TRISTAN ALBRECHT ZIPPED ALONG a busy suburban street in Oxnard in his Chevy Impala. At thirty-three years old, he could convince anyone he was ten years younger. He bobbed his head to an odd track of Mexican rap music that blared from his stereo by way of Bluetooth and a playlist on his phone. A market existed for every desire. Give them what they want.
The midmorning California sun radiated upon his arm as he hung his elbow out the window. He held the steering wheel in a loose grip with his right hand. From behind his sunglasses, he watched the traffic light turn red at the intersection ahead, eased to a stop, and sipped his café Americano. He pinched the flesh above his waist. Although he’d managed to keep his waistline trim, early signs of a muffin top horrified him.
Once the light turned green again, he made a sharp left and veered into his neighborhood, tires screeching into a parking spot in front of his first-floor apartment. He cut the ignition, hopped out, and headed inside. His next-door neighbor sat cross-legged and shirtless on a yoga mat in the grass, wearing sunglasses and shorts that exposed far too much thigh for Tristan’s heterosexual taste. Tristan gestured hello with his coffee cup to the schmuck who had his hands at his sides, each thumb and forefinger connected. The dude offered no response, so he must have had his eyes shut, too busy drifting between Mars and Venus or wherever those people traveled. Tristan enjoyed slamming his car door shut to see if the guy flinched. He never did.
Heading into his apartment, Tristan shoved his keys into the pocket of his jeans, kicked off his flip-flops, grabbed his laptop from the coffee table, and shuffled to a small patio outside his living room. Another pull from his Americano as he logged into his email and changed his identity to Russell Merritt.
Russell Merritt, wellness coach.
When you’re online and faceless, you can become anybody you wish. A market existed for every desire.
In the case of his latest email message, the desire resided within a lonely housewife in Beverly Hills. The woman had interacted with him for the last few years, a sporadic client who, Tristan suspected, contacted him whenever her hormones got out of whack. But he was no doctor, so who was he to judge?
According to her email, she’d followed his advice and continued her steady use of herbs and traditional supplements—little tidbits he’d discovered online when he first started this venture. Tristan hadn’t noticed changes when he himself had tried them and didn’t believe they made a difference, but he’d noticed when his clients popped them, they could convince themselves a positive change had occurred in their bodies, which gave them a renewed sense of self-control. Feeling stressed? Try some chamomile tea and take a magnesium tablet before bed.
The woman claimed her name was Jennifer. When it came to a go-to name like that, Tristan suspected it represented a higher proportion among his faceless clients compared to the general population. Last time they chatted, this particular Jennifer had sought help finding a therapeutic hobby. According to the notes he’d saved under her client ID in his makeshift database, she’d expressed an interest in colors and perspective. Why not try painting? Tristan—that is, Russell Merritt—had suggested. Jennifer soon reported newfound freedom after picking up some basic supplies at the store and channeling her emotions onto a canvas. According to her latest email, however, she’d hit a snag and wanted to know if he had time to contact her.
He knew she lived on her cell phone and would have it with her, so Tristan (Russell Merritt) opened his instant messaging application.
RMerritt44: Hi Jennifer. Are you available?
A pause as he sipped his Americano and Bluetoothed some more rap music through his stereo with the volume down. His laptop pinged.
Jen99288: You were right about painting. It’s the perfect outlet. I think I’ve found my calling.
RMerritt44: Have you researched a particular method?
Jen99288: My method is to put on paper what I feel at the moment. I think it’s helped me cleanse my soul.
RMerritt44: I understand. Excellent thinking on your part. You can’t underestimate the importance of your soul. Inner well-being is as important as, if not more so than, your outer well-being.
That line seemed to be a winner with his clients. Tristan had used it more times than he could count. Inner well-being could mean whatever each client wanted it to mean; he didn’t care, as long as he got paid. But he had to admit, it made him sound pretty damn intelligent.
Jen99288: I showed one of my paintings to my girlfriend Gillian, who said she believes they could appear in a gallery.
RMerritt44: That is wonderful! You sounded doubtful in your last email.
Jen99288: Yes, it’s my husband. He hasn’t been so supportive. I don’t think he understands how important painting is to my soul.
