The Book of Fame

What do you do when your life falls apart? You land a dead end job waiting tables at a hole in the wall bar that’s within walking distance of the crappy apartment you can afford because your Prince Charming drained your joint accounts and took the only vehicle when he ran off with a side chick to parts unknown. You form pseudo friendships with a handful of regulars who share their own woeful tales. You take up dog walking during the day light hours to supplement your meager income... And you pray. You pray a lot.

You pray for money enough to pay the rent and utilities. You pray your cell service isn’t cut because your payment is 10 days late. You pray the Jack Russell doesn’t pester the boxer to the point of retribution along your walk. You pray the side chick finds better than Prince Charming and leaves him even more high and dry than he left you.

And then you pray the ominous looking envelope stuffed inside your mailbox and sent from Schuester, Mack & Howell, Attorneys at Law, isn’t more news of a catastrophic bend... At least that’s what you do if you’re Valerie Hart... And I am.

I shoved the envelope to the bottom of the pile and trudged up the two flights to my dingy apartment, determined not to think about any of it for the next hour at least. I had just finished a walk with Ollie and Dexter and treated myself to a 2 piece chicken meal from a fast food joint that I was dying to eat. No bad news was going to spoil my appetite until after I polished off every bit of those mashed potatoes and gravy.

I tossed the stack of mail onto the counter and dropped onto the nearest chair to dig in. I only had two hours before my shift at Georgia’s. Two hours to devour my treat, wash away the dog smell and figure out what bills I could afford to pay and what ones could be put off a bit longer. Two hours to prepare for more of the same. Two hours to worry and stew about what evils that stark white envelope with the neatly embossed return address of Schuester, Mack & Howell might contain.

I pray for patience as I polish off the last of the potatoes and gravy with the lone biscuit. That envelope makes me feel itchy. It has put every nerve ending in my body on high alert. My gaze travels back to where it lay on the counter.

What is it?

Patience is not a virtue I possess and prayer isn’t helping. The anxiety is killing my appetite. I drop the extra crispy chicken leg back into the box and snatch up the offensive envelope. My greasy fingers leave ugly smears against the pristine white paper as they tear at the flap and yank forth it’s contents.

A form letter, printed on simple paper with the Schuester, Mack & Howell letterhead and a smaller envelope paper clipped to it. My trepidation builds higher. Bad news with a side of worse?

I scan the letter, absorbing bits... Our client... Gifting... Benefactor.

I tear at the smaller envelope with trembling hands, my mind reeling. Inside is a check made out to Valerie Hart. A check issued by Schuester, Mack & Howell. A check in the amount of one million dollars.

Surely a scam. Some hoax borne in the minds of the same people who pose as Nigerian princes in emails. If I read the letter more closely I would undoubtedly find a catch. They would want a small portion sent to an untraceable account when depositing the check which would inevitably bounce, spiraling my finances even further down the toilet.

But how do they make the checks look so real? I grab my cell phone and punch the office address into the search engine. It pulls up Schuester, Mack & Howell. I hit dial and hold my breath.

“‘Schuester, Mack & Howell, hold please.’” A harried sounding woman on the other end answered before I was summarily put on hold.

There is no way this is for real.

“‘Thank you for holding. How may I direct your call?’” The woman spoke again.

I scan the letter and choke out the name at the bottom, “Edwina Mack.”

“‘May I say who is calling?’”

“Valerie Hart.” I stammered. My heart was pounding. My palms sweating. I’m probably having a stroke.

“One moment please.’”

Definitely a stroke and this is some hallucination produced by my oxygen deprived brain.

“‘Edwina Mack’s office, Chester speaking. How may I help you, Miss Hart?’”

“I think I’m having a stroke.” I declare and cut the call. “This isn’t real.” I announced to the empty room.

My phone chirps. The screen aglow with the number I had just hung up on. I answer. “Hello?”

“‘Miss Hart? Are you alright? Can you hear me?’” Chester asks.

“Yes.” I whispered. Surely I’m dreaming.

“‘You aren’t.’” he spoke. “‘Ms Mack was engaged by a client to deliver a package to you. I assume you have received it?’”

“It’s not real.” I insist.

“‘Read the letter, Miss Hart. I assure you it is very real.’”

“Who would...

“‘The package contains a letter with instructions and a black book with information. Congratulations on your good fortune, Miss Hart.’” Chester explained, adding again, “‘Read the letter.’” And the call ended.

Valerie,

A few years ago, I was exactly where you are today. Broken and alone, left without a pot to piss in by none other than Bradley Wooten or Brady Woodson or Bentley Woods or whatever fake name he is using now.

