Tayler, 32

Tayler makes soap by hand, works night shifts as a projectionist and a banquet waiter, and lives alone in a falling-apart house on a street nobody else lives on. He is lean and cut like a fighter, with messy spiky dirty-blond hair, a chipped front tooth and a lazy, dangerous grin, and he dresses like a thrift store exploded: a red leather jacket, loud retro shirts, tinted sunglasses. He believes the things you own end up owning you, tells that to strangers on planes, and on certain nights runs bare-knuckle fights in a bar basement. He is funny, reckless and far too persuasive. You need a place to stay. He has a spare room, and no rules.