, most likely.
This is bad. Really bad. Why couldn’t you have just done what I asked you, and nothing more? Now if my aunt wakes up, she’s going to know I didn’t fly back up there to take care of her stupid pets.
This is uncool, dude. Way uncool.
Max
To: Jason Trent <jason.trent@trentcapital.com>
From: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
Subject: Help
I think I am in big trouble.
John
To: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
From: Jason Trent <jason.trent@trentcapital.com>
Subject: What do you mean
help? Help what? How can you be in big trouble? I thought you’d left for Vermont. Why are you still here?
Stacy says to write her. Her brain is atrophying from too much daytime television.
Jason
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: jerrylives@freemail.com
Subject: I know
you’re home, I can see that your bedroom light is on. So why won’t you answer the door? Or your phone?
Mel, I know something is wrong, and I think I know what it is, but unless you talk to me, how can I make it right?
Because I can, I can make it right, if you would just give me the chance. Please, please, please open the door.
John
To: Tony Salerno <foodie@fresche.com>
From: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Well, it happened
Just like I knew it would. I KNEW this guy was too good to be true. And that whole John thing. I told you it was weird to have a nickname like John, didn’t I?
Well, I was right. I’m not happy that I was right, but I was right. His nickname isn’t John. That’s his REAL name. That’s all we know so far, except for the fact that we know what his name ISN’T: It ISN’T Max Friedlander. Apparently, the real Max Friedlander paid this guy to POSE as him or something, so that he (the real Max) could hang out in Key West with Vivica, the supermodel, instead of flying back to New York to walk his aunt’s dog.
Poor Mel. Poor, poor Mel.
Why did I have to be right? I’d pay money not to have been right. I’d give up my new size 12 figure to have been wrong. Seriously.
Nad :-(
To: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
From: Tony Salerno <foodie@fresche.com>
Subject: Let me see
if I have this straight:
This guy Mel’s been seeing was just pretending to be Max Friedlander—a guy who you never liked, because you’d heard bad things about him—and now all of a sudden it turns out he’s NOT Max Friedlander. Only instead of being relieved, because he isn’t the dog you originally thought him, you’re mad because he lied.
I don’t get you women. I really don’t. I mean, I’ll admit the guy exercised some poor judgment, but at least he never put ice on anyone’s nipples.
Tony
To: Tony Salerno <foodie@fresche.com>
From: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
He lied. He lied to her. How is she supposed to believe anything he said to her, when he never even told her his real name?
What is wrong with you? Whose side are you on?
Nad
To: jerrylives@freemail.com
From: Tony Salerno <foodie@fresche.com>
Subject: You really blew it
Dude, remember how you gave me your e-mail address and told me to send you that recipe for my rigatoni bolognese so you could surprise Mel with it?
Well, I don’t think you’re going to be needing it. Because from what I’m hearing, you are in the doghouse, but good.
So what’s the deal? Max Friedlander paid you to tell Mel you were him or something? Because that is what the girls are saying.
I do not know what is up with you, but you had better start sandbagging, because you are in for some heavy artillery fire. Either that, or get out of there, dude. Seriously. Save yourself, because it’s all going to start coming down.
Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.
Tony
To: Max Friedlander <photoguy@stopthepresses.com>
From: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
Subject: No, YOU are the dead man
What are you trying to do to me? Are you CRAZY? How did Mel find out about all this?
John
To: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
From: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>
Subject: WHAT’S HAPPENING???
Why isn’t anyone telling me anything? Jason says something is wrong. What is it? Aren’t you supposed to be in Vermont?
Damn these cramps….
Stacy
To: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
From: Max Friedlander <photoguy@stopthepresses.com>
Subject: Quit your whining
You owed me one, remember?