Tristan pushed aside his brown hair, which had flopped over one eye, and made a mental note to get a haircut. He maintained a shaggy cut in the current trend of careless cool. He shaved every other day.
RMerritt44: Do you recall what I have told you about his opinion?
Jen99288: Yes, you’re right. You said it takes time for greatness to become appreciated. My opinion is what matters, and I should search for my own inner happiness.
RMerritt44: I believe you have made much progress. Next time you paint, try to find the colors to express inner peace. I believe that will help you.
Tristan could help himself. Even he had to chuckle at that line of bullshit.
Jen99288: Thank you, Russ. I always feel better after my sessions with you.
RMerritt44: My pleasure. And tell you what, I won’t charge you for this session. We’ll consider it a follow-up appointment.
Jen99288: Talk later.
Tristan hadn’t planned on becoming a wellness coach. Hell, he’d never even sought training in it.
Fifteen years ago, upon graduating high school, Tristan skipped town and migrated to Los Angeles. An idealistic teenager, he’d had one plan: to become famous. After all, he considered himself a decent-looking guy with aqua-blue eyes, a hot tub into which females couldn’t help but wade.
Tristan didn’t become famous. He never stumbled across an acting gig. However, within six months of his arrival, he’d become the most popular server at his neighborhood Denny’s.
The Internet had come into its prime. People had grown more comfortable purchasing merchandise, making donations, and conducting business online. Everyone he knew had acquired an email address. Within a few short years, websites had advanced enough to handle more complex content.
Around that time, Tristan had wandered to an outdoor shopping mall and, peering down from the second floor, he noticed a kiosk, around which a handful of individuals sat on barstools. He’d caught sight of one of the patrons, a young woman with a blond ponytail and sunglasses. Once his lust subsided, Tristan watched with curiosity as the woman lifted something to her nose and inhaled it. He couldn’t shake how odd the sight appeared. After purchasing a shirt at a clothing store, he jogged downstairs to see what the kiosk sold—and discovered it was a scent bar.
A scent bar!
Those suckers had paid to sniff air freshener!
At that moment, Tristan realized people would hand over money for anything.
Serving tables for pocket-change tips? Sucks to that. He knew he could do better. And that was when the idea hit him.
Tristan had tinkered with web design in high school and grown adept at it, so he created a few pages, designed a rudimentary database, and wrote some JavaScript to make them interact. Voila! Tristan was a wellness coach. He would charge people for bullshit advice. He’d conduct his business by email and the occasional online chat. That way, he could control his own schedule and work around his hours as a server. And by working online, clients didn’t need to visit an office or endure the awkwardness of looking someone in the eye as they admitted their problems. They could remain anonymous with him—and, more importantly, they would never see how young he was. He’d lied in his original online bio, but once he grew his business, his conscience got the better of him. So he revamped his bio to focus on his years of experience as a wellness coach to many satisfied clients, which was true.
When he started his business, Tristan had hoped to give the finger to his restaurant job, maybe even sleep late in the mornings.
He’d posted flyers on public bulletin boards and left stacks in restaurants and salons. He’d even sneaked a few onto the corner of that mall kiosk to attract those gullible scent-bar schmucks.
And you know what? They bought it! The suckers paid him like he was some badass psychotherapist! His website took off. Soon he raised his prices and, in time, overshadowed what he earned at the restaurant. As it turned out, his advice, though fabricated as needed, proved adequate. Satisfied clients talked to their friends, and as word of mouth multiplied, so did demand for his advice. Clients ranged from young wannabes to wealthy wives in Beverly Hills, like Jennifer. When demand surged, he bloated his prices further.
To increase demand and come across as personable, he’d wanted to include a photo of himself on his website. But why would middle-aged career people seek advice from a guy who, when he first set up shop, was still a teenager? So he spent forty bucks on a stock photo of a respectable-looking man whose dark hair had started to gray along the temples. The man wore trendy eyeglasses and possessed an undercurrent of sex appeal, the kind of professional Tristan could picture women dreaming about behind closed doors.
And Tristan adopted the alias Russell Merrick.
Russell Merrick, online wellness coach.
Within a year, he had quit his job and given the finger to the diner.