1.

You don’t have to be famous to be featured on SpecialRequest. It’ll drive your rate up, sure, but it’s not a requirement. Most of the profiles on the app are people who were famous two decades ago — reality show contestants, leathery pro-wrestlers, washed-up political trolls, Dave Coulier.

And Damon. This is about Damon.

It wasn’t Damon’s only job, but if his bookings suddenly skyrocketed and he could do it full-time, he knew he would. It was a little unnerving and somewhat demoralizing, but wasn’t every job? Weren’t most people in this country spending their days wishing they were somewhere else?

He didn’t like to explain it to other people. Saying the whole thing out loud was humiliating and a bit dizzying: SpecialRequest was an app where strangers paid Damon to pretend he was a person he’d pretended to be so many years earlier.

His mom said it was “objectifying” but could it really be objectification if he was being paid?

“Yes,” she told him. “They’ve reduced you to a joke. You’re the object of their ridicule.” His mom was always saying things like that.

“It’s an autograph for the information age,” he told her. He thought it sounded just as smart as whatever she’d said. It was also the tagline of SpecialRequest.

She kept staring, waiting for something better.

“It’s easy money.”

“That should worry you,” she said, and he nodded along like he always did when she made it clear she wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation.

Damon wasn’t worried because he wasn’t deluded; he didn’t think this would re-ignite his career. Sure, it was dumb and a little embarassing, but so was waiting tables at the Outback. On SpecialRequest, all it took to make $25 was a phone, a positive attitude, and a few minutes of his time.

And the catchphrase. Everyone wanted the catchphrase.

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2.

In the audition for The Johnstones, Damon read for the part of Craig, the oldest Johnstone boy, even though his mother had told him that was a mistake. “You just don’t have the face of a leading man,” she’d said. “I’m sorry: leading boy.”

When one of the directors asked if he could instead read for the Russian exchange student next door, Damon said yes without thinking. He’d never attempted a Russian accent. He’d never been to Europe. He’d never even left California. But the casting director was still laughing when Damon looked up from the script, calling his accent, the one that sounded like discarded Red Scare propaganda, “So funny, and so real.”

In the pilot episode, Marty Johnstone, the patriarch, refuses to turn on the air conditioning because he wants to teach his family a lesson about economics. After a protracted standoff between Marty and the rest of his family, Vlad, the exchange student living next door, barges into the house. He flops down onto the couch and flicks on the TV, unaware of his rudeness. The audience offers a polite chuckle. Marty assumes Vlad, being unfamiliar with the luxuries of the first world, will back him up.

“How you feeling, Vlad?” he says, grinning at the rest of his family.

“Feeling, Comrade Johnstone?” There’s a beat. Damon turns toward the camera, mugging. “I’M SVEATING!”

The studio audience lost it. Viewers at home adored it. The writers’ room began feverishly re-writing future episodes to make sure that Vlad was given plenty of opportunities to recite the phrase they knew would sell t-shirts, lunchboxes, and prime time advertising.

When Vlad and Eddie, the middle Johnstone, realized the telescope could see across the street and into Melinda the cheerleader’s bedroom? “I’M SVEATING!” (S2, E11: “The Birds and the Bees”).

When Vlad got in too deep with the neighborhood bookie? “You need help me, Mr. Johnstone! I’M SVEATING!” (S3, E6: “All Bets are Off”).

When Natasha, another Russian exchange student, asked if he had a condom on prom night? “Pro-vo-LACtic? Now I’m REALLY SVEATING!” (S5, E9: “Kings and Queens”).

The show lasted longer than anyone imagined possible. All of the Johnstones did well for themselves, making good money during the initial run and even more after it went into syndication. Marty went on to three Oscar nominations for performances critics called “awe-inspiring”; Craig went back to the theater, starring in Tony Award-winning shows until he retired at forty. Damon, meanwhile, couldn’t walk into an audition without someone in the room asking him for the catchphrase. He didn’t need the money for those first few years, but he did need something to do. Eventually, he also needed the money, but people still couldn’t imagine him as anything other than Vlad.

“That means you’ve had a real effect on people,” a therapist once told him. “You’re a significant part of this country’s cultural landscape.” Later in the session, the same therapist called him Vlad. She apologized profusely, and Damon nodded that it was fine.

This was around the time he started believing that his problem was one that couldn’t be solved.

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3.

Damon was listed on SpecialRequest as VLAD THE RUSSIAN EXCHANGE STUDENT (FROM TV’S THE JOHNSTONES). In his intro video, he wore a red ushanka and stared directly into his phone’s lens. “GREETINGS, COMRADES!” he said, launching flecks of spit through the air. “I am Vlad, vayvrit Soviet next doyr. I am vaiylbull all events imaginebull. Now book!”

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” his mom said when he showed her the page. This was something she said whenever she was trying to be difficult. “But, is this legal?”

Damon blinked. “I signed up willingly.”

“No, I mean, do you own Vlad? Could they sue you?”

Damon didn’t know. It was not something he’d considered. He wished his mother had been this critical when she’d read over his meager contracts for home video sales.

One of his regulars at the Outback, a stubby guy who came in every day for lunch, was a lawyer. Or maybe he was a paralegal. Damon decided the distinction was negligible: the stubby guy would know enough. The next day he brought him a complimentary Bloomin’ Onion and explained his mother’s concern.

“Well, I guess if it came down to it you could say it’s a parody,” he said.