Anyway, it isn’t my fault. It was Vivica. She did it. She apparently e-mailed your girl. I can see the message in my outbox. Want to see it? Here is it, and I must say, it’s a brilliant testament to the inadequacies of our public school system:
<YOU DON’T KNOW ME, BUT MY NAME IS VIVICA, AND I THINK YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT THAT GUY WHO HAS BEEN WALKING MAX’S AUNT’S DOG ISN’T MAX AT ALL, BUT HIS FRIEND JOHN, WHO OWED MAX A FAVOR ON ACCOUNT OF MAX HELPING JOHN OUT OF A JAM BACK IN VEGAS WHEN HE ALMOST MARRIED A REDHEADED SHOWGIRL NAMED HEIDI. JOHN IS JUST PRETENDING TO BE MAX ON ACCOUNT OF MAX NOT BEING ABLE TO COME BACK TO NEW YORK TO WALK HIS AUNT’S DOG BECAUSE HE IS HERE IN KEY WEST WITH ME. BUT HE DIDN’T WANT HIS AUNT TO THINK HE DIDN’T CARE, SO HE HAD JOHN DO IT FOR HIM.
She goes on, ad nauseam, in this vein, but I thought I’d spare you.
You can’t honestly tell me you’re upset about this. I’m the one whose ass is grass here. If that bitch of an aunt of mine wakes up and hears about this I am dead meat. Every cent she has will go straight to the ASPCA when she croaks. You can bet I won’t see a penny of it.
Not that it matters. It’s time I took care of this once and for all, the way I should have from the beginning.
So who knows? You might be seeing me sooner than you think.
And as for that threat about me being a dead man, I have one word for you:
Alimony. I saved you from years and years of it, buddy. So don’t you forget it.
Max
To: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>
From: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
Subject: Things aren’t going
too well right now, in answer to your question. Mel found out about the whole posing-as-Max-Friedlander thing before I had the chance to tell her myself, and let’s just say she’s not too happy about it. In fact, she isn’t speaking to me.
I could really use some advice right now, but no one is answering the phone at your place.
John
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: jerrylives@freemail.com
Subject: The truth
All right. You won’t answer the door. You won’t pick up the phone. I KNOW you’re there. If this is the only way I’m going to be able to get through to you, then so be it.
Mel, I screwed up. Okay? I really, really screwed up, and I know it. I should have just told you the truth from the beginning, but I didn’t. I can’t tell you how many times I almost did just that—told you the truth, I mean. A thousand times. A million.
But every time I started to, I knew—I just knew—you were going to react this way, and I didn’t want to spoil what we have together, because, Mel, what we have is so great. Are you really going to throw it away because I made one stupid—okay, massively idiotic—mistake?
It isn’t as if I purposefully set out with the intention of deceiving you. Well, that’s not exactly true. I did, but when I did it, it wasn’t as if I knew you. I mean, I get this e-mail from Max, and all he wants is this one thing—to trick his aunt’s neighbors into thinking he was taking care of her business while she was in the hospital—and I thought, why not? I did owe the guy. I figured it was a virtually painless way to pay him back for a favor he did me a long time ago.
You don’t know Max Friedlander—the real Max Friedlander—but believe me, he’s not somebody you want holding something over your head—like a favor you owe him—because he’s likely to call you on it when you least expect it, and generally in a not-very-pleasant manner.
How was I supposed to know that while pretending to be Max Friedlander, I was going to meet the girl of my dreams? I know I should have told you from the start, but I didn’t, and then before I knew it I was in love with you, and I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you. I swear I was going to tell you this weekend.
Mel, this is ridiculous. I know what I did was wrong, but I never meant it to hurt you. I mean, you must know that. You know me, regardless of what my name is. So you must know I would never purposefully hurt you.
Now open your door and let me in so I can apologize in person. Mel, I promise I can make this all right again, if you’d just let me.
John
To: jerrylives@freemail.com
From: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: The truth
You tell me you want me to open my door and let you in, but the fact is, I don’t know who “you” are. I don’t even know your last name. Do you realize that?
And you might as well quit knocking, because I am not letting you in. For all I know, you could be an escaped convict or married or something.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: John Trent <john.trent@thenychronicle.com>
Subject: The truth
I’m not married, and I’m not an escaped convict. My name is John Trent, and I’m a crime reporter for the New York Chronicle. That’s why you ran into me by the sinkhole that day—I was at work when it happened.
