Middle Men by Jim Gavin

Swiffered his studio apartment in Mar Vista, and then sat down on his futon with a fresh notepad and tried to work on some new bits. He hated topical humor, and the heady, off-kilter stuff wasn’t working either, so he tried to think of things from his own life that might be used for material. After a while he remembered an incident from his days as a gas station attendant. One afternoon, as he stood by the pumps, with a squeegee in his hand, a man in a BMW handed him twenty bucks for gas and said, “Why don’t they just train a monkey to do your job?” Adam didn’t have a comeback then, and he didn’t have one now. It was justanother random moment of humiliation. He put his notepad down, opened a beer, and proceeded to watch six hours of The X-Files on DVD. Saturday seemed to drag along, and then, on Sunday evening, something strange happened. Around six o’clock, as the light was fading, he noticed a distinct lack of dread for the coming week. Instead of wallowing in regret for having accomplished nothing in his life—his favorite Sunday pastime—he was actually looking forward to getting up in the morning and going to the studio. For the first time, his job felt like the escape.
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    It was a quiet week, with no tapings scheduled. Adam ran his normal errands, zipping around the lot in his Benz. One section of the studio featured a fabricated Main Street, with shops and a town square. The old-timey buildings, once facades, were now used as administrative offices. Adam liked to eat lunch in a little courtyard just off Main Street. Most of the casting offices/eugenics labs were here, providing uncanny thrills. On Tuesday, Adam watched an anxious group of teenage girls, all blond, standing in line outside one office, clutching their headshots. On the landing above, a dozen thirtysomething brunettes were striding into another office.
    â€œAdam,” said a voice.
    He looked up and saw the guy he used to temp with. “Hey,” he said, hoping that would be enough.
    The guy was nicely dressed in crisp slacks and a collared shirt. Adam didn’t have to dress like that anymore, now that he was full-time. He wore jeans and a T-shirt to work. The guy said he was now temping in corporate, in the clearance department, whatever that was.
    â€œIf you guys have another ticket promotion,” he said, “maybe you could get me in there.”
    â€œSure,” said Adam. “Maybe.”
    â€œDo you have my email?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œGreat. Let me know.”
    â€œSure. I mean, there’s probably nothing I can do,” said Adam. “But still. Yeah.”
    After lunch, Melanie called Adam into her office and handed him a thick white manila envelope.
    â€œThis needs to go to Max’s house,” she said.
    â€œDo you want me to call the studio messenger?”
    â€œNo, Max doesn’t trust them. You need to drive it to his house.” She wrote down the address. “There’s no gate. Just ring the doorbell.”
    â€œWhat is this?”
    â€œPaperwork for one of his charities.”
    Adam read the seal on the envelope. “What’s the St. Maurice Foundation?”
    â€œIt provides assistance to Walloon-Americans affected by Katrina.”
    Adam laughed, but Melanie looked serious. On a bookshelf behind her there was an autographed picture of Robert Fox worth.
    â€œHe stuck me on the board of directors so I have deal with it,” she said. “Have Max sign these and bring them back. Tell him if he has any questions he can call me. And make sure you take down your mileage. We give you thirty cents per mile.”
    â€œCha-ching.”
    â€œYes, cha-ching. Hopefully, you’ll get there before Max’s afternoon jog. Go.”
    Driving north into the Hollywood hills, Adam saw Max twice, in billboard form. He crossed Sunset and gunned his gray Saturn along the shady curves of Laurel