“A parody of what?”

The stubby guy took a drink from his can of Foster’s and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “I don’t know. Capitalism?”

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4.

Most of the requests were for birthday greetings, but there were also congratulations for job promotions and a few raunchy screeds for bachelorette parties. His reviews were overwhelmingly positive — the clients all mentioned that their friends had been shocked, that they’d died laughing, that they couldn’t believe it was Vlad.

He had to admit that he took some pride in his five-star rating. Unlike some of the other apps, a perfect rating on SpecialRequest wasn’t a sure thing; he’d seen other pages where clients wrote about how disappointed they’d been. At first he figured they were difficult customers, but after some investigating he’d found they were right. So many of his competitors didn’t even pretend to care.

“If I can make even one person’s day better, then I’m happy to embarrass myself,” he imagined telling an interviewer. It was a daydream that he indulged between tables at the Outback. Why the interviewer felt compelled to speak with him was not something he’d hashed out yet.

After one shift, Damon opened the app to find he had a new job offer. “Damon,” the message read. “I’d like you to record a video listing your home address.” From time-to-time he received requests from spammers, bots, and other assorted creeps. It was a part of working on the internet. He pressed delete and put his phone in his pocket.

A minute later, he felt a buzz on his thigh. There was another offer. “Damon,” the message read. “I’d like you to record a video listing your home address of 561 Montrose, Apartment B.”

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5.

SpecialRequest cares deeply about their Talent. It says so on the app’s Help tab: “Our Talent is the lifeblood of the bold social experiment that SpecialRequest has undertaken.” Damon planned on calling headquarters. He knew just what to say.

No, he wasn’t worried. It was probably nothing. He just thought he should mention it — so, you know, if the guy’s been harassing someone else. Thank you, he put a lot of time into the videos. Wow, really, that means so much. You know, if he can make just one person’s day better, then he’s happy to embarrass himself.

But there was no phone number listed. There wasn’t even an email address. “We stand by our product and believe the most effective form of communication is video messaging,” the Help tab read. “Please upload a video explaining your problem and we’ll be in touch with you shortly.”

A few minutes after sending the video, he received a message from the SpecialRequest Talent Support account. “Hi, Damon. Sorry to hear about your problem. Unfortunately the lighting in the video was quite poor. Would you mind re-recording and sending it along?”

He turned on every light in his bedroom. He googled the best angles for recording on an iPhone and tapped on the center of his screen like the blog told him, gently blotting out his face with his thumb. Within minutes, he had another message from SpecialRequest Talent Support. “Hi, Damon. Sorry to hear about your problem. Unfortunately, we mean ‘hear’ metaphorically, as the sound in your video was quite poor. Would you mind re-recording and sending it along?”

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6.

There was another message every five minutes.

“Damon,” one message read. “I want you to talk about your last shift at the Outback.”

“Damon,” one message read. “I want you to explain the history of overdrafts on your Wells Fargo account.”

“Damon,” one message read. “I want you to list all the things you see when you look in the mirror.”

“Call the cops,” his mom said. “Jesus Christ, how have you not called the cops?”

“What would I say?” He really didn’t know. The account was simply named DamonFan and its profile picture was the photo from Damon’s driver’s license. He knew he should be concerned, but part of him was fascinated.

“Say that you’re being harassed. That someone is stalking you.”

His phone buzzed. Another request.

“Are you sure that’s what this is?” Damon asked. “Stalking, I mean?”

He could hear her take the phone away from her face in exasperation. There might have been a scream, but it also might have been a passing truck. After a few seconds he again heard her breath on the other line. “I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to have your skin worn by some freak, you’re welcome to do so.”

“Damon,” one message read. “I want to hear about the complicated relationship with your mother.”

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7.

It was Damon who proposed the compromise. Rather than wasting time with individual videos, why not just leave the camera running?

They would connect directly and video chat. Payments would be made to Damon’s Wells Fargo account. As he typed out the bulleted items, he realized what was happening: he was writing a contract, and a lucrative one at that.

DamonFan agreed to all of the terms, proposing only one in return: he would need to remain anonymous. Damon saw no problem with this. As long as he was being paid, he didn’t really care. Later that day, he quit the Outback. When his mother called him back, he didn’t pick up.

DamonFan wanted to see every minute of his day, so Damon complied. He eyed his phone as he went about his routine, though the face on the other side was nothing but a shadow in a windowless room. From time-to-time there was a light cough or the creaking of an office chair, sounds that eventually became a part of Damon’s daily soundtrack.

There was nothing sexual, at least as far as Damon could tell. At first he thought he might have to entertain the shadow, prepare anecdotes or questions or something to earn his wage, but the shadow messaged him when he saw this kind of performance. “Damon,” one message read. “Please do less.”

So, he did. He did almost nothing. If the shadow wanted to be a part of his tedium, then he allowed it. He watered the plants, spent too much time on his laptop, and watched TV. His phone was there to capture every boring minute.

Damon was surprised when the routine began to feel normal and again when it began to feel comfortable. He did almost nothing, but it didn’t feel that way. Even the most mundane moments of his days suddenly felt meaningful now that someone was there to share them.

There was a word for that, he thought. There was a word that captured that exact feeling. Maybe it was a phrase. Whatever it was, it eluded him. He considered asking the shadow, but he knew he wouldn’t receive a response. That was all right, he thought. Sometimes those kinds of things are better left unsaid.

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