And I know how you feel about the Chronicle, but Mel, I swear to you, if it bothers you that much, I’ll quit. I’ll do anything, anything you want, if you’ll forgive me.
John
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Well?
Did you call him? Has he apologized?
More importantly, HAS HE GIVEN YOU THE RING YET?
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
From: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: The apology
Oh, he apologized, all right. For what it’s worth.
And no, he hasn’t given me the ring yet. If it even is a ring. Which I doubt.
And as if I’d even take it, if it was.
Get this: You know who he is? You know who he really is? You’ll never guess.
Go on. Try. Try to guess who he really is.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: How am I supposed
to know who he really is? He can’t be the transvestite killer, I know that, since they just arrested a guy for that. He’s not, oh, I don’t know, a professional mime, or something, is he?
Oh, wait, I know: He’s your long-lost illegitimate brother.
Just kidding.
Come on, Mel, how bad can it be?
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
From: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Bad
Worse than a mime. Worse than my illegitimate brother.
He’s a reporter. With the Chronicle.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
From: George Sanchez <george.sanchez@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Where the hell
is Fuller? She better not be in the ladies’. I swear to God, I’m beginning to think there’s somebody in there serving lattes, you all spend so much time locked in those damned stalls….
Go in there and tell her I want that story on the Ford/Flockhart breakup by five.
George
To: George Sanchez <george.sanchez@thenyjournal.com>
From: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Show a little compassion, will you?
She just found out her boyfriend is a reporter with the Chronicle. She’s been crying her eyes out ever since. You can’t expect her to snap back like it was nothing.
Please don’t tell anyone about it, either, all right? She’s in a very fragile emotional state right now. What she needs is closure, and she’s not going to get it if everybody keeps hounding her for an explanation as to why her eyes are so red.
Nad
To: Tim Grabowski <timothy.grabowski@thenyjournal.com>
From: Jimmy Chu <james.chu@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
I told you it wasn’t going to work out between the two of them.
Jim
To: Jimmy Chu <james.chu@thenyjournal.com>
From: Tim Grabowski <timothy.grabowski@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
No, what you actually said was that if she slept with him and it didn’t work out, she was going to have to see him every day, since he lives right next door, and that that would be very awkward. You did not actually predict this breakup.
Sorry, no points for you.
Tim
To: Stella Markowitz <stella.markowitz@thenyjournal.com>
From: Angie So <angela.so@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
I told you he was too old for her.
Angie
To: Angie So <angela.so@thenyjournal.com>
From: Stella Markowitz <stella.markowitz@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
It’s not his age that matters. It’s the fact that he’s—did you hear the latest?—a reporter for the Chronicle.
Yes, the Chronicle!
Can you believe it? Talk about sleeping with the enemy.
Stella
To: Adrian De Monte <adrian.de.monte@thenyjournal.com>
From: Les Kellogg <leslie.kellogg@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
Did you hear? It turns out that guy Mel’s been so crazy about is a reporter. With the Chronicle, no less.
I guess it could have been worse. He could have turned out to be sleeping with Barbara Bellerieve all along, like the last guy she went out with.
Les
To: Nadine Wilcock <nadine.wilcock@thenyjournal.com>
From: George Sanchez <george.sanchez@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: Mel Fuller
I don’t care if it turns out the guy’s on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list: She’s going to have to come out of that bathroom and deal with him, because he’s downstairs by the security desk, trying to get signed in. Go get her.
George
To: Security@thenyjournal.com
From: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: John Trent
Please do not allow John Trent access to this building. He is a reporter with the Chronicle, in addition to being a very dangerous individual. I strongly encourage the use of force in removing him from the building.
Melissa Fuller
Page Ten Columnist
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller <melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.com>
From: Amy Jenkins <amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com>
Subject: John Trent
Dear Ms. Fuller,
Please note that in the future, requests for individuals to be made personae non gratae in any building falling under the administrative management of the New York Journal must be made in writing through Human Resources, where they will be reviewed and then passed on to the security department, if deemed valid.