The Boy Next Door - Weebly

To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: SOS
I don't even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max?
And please, I'm begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other, state.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: SOS
Look, it'll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two.
Well, okay, maybe a month. Simple, right? Here's the 411:
My aunt--you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of
your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is? The one who was so mean about
our apartment? The neighborhood wasn't that bad.
Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her
place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she's in the vegetable crisper at Beth
Israel. There is a chance--albeit a small one--according to her doctors, that she might come
out of it. So you understand that it simply won't do to have her waking up and finding out
that her beloved Maxie didn't fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie
Helen's will is arranged 80-20--80% of the twelve million my aunt is worth goes to me
upon her demise, and 20% goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We
wouldn't want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we,
on account of Maxie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during
this alarming tragedy? Of course we wouldn't. Which is where you, my friend, come in:
You're going to tell this neighbor of hers that you're me.
That's it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen--if she ever
comes around, which is extremely doubtful--that yes, her beloved nephew Maxie did
show up as soon as he heard about her little accident. Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk
this dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.
And of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you
call me. Got it? And I'll rush right back.
But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind
of thing is pretty much nil, I won't be expecting to hear from you.
You know I wouldn't ask you to do this if we weren't talking Vivica here. Okay?
VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga. YOGA, Trent.
You do this for me, and your slate's clean, dude. Whadduya say?
Max