The one with the product that no longer exists...

I have to be in Zuma by 9am. Mr X needs something picked up. I’m on the road. All 88 miles of a round trip. I've included a picture I took while driving my hire car. Yep. That's the road going to Zuma. The PCH. I just love it. LOVE IT. The ocean all the way. I’m going to pick up something from Malibu. The trouble is this 'thing' doesn't exist anymore. The company's in liquidation... And that's what I find out as I arrive. My first thought? shit.

It’s very hard explaining to someone that certain things don’t exist anymore. So… I’m looking for a solution. That’s the key to being an assistant here. Sure. There’s a problem but find a solution. If they’re reasonable they’ll listen. If they’re not they’re a wanker so fuck ‘em. Mr X is reasonable. But… I still find the whole confrontation aspect scary.

Having to say ‘they don’t have what you want’ or ‘they can’t do what you want them to do’ is not easy. People don’t get it. But such is life. This is what happens here. Everyone’s on the greasy pole and they all have a sense of entitlement. Even me. But… I’m the bottom of the food chain. And that’s so hard to deal with. Still… I have a bit of power.

Mr X also wants a DS Lite for his daughter for Xmas. In a special pink colour. I’ve checked on line. They don’t exist. They were limited edition last year. Now what? I’ve googled. I’ve ebayed. I’ve phoned Japan. Stress. Will she be happy with another colour? I do hope so.

While driving from Malibu to Zuma I'm trying to sort out his phone. I've been on the phone for 40 cocking minutes. And… the upshot. I’m not authorised on his account. I ring up again and pretend to be Mr X. I put on an US accent. I try to be a man. It’s just humiliating. I pretend I'm a man with a cold - I'm shocking. The US accent, the man accent... it's gone horribly wrong for me.

Mr X's writing partner, Mr A, hears me walking around the house pretending to be Mr X. He’s ashamed on my behalf. He’s never heard anything so pathetic in all his years. And… obviously… they still won’t talk to me.

I track Mr X down in the bathroom to get the authorisation. I hate the beaurocracy here. I have the keys to his life. I know everything about him from SS number to passwords (which I’ve set up) but I can’t get phone information. A joke. A fucking joke. By 10.30am this is still going on and I’m ready to stab someone. Anyway… eventually I head back to West Hollywood. Furious. FURIOUS. But I can’t lose it because I’m doing a job for him and he needs his phone working. In the end it’s all about money and payments. There wasn’t even a fault on the line. Another day in Hollywood land. Another person's cock up rather than mine but... this isn't important right now.

Back on the homestead...

Someone’s coming over to Roof’s place to give it the onceover. Is it clean enough? His lease is up on December 31st. I’ve tried to keep it clean. I’ve fallen in love with the place. It feels like home. I feel sorry for his neighbour though. Andrea. When I told him Roof had gone he looked at me as if I’d put a knife through his heart. He wanted Roof’s email, which I refused to give, I said he could give me his. He went off in a huff and I never heard from him again.

Later that day, I head to the police station. I’ve filled in my ‘victims assistance claim’ and I want some answers. No one’s terribly helpful. I’m at the station asking for help. No one really wants to know. Don’t get shot in the Wilshire District. That’s my tip. I wait about half an hour and then, finally, someone comes out. They’re a bit sympathetic. Just a bit. I want to cry but I remember I’ve got to go to Roof’s place to wait for his running machine to turn up. It turns up but they won’t take it downstairs. It’s 480 pounds and they can’t deal with it. I tried cleavage. Nothing. I tried a cash bribe. Nothing. They just left. Shit. I promised Roof I’d take care of it but they just wouldn’t play ball. I feel awful. Damn. Now what? Maybe I am a crap assistant after all?