My fortunes turned and I decided to track him down which is how I found you. You aren’t the first and won’t be the last until he is stopped. He has taken so much from so many. He has robbed you of your career, savings and home, but he hasn’t taken your drive. I am giving you back a portion and ask only that you do what I did not have the courage to do. Take the money and make him pay.

He spoke often of dreams of stardom when we were together. Make him famous, Valerie, and rebuild your life. Use the book.

Who was she?

Make him famous? How? And what is the book? I upturned the large white envelope and out spills a small black leather bound book. Addresses? Phone numbers?

I fumble with it, finally flipping open the cover with still shaking hands and there within was a neatly printed list of names with corresponding information by each.

Bradley Wooten - age 37 - a social security number. Dark hair, brown eyes, Kansas City, St. Louis.

Brady Woodson - age 35 - another social security number. Dark hair blue eyes, St. Petersburg, Savannah

Bentley Woods - age 31 - yet another social security number. Blonde hair, green eyes, Phoenix.

There were more and each profile had what looked to be a DMV photo glued to a page next to the name details.

The features were unmistakably all the same man albeit with different hairstyles and eye color. All unmistakably my Prince Charming, Bradley Wooten. And each profile listed the name of a woman whose life he had altered.

Valerie Hart - Missouri

Abigail Houghton - Florida

Elaine Markham - Arizona

Sandra Billings - Georgia

Had my mystery benefactor reached out to all of them? Had she been the first? How did she want him to be made famous? So very many questions and suddenly so very little time left to ponder them because my shift would start in half an hour. After work there would be time to think about this.

One million dollars. One million reasons to sing. One million ways to rebuild a life left in ruins. I felt lighter than I had in months and couldn’t help but bounce into work with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. A notable change that was remarked on by the regulars and co-workers. I couldn’t help it. There were a million reasons for the change. One million reasons.

I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the changes I would make. The ones I could suddenly afford to make now. A new apartment. New furniture. A real bed to replace the ratty pull out that had come with the dingy apartment.

I felt hope for the first time in months. I might never be able to get my old life back but at least I could afford a better one than I had been left with.

Bradley Wooten had swept into my life like some white knight bent on rescuing a damsel who had never known distress until he vanished. Along with the savings, the car, and the career. Within a week of his exodus, the eviction notice had come. The house we had purchased together had never been purchased and the lease hadn’t been paid in six months. Every account had been drained and payments were bouncing every where: A major liability for a loan agent at a bank. Goodbye, job.

Go to the police? Sure! They are there to protect and serve and have have if Bradley Wooten had ever existed. They had looked at me like I was some mildly deranged woman scorned. As if I had fabricated the previous seven months of my life up in some fevered dream... But now, by some miracle of fate or maybe by the power of prayer, I was granted the gift to prove them all wrong.

Make him famous. Give him the spotlight.

That night after my shift, I returned to my apartment and opened up my laptop to begin researching the profiles listed in that little black book. I fired off messages to the women he had defrauded. I plastered photographs of myself and Brad all over every social media outlet I could think of asking, pleading for information regarding my missing fiancé.

I fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, smiling still in spite of the spring that poked at my back, and convinced I would never spend another night on that ratty pull out ever again. And when I awoke late the next morning I found my inbox flooded with responses and tips.

‘That scumbug stole my great grandmother’s diamond broach.’

‘He called himself Benjamin Wells... Ben Woods. He claimed to be visiting his grandmother in Scottsdale but turned out he was working as an escort for wealthy retirees.’... ‘Looks like a guy I went to school with but his name was Billy Wharton.’

I searched them all, pausing only long enough to run to the bank. The teller’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He stammered and called the branch manager over. A phone call was made and suddenly I am afforded the royal treatment.

I race back to my apartment and find a still overflowing inbox. More tips, more names, more stories.

Make him famous.

I created a blog. I began writing my story. I posted the link, inviting people to share. I spent the next three days devouring the stories that poured in, communicating with others he had scammed. I exchanged phones calls with Abigail, Elaine and Sandra.

On day four, I received a call from a reporter who had been following the blog and was interested in the story.

By day one hundred eighty, Billy Whorton aka Bradley Wooten aka Brady Woodson aka Bentley Woods and so on, had been arrested fraud, identity theft and sadly, assault after his fame caught up with him.

On day 360, I am seated beside my agent discussing the deal to turn my blog turned book into a movie. I haven’t located my benefactor to date but when I do I intend to pay her back for those million reasons... With interest.