The Golden Envelope

With countless hours spent scrolling on YouTube watching beauty gurus vlog themselves, shopping at Target, watching comedy skits filmed in their backyard, and even watching stoners unboxing their new bong rigs in their bedrooms filled with black-light posters, I thought, Why couldn’t I do the same thing? What makes them special?

I needed a niche, though—something the same but different from everyone else. What was I supposed to film every week with no interests, no hobbies, and absolutely no talents? 

****

December 20th, 2017 would change my life forever. Standing at my kitchen counter one snowy morning, the aroma of my coffee brewing took over the kitchen. The scent hit me like a truck, along with my key to success.

“That’s it! That’s what I am going to do!” I feel confident in my decision.

“What the hell? Why are you screaming?” My brother Roger chimes in, staring at me with disgust on his face.

"You're going to make fun of me, but hear me out. I am going to start my own YouTube channel to review coffee brands.

Roger chuckles. “Good luck with that dork. Now let me get back to eating my fruit loops."

My brother Roger and I lived together in a two-bedroom apartment in a small rural town in Pennsylvania. Roger is two years older. He moved out at eighteen, and two years later I followed. Our parents were overly strict and judgmental. There was no way either of us was going to endure an extra year of their constant tormenting.

****

With just one bag of Dunkin' coffee sitting in my kitchen cabinet, I went off to my room to make my very first video. This is the day “Chelsea’s Trying Coffee” was born.

The views started off slowly, but every Friday I was sure to post another video with a new brand of coffee. Consistency was key. By August, I had brought in 100,000 subscribers. The following year, I had 800,000 subscribers. Companies were sending me free coffee, coffee pots, and espresso machines. I was in my glory.

****

Just like every Monday afternoon, I stopped by the post office to check my PO box on Maple Street after visiting my favorite coffee shop in town, Carol’s Coffee. No matter how much coffee I have tried, no one can beat the small town coffee shop that Carol has blessed us with.

“Good morning, Barb." I smile.

“Good morning, Chelsea. How are you today?"

“I am as chipper as ever."

“Always good to hear. Safe travels."

Barb has been the clerk at the post office every Monday since I started this whole PO box deal last year. She was there every time. She was always such a pleasant little old lady. There were days when we would chat for hours.

There was nothing that made me happier than coming home on Monday to open letters from fans, people who put time and energy into watching, writing, and looking up to me.

"Look, Roger, this envelope is gold. Do you think I won the golden ticket?"

“Do you think you will bring me as your plus one to the chocolate factory?” Roger laughs.

Inside the golden envelope was a typed-out letter printed on a heavyweight red cardstock piece of paper.

October 21st, 2019

Dear Chelsea,

I am your biggest fan for now. I say this for now because I believe one day I can be more than just a fan. I’ve watched every single one of your videos repeatedly. I am a man who loves coffee. I also love the way your black hair falls on your shoulders when you wear it down. Sorry, I don’t mean to seem creepy. I just thought you should know. Please write back.

From,

Tom

P.S. I have the same Rae Dunn coffee mug as you, the one with the paw print. I saw it in the background. Haha.

Roger and I glance at each other. We had the same appalled look on our faces.

“What the hell did you just read? There are some damn weirdos out there. Are you going to write back?” Roger questions.

“Why would I write back? No thanks.” I throw the letter aside, continuing to open my other fan letters.

Of course, since putting myself out there on the internet, I have received many comments and messages, including mean, funny, sad, heartwarming, and a lot of creepy ones. No one has ever sent me a creepy message via snail mail, sealed in a golden envelope on cardstock paper. My letters are usually from middle-aged moms who enjoy drinking coffee or PR boxes sent by companies.

****

Monday afternoon came around once again. There it was in my PO box—another golden envelope. Anxiety filled my body as my heart pounded out of my chest. Something was telling me this was getting strange. I bolted out of the post office without even a goodbye glance at Barb. I wanted to get home to read the letter with Roger.

“Roger, Ro-” I shout as I catch my breath.

Roger darts to the kitchen and asks, "What's the problem?"

“This is the problem!” I use the rest of my energy to slam the letter on the table.

“Another golden envelope?” Roger tried to put off a calm vibe, but I could sense that he was nervous about this situation.

“Open it,” he insists.

October 28th, 2019

Dear Chelsea,

I am writing again because you haven’t responded. See.. I know that you go to your PO box on Monday afternoons, meaning I know that you had a whole week to respond since my last letter. If you haven’t noticed, I am dating my letters for the Monday that you will be receiving them, as I of course typed them the day before, but I would like for you to remember the date you receive my letters, not the day I wrote them. I don’t know if that makes sense, but something about it seems more special. I just want to know if we can be friends. I’ll keep writing until you answer.

Love,

Tom

“Maybe you should just write a letter back, and he will stop,” Roger suggests.

"C'mon, Roger, even you know this is odd. Should I go to the police? How does he know I go to the post office on Monday afternoons?!"

“Maybe you mentioned it in a video or something."

“Yeah, maybe." I agree.

Deciding to take Rogers’ stupid advice, I write out a letter to my stalker friend, Tom.

October 28th, 2019

Tom,

Thank you for being a fan. I appreciate all the fan mail. Sometimes it is hard to respond to each letter, but I do my best! I consider all my viewers friends. Thanks for the support.

Sincerely,

Chelsea

After I seal up my response letter in a white envelope, I flip it over to write his address.

“Can you hand me one of those gold envelopes so I can get the address to send this letter to the weirdo?"

Roger frisbees the envelope over to me from across the table.

Looking down at the envelope, I noticed something that made no sense.

“Roger, there is no return address. What the hell? How does this guy expect me to answer? Is this a joke? To hell with this clown.” I crumble up the letter and throw it away.

I convince myself that this is just a prank, and I have nothing to worry about. There has been no threat. Why should I be worried?

****

November 4th,

Dearest Chelsea,

Alright, now I am starting to think you are rude. To be expected, all the pretty girls are. I want to meet you. I will meet you, Chels. We can drink coffee together. If you get to know me, I think you’ll like me. Maybe we can meet at Carol’s Coffee on Monday afternoon? I bet you smell like freshly brewed French vanilla coffee on a fall evening. I can’t wait to find out.

I love you,

Tom

P.S. Love finds a way. You can’t run forever.

Roger and I made the joint decision that it was time to head over to the police station. Once we filed a report, we were told it was going to be under investigation and would take time. I had this unsettling feeling that I needed to get out of town until this was taken care of. 

Roger and I packed a few bags and then headed off on a road trip to the state of New York. We found a Holiday Inn about 2 and a half hours away that we decided to stay at, at least for the night.

“Here is our room on the left, 203,” Roger says, unlocking the hotel room door.

“What a relief!” I threw myself back on one bed.

“I brought something to calm our nerves,” Roger says, pulling out a bottle of strawberry Smirnoff vodka.

“My hero!" I jolted up off the bed. “I think I saw an ice machine down the hall.” I grabbed the ice bucket that was conveniently left for our use in the hotel room and walked out the door. 

As I walked down the empty hotel hallway, I finally spotted the ice machine.

"Sweet, there it is," I whispered to myself.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“You can’t run forever."