Sell Your Heart

Jason stops the tennis ball in midair with the flat of his racket. It drops into his outstretched hand. “Great work today, Mrs. Chase.”
A plump woman jogs up to the net, breathing heavily. Her round face is as red as her hair. He might have worked her too hard today, but she needs it. Her doctor (and her husband, she always adds with a self-effacing chuckle) is serious about her losing twenty pounds. He’s been training her four days a week for two months, but she hasn’t dropped a pound. He suspects the decadent food in the members-only restaurant is to blame.
“Thank you, Jason! Honestly, why aren’t you at Wimbledon instead of teaching at this stuffy club?”
Jason smiles politely. “I’m really not good enough to make it to Wimbledon, ma’am, but thank you for saying so.”
“Oh, please! You could beat that Richard Federererer any day.”
“Roger Federer.”
“Right! Well, you have a nice evening, Jason.”
“You too, Mrs. Chase. See you tomorrow.”
Mrs. Chase picks up her discarded racket and heads up the hill to the main building.
Before his next appointment arrives, Jason practices his serves, dribbles and dodges. He likes to stay fresh, even though his opponents are laughable. Tennis is the only thing he’s ever been good at. It bagged him a full athletic scholarship. Tennis was all he cared about in high school, and that didn’t change in college—he lost his scholarship for poor grades and ultimately flunked out. Now he’s got two years of loans from one of the most expensive universities in the country to pay off.
His parents are members at the club. That’s how he got the job. They didn’t help pay for college and they don’t help him now. Hell, they spent more on their last island getaway than it would take to pay off his debt. They “helped” him get the job here only in that their family name was influential enough to shift his application to the top of the stack. The pay is good, but not enough for him to afford more than a crappy studio apartment. He’s 26 and he doesn’t have a 401k yet. Doesn’t he have a trust fund, his friends always ask? Don’t make him laugh.
Jason sleepwalks through the rest of his appointments and heads home at 6. His beat-up 2005 sedan is parked in the farthest corner of the parking lot. It looks like a junker with a Mercedes and Maserati on either side of it. Jason turns the engine over four times before it starts. The check engine light comes on, as usual. Every time he drives this goddamn car it starts making a new, not-good sound, but he can’t afford to take it to the shop. It barely passed inspection last year. It’d cost so much to fix this piece of shit, he really needs to just start saving for a new car. But, like… saving? Hilarious.
At home, he gets out his laptop and checks his bank account. Every time he does this, he imagines opening a cartoon wallet, a fly buzzing out. In his checking is enough to pay the month’s rent. His savings has about $1,000, which took him two years to accrue. Even if he used it as a downpayment, he still can’t afford a monthly car loan. He opens Google and types some things into the search bar. “Refinancing,” “Income-based loan payments,” “Consolidating.”
His screen pings and flashes wildly. A pop-up ad. A pop-up ad? He wasn’t even watching porn. Does he have a virus? He can’t afford to get this piece-of-shit laptop fixed either. While searching for the X to close the jittery window, he reads: “NEED FAST, EASY MONEY? Sell FitJuice! A unique and secret blend of exotic berries and plants never before utilized for human consumption revitalizes, guaranteed. Don’t just change your life—change the lives of everyone in your life!” The ad is bordered with colorful fruits and intertwining vines—the aforementioned “exotic berries and plants,” he guesses.
He closes the ad. Another one pops up. He frowns. “ARE YOU SURE? An investment of just $1,000 can yield $20,000 in your first month of sales!!! Sell FitJuice! Don’t just change your life—change the lives of everyone in your life!”
Well, shit, if he’s already got a virus, what harm can it do? He clicks on, “Click here to change your life!” The ad closes and his browser opens onto a website obviously made with a create-your-own-website service. He reads through the Home page, the About Us page, the Terms and Conditions. He electronically signs his name to a contract, enters his debit card information and transfers all the money from his savings to his checking account. Then he submits his application.
If approved as a FitJuice! salesperson, he’ll receive his FitJuice! supplies in one business day. It could be a scam, sure. But it seems… sort of legit. As legit as the stuff he’s seen celebrities hawking all over Instagram, anyway. Why shouldn’t he get in on the action? Student loans are a fucking scam. Time to fight scams with scams.