Fraud

I step forward to accept the woman’s awkward hug. I feel the shame wash over me once again. The waves of doubt, fear, and embarrassment radiate off my body, so strongly I am absolutely sure everyone in the line can feel it. But I plaster a smile on my face and tell her how much her story inspires me. How thankful I am to be a part of her personal miracle. It’s all garbage. I’ve told hundreds of people the same tired lines. Their stories are different but the results are always the same, they crave freedom, an escape from the fear. Thousands of patients- shut-ins, hoarders, agoraphobes, hypochondriacs- all afflicted by a fear of the world. I do my best to suppress a sigh of relief as the woman scurries away to find her seat.

Her exit reveals a small man who had concealed himself behind her. He appears so fragile, I’m afraid to look at him too hard. It’s as if my gaze could break him. He shuffles up to my table. Tiny feet carrying an impossibly nervous body. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s somewhere between thirty and sixty-five. He lays his copy of my book on the table and my sickeningly smug face stares up at me from the cover. A million dollar smile wrapped around a nickel's worth of emotional stability, a face that sells books.

“Um, hi. So, I guess I just wanted to say that, uh, thank you for writing this book.” He struggles to push out every word, seemingly afraid that the vibration of his vocal cords will shatter him like a vase. “I, uh, haven’t left my mother’s basement in ten years. I mean, not since my wife died. She was my whole world and, uh, um, seeing your story, well, really helped me to take that first step, you know? Now, I’ve just put a deposit down on an apartment, and, um, I think I’m going to try living on my own again.”

He smiles at me. I’m dying inside. They have all overcome so much and they think I’m one of them. I’m not. I’m unworthy to be in their presence. Every minute I sit at this table, shaking hands like some smarmy politician, is another chance for them to discover the truth.

The small man hurries away, clutching a newly signed book to his chest. It’s a treasure that he will keep for years. 

Most celebrities see their autographed merchandise up for sale a day later but my fans horde their memorabilia. They squirrel it away, like a family heirloom, so that they can pass it down to their socially deficient children in the future. Part of me wishes they would sell it, then I could convince myself they don’t think that highly of me.

“We are almost ready for you Arthur. Take a fifteen-minute break and then meet me backstage for your entrance.” I nod at the tour manager, whose name is something like, Karen? Or Jenny? Maybe Jill? It wouldn’t hurt for me to learn a few names. The tour just started and it’s going to be a long month if I don’t make nice with a few assistants.

A month long tour. Thirty days of pretending. I can’t believe I ever thought this would be easy. I was so arrogant, so ready to help. A pathetic man with illusions of grandeur. Of course, it’s easy at first when it’s just photo-shoots and interviews, and it’s even easier when you think the book doesn’t have a chance at success. I mean come on! A self-help book for people who can barely get up the courage to answer the door? How would they muster the effort to change themselves when they can’t even stomach entering the store to buy the book? Well, luckily for them, online ordering exists. Aren’t I the asshole.

The Convention Center is blissfully silent with most of the attendees having gone inside to find a seat at the front. They always fight for the front row seats, but no one pushes or shoves. They just kind of hover, like animals at a watering hole, waiting for someone to take a bathroom break or a phone call so they can steal their seat. The victim is, of course, too scared to confront the thief. So they just hover with the rest until the show starts. I suppose it’s to be expected, these poor people could barely leave their houses. They aren’t going to start demanding what’s rightfully theirs anytime soon.

It’s half past seven and I can feel that familiar knot start to form in my stomach. The nerves. The nausea. The book was only published about a month ago and I’ve had three ulcers, plus a couple panic attacks for good measure. I pull out my phone and call Jimmy, he always knows how to make me feel better. No answer but I’m not surprised, Jimmy always ignores the first call so he can prepare what he will say. He hates conversation, especially the awkward silences. 

“Hi Arthur, how are you?” Jimmy’s voice sounds cheery and excited, it’s one of his good days.

“I’m doing good man, thanks. How are you?”

 “Can’t complain, I got the mail today without having a panic attack so I’m feeling pretty good right now. Anyways, it’s almost eight o’clock out there shouldn’t you be getting on stage soon?”

I crack open the door to the auditorium and peek inside. The crowd is buzzing with excitement. Thousands of people all facing their worst fears for a chance to see me and hear Jimmy’s words. My stomach twists again. “Yeah they need me on in about ten minutes, but I’m not sure I can do it Jimmy. All those people out there... What if they realize I don’t know what I’m doing? What if I miss a word or get a quote wrong? They could ask me a question I don’t have the answer to. I’m not like them. I don’t know how they think or feel. I’m just a fucking actor, they should be listening to you.”

A long sigh comes through the line, but it’s comforting in a way. Jimmy hates listening to people complain, you would too, if the idea of walking outside to get the mail made you puke with fright. Other people’s problems would seem so vain and stupid.

“Arthur, you are a handsome, well spoken, charming, asshole, and I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I wasn’t sure you could. It doesn’t matter that the words aren’t yours. What matters is the effect they have on those people. This isn’t about you. It’s about everyone like me who needs a reason to strive for a better life. Yea, saying this while cowering in my basement is the ultimate hypocrisy, but I’m working on it, and my failings shouldn’t be another person's punishment. Now, according to my watch, you have five minutes left, so stop bitching and go make a difference, asshole. Feel better?”

“Did you practice that in the mirror this morning?” I grin as I walk towards the backstage door, knowing he did. Jimmy always practices having just the right thing to say. He’s like a weird OCD superhero that way.

“That’s my business. Good luck.”

The tour manager is waiting for me backstage. She starts giving me the schedule for my talk, but I’m not listening. I look out past the stage to the audience eagerly waiting for me. I’m lucky to be able to hear their stories, to watch them reunite with the world for the first time. Jimmy is right, it’s not about me, I’m just the messenger. The Agoraphobe Messiah. The music cue starts, the tour manager gives me the thumbs up, and I step out into the lights.