The phone rings. It's Donald. Again. He used to go to a stylist with the same name as me, and he gets confused when he's upset and calls my number, even though I've asked him not to.
"This is Don," he begins. "I need you."
"I told you I'm not into you," I say. "Besides, you're married and keep insisting that you're straight and I'm gay and engaged to William. And he's right here, asleep."
"That's not what I mean," he huffs. "I'm in trouble."
"Do you know what time it is?" I yawn and turn on the light.
"Sure," he says promptly. "Nine in the morning."
"In Frankfurt, maybe," I reply. "But I'm in San Francisco."
He ignores that. "I'll pay you $25,000. And send my jet to get you. And take you home. I'm in L.A. In Beverly Hills."
I hesitate. "What's this all about?" I ask carefully.
"I shampooed," he tells me, lowering his voice just a bit. "And it doesn't look right."
I almost tell him I'm a writer, but I rethink. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Everything is standing straight up and I can't get it under control. I look like I'm falling. It's disgusting. And I have an interview at ten."
"I don't think so..." I say slowly, examining my fingernails.
"I'll make it $50,000" he says at once. "In cash. Up front."
An hour and a half later, I board Don Trump's Lear jet in San Francisco. An hour after that, I step into a limousine. A half hour later, I get to the Beverly Hills Hotel.
It's 3:00AM.
I take a private elevator to a penthouse which looks like an air fresher commercial. Sure enough, there's Don. I try not to stare at his terrycloth bathrobe or focus on his head. I've already seen the age spots and the scars from implants that didn't take.
"Look," he says- pointing. At first glance, it looks like a yellow porcupine. Then I realize what it is. "I have to be at CBS in five and a half hours," he adds edgily.
"Hmm..."I say as I stroke my chin and try to look thoughtful. But I don't want to blow my cover. Not with $50,000 in play.
"Can you fix it?" he asks.
"Oh sure, sure," I say in a soothing professional tone. I pick it up and examine it. It feels just like the fiberglass "angel hair" that we used to put on our Christmas tree.
"Do you need me for this?" he asks. "If you don't, I'll..."
"No, no," I say hastily. "Get some sleep and leave it to me. But it will have to set and dry for a few hours." I like how "set and dry" sounds. The truth is: I have no idea how to fix this thing. The last time he called, it was to fluff the thing up; that was a cinch. But this is serious.
He nods and goes off into the pastel splendor of his suite. I sit there and try to decide how I'm going to finesse this situation. Then I get a brainstorm.
The concierge sounds surprised by my request. But- hey!- I'm calling from Trump's suite; a little money changes hands, and, sure enough, by 4:00, I have what I need.
"Hold nozzle away from face. Do not breathe fumes," says the label.
I squint, take two deep breaths, and spray the fuck out of that thing. After that I put on the surgical gloves, pat it all into what I'd call 'reasonable shape,' and nod. Then I get the hell out, take the limo to the airport and fly home- $50,000 richer and ready for a vacation with William. He's amazed when I wake him up and tell him what I did. But- hey!- he likes the tropics. And he's a spontaneous guy.
I don't know what Don thinks when he gets up and finds that glob of yellow spray paint but, later, I hear the news, how "Mr. Trump cancelled all his appointments due to a stomach ache." Maybe that gives him time to buy paint remover? Or find the real Adrian Brooks- the stylist? I hope so. There's serious money to be made.
Bali is just as nice as the online photos and it's a relief to be away from the phone.