DEL SAT in his home office, perusing a proposal he’d received from one studio. He wasn’t happy with it.
The rumors were accurate. Production offers had, indeed, snowballed to eight figures, fueled by Arnie’s covert attempts to prune the grapevine. But this particular studio had low-balled its offer. And not only that, he envisioned much greater marketing potential than this studio proposed. After all, he was talking Marilyn Monroe, not Donna Reed.
He considered the demand for this project. Sure, he’d expected it to become the hottest item around. And it was big news for the Baby Boomers, those who grew up watching the actress’s films in theaters. But the themes into which her script delved were ahead of her time. Del harbored no doubts this film would resonate with Gen-Xers and Millennials, too. If he could get those kids to double their attention to it on social media, it might drive up demand for the product—and the selling price of the rights.
But it needed to happen under the radar. The fire needed to burn at the grassroots level. If he hired a publicist to handle it, word would leak to the studios that he’d manufactured a mirage of demand.
Who might know the right channels to maneuver this in a subtle way? Who was more adept at social media than Del?
He scratched the stubble on his chin. The answer was so close, he could mouth the name, if only he could locate the syllables to fill the gap. He clenched his fists. Think, Del, think! His instincts told him he knew someone in his circle of acquaintances who—
Nora’s new friend! Or boyfriend, or whatever he was. What was his name again?
Tristan!
Didn’t he run some sort of business online? He would know how to stimulate demand and cause it to multiply!
Del grabbed his cell phone. He’d entered Tristan’s contact information the evening they met. Mere habit. Del never expected to contact the kid, but he’d learned long ago never to discard a contact. The world was too small for that.
Tristan answered on the third ring.
“Del?”
“Tristan, my man! Long time, no talk!”
Silence. Confusion. “Okay…how’s it going?”
“Listen, I have a conundrum here, and I could use your expertise, if you’re willing to help.”
A pause, followed by a voice of hesitation. “Me? How?”
“You’re familiar with all this social media stuff, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Much more familiar than I am. You know all the outlets I’d never fathom, and you probably have social circles I don’t. I need to get word to trickle out in a way that’s effective, but shall we say…discreet.”
“Is this about the script?”
“Indeed. And since you mentioned you run your business online, I figured you might know all those little marketing tricks that create demand.”
Tristan sniffed on the other end, then said, “I’d love to help you, Del, but the work I do—I don’t run that kind of business. If I did a ton of marketing, I’d have more demand than I could handle. I’ve got a heavy load as it is.”
Whoever heard of tempering demand for a product? How did the kid pay his bills with that kind of logic?
“Surely you’d have an idea or two, though. What kind of merchandise do you sell?”
“I don’t sell merchandise, Del. I sell a service. And I handle the whole workload myself.”
“What kind of service?”
“I’m a wellness coach, and I do it all online.”
Had Del heard correctly? He shook his phone, then turned up the volume a notch.
“Did you say you’re a wellness coach?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re how old?”
“Thirty-three.”
Del wanted to burst forth in laughter but, dumbfounded as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to the precipice.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what does a thirty-three-year-old know about the fullness of life’s answers?”
“I don’t need to know the answers, Del. I just need to say the right things to make people feel better about themselves.”
Del could hear the shrug in Tristan’s voice. Did this seem ordinary to the kid? Just your average, everyday way to make a living? He was a professional bullshitter! Either that, or he was a genius.
“And people pay you for that?”
“I make a decent living.”
“Are they other people your age?”
“Most are older. You’d be surprised.”
“And they tell you their secrets? Their private stuff?”
“It’s anonymous, from beginning to end, including their online payments. Totally faceless. So they feel like they can drop their guard. They use fake names if they want to. I just give them practical advice, reassurance. I’m their motivator, like a personal trainer for the mind or whatever.”
“I realize so much occurs online these days, but aren’t people skeptical of an online wellness coach they’ve never met?”
“As long as there are enough people who aren’t skeptical and the dollars roll in, it doesn’t matter. Frankly, I don’t care how it looks—I’m the one with the killer income.”
Del thought he’d heard it all. Then today happened. Frustrated, he scratched his head.
“And you got certified in this?”
“You don’t need certifications. You just open up shop.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Of course not.” Tristan snickered. “You sound shocked, Del.”
“So you don’t really have the answers,” Del said.
“Hey, man, does anybody have the answers? No. So I’m not gonna bust my balls over it.”
“I don’t understand,” Del said. “Don’t you feel weird taking people’s money for advice without having any actual qualifications to give it?
“Look, people are gonna spend their money on something. Many of them want somebody to tell them what to do. I just give them what they want.”
“Which is?”
“Well, everyone’s different. Most of my lady clients want a gentle listener, so I give them that. If a dude needs a set of balls, then for a few hundred bucks, I’ll strap a pair of brass ones to his crotch. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“And your advice works?”
“Clients tell me it does.”
“But if it doesn’t, won’t you lose a client? Shouldn’t that concern you?”
“Listen, man, I have more clients than I know what to do with. Suppose I lose one, or ten, or a hundred. What are they gonna do, tell their friends not to contact me? That’s how many prospects nixed per rejection? Ten? Meanwhile, people find me on search engines by the thousands. I don’t need to lift a finger to advertise anymore.”
Unbelievable. And all these years, Del had fancied himself the clever one. “And it’s a random assortment of clients?”
“They run the gamut of backgrounds. Businesspeople, graduate students who don’t want to leave academia, bored housewives. Anywhere from Boston to Boise. I even have some sort of celebrity these days—sounds like an actress or something. A sad situation, really. She’s under a lot of pressure.”
Uh-oh.
Tristan’s words felt like a crescent wrench sinking to the bottom of Del’s gut. He tried to recall the details of his recent conversation with Nora. She had mentioned talking to a wellness coach. And she’d said he was online. Exclusively.
“A celebrity?” Del hedged. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you that. Besides, she uses a fake name. She must be huge if she won’t even tell me her first name.”
“What’s she looking for advice about?”
“Come on, Del. Please don’t ask me for details. I need to respect the whole coach-and-client confidentiality thing.”
Sure. Now he makes the case for professional standards.
“How’d she hear about you?”
“She stumbled across a business card. I leave them lying around. Said she never tried a coach before, figured she’d give it a shot.
Del couldn’t blame Tristan for playing the game to make a living. After all, Del himself played the game in his own professional sphere. Yet his suspicion that Nora was Tristan’s client concerned him. If not for Del’s chat with her and its timing, he would have discounted the coincidence as unlikely.
Tristan wasn’t a bad guy, but Nora was in a delicate position these days. After Del’s experience with Marilyn, he didn’t want to lose another friend before her time. And if she happened to get advice from Tristan under the impression he was someone else, and it ended up hurting her…
Del would need to keep his eyes open.
“Well, I suppose everyone needs to make a living.”
“Exactly. It’s not like my motives are sleazy, Del. I’m not living on the government dole. I’m earning an honest living.”
“True,” Del conceded. “So you don’t have any social-media advice for my little project?”
“I don’t think you need to stimulate anything,” Tristan replied, his tone revealing a knowing smirk had taken up residence at the other end of the phone connection. “I have a hunch this wildfire is bigger than you could hope to control. Big bucks for you, huh?”
“Yeah,” Del replied, his mind elsewhere. “Something like that.”
He clicked to end the call.
Del couldn’t move. He locked his jaw as he tried to convince himself he’d stumbled upon a coincidence and nothing more.