"Network Marketing or Multi-level Marketing, Internet Life Coaches, they're all scams. If someone made it rich, they would not be emailing you about it, or personally marketing their own product. A social media life coach may really be making a fortune, but they're earning it by selling you nonsense, lies and a shirt with their brand on it." Tim put his phone on his knee and continued, "I have been listening to you get. . .get spoon fed the make-believe path to the dream life all day. You want to make it big? You want to get rich? Don't pay the fool on the computer screen anything and get a real job." Tim shook his head in disbelief and picked up his phone again.
He had recently started attending a community college somewhere and was home between semesters. Cynthia and I were seated on the sofa, next to the chair that he was in. Her face flushed, "Timothy, my friend and I are having a conversation. If you would like to speak to her, or myself please wait until we are finished."
"He has grown into a tyrant. I can't do anything right. I am being driven mad by the criticism of my 19-year-old. Ugh!" Cynthia said. Hearing this, her son casually walked out of the room, never disengaging from his phone. "Ok, like I was saying, my coach can help you too. It's really simple and I can just walk you through the website. It is only a small fee to sign up. I think this is really our answer." She smiled.
A future of luxury and endless cash flow flashed through my mind. My heart began to race with excitement at the notion of being rich. "Yes, please help me sign up! Thank you, Cynthia! Thank you for this." I said almost squealing with joy. "Of course! . . .Of course. You are my best friend. Let me get you started." We stood, and I followed her to the family desktop.
She sat in the office chair and spun to face the computer. "Here just give me your debit card real quick," She said. I retrieved my purse. She had started navigating the website and was already filling in my contact information. I put my card on the desk in front of her. The screen contained large fancy pink words, large pictures of an affluent woman, more images of the company's advertising on the site, and finally the text boxes to fill out customer payment information. What the site was selling and what I was buying wasn't apparent to me.
Cynthia stopped typing and turned triumphantly in her chair towards me. She got up grinning and hugged me. "Welcome to the club. We are going to be rich together." She said, "Let's go into the kitchen and grab some wine to celebrate." Her invitation sounded like a statement or demand not needing acceptance or a response. I dutifully followed her to the kitchen.
Cynthia and I met in school. She was the prettiest, and most popular girl in school until she dropped out to give birth to her son, Tim. She was truly the golden child of a wealthy family of six and of our high school. Well, she was golden until she got pregnant. She started to recognize my existence when the whole town ostracized her and then we became friends. Neither one of us had graduated from college, she had not even earned a G.E.D.
She shortly thereafter married a decrypted old man with a large retirement fund, and never worked a job in her life. Her lackluster list of accolades was a point of contention with her child, but not with me or her husband. I was proud to be her sidekick, the unofficial personal assistant that she felt that she deserved. I enjoy her theatrics, her acting as though she belonged to high society. It helped me pretend, if only for a moment, that I was a flamboyantly rich, elitist, judging the impoverished masses for their perceived inferiorities.
Allen, Cynthia's husband, was older than her parents. He was a silent cripple that walked with a cane, involuntarily shaking his head "no" constantly. He sat in the kitchen and stared at us as we took our seats. I felt the weight of his gaze on me and shifted uncomfortably as Cynthia talked. She seemed oblivious or immune to his blank stare.
Cynthia took a tiny sip of wine, "My coach told me that I would be reasonable to expect a six figure a month income after the first year. Isn't that wonderful?" I smiled, "Oh my that's wonderful!" I was still not sure how exactly this coach and their website was supposed to make anyone money. "Yes, and I am going to buy the beautiful two-story home, the one with the maple trees, that is across the street from the park. I am also going to buy the newest. . .uh. . .of whatever kind of car Clair drives. So, I am still better than her. I am also going to buy some new bags and take a trip to Europe." She sounded certain that this was her future.
Doing my best to ignore poor old Allen, I asked "How does this work? Like how will you make the money? I mean, how will we make all this money?" Cynthia maintained her eye contact with me while her face became one of absolute confusion and embarrassment.
I glanced at Allen in the awkward pause. He had fallen asleep. "Well Lauren, my coach is much smarter than you and she does not need to explain anything. I trust her and that's as good of a guarantee that you should need."
I felt ashamed for questioning her. My face burned with embarrassment, I looked at my hands, massaging them with my thumb. "Sometimes I swear you forget that I am smarter than you." She said while she straightened her posture as I sank into my seat, "Sorry." I said softly. "I am not mad at you. You are just always so jealous of me, and always so wrong." I didn't look up from my hands.
Cynthia began to speak again when Tim walked into the kitchen. "I..." She stopped. I watched Tim grab a handful of cookies and prop himself against the doorframe. He looked at me, then at Cynthia, then back at me. He proceeded to eat one of the cookies and glanced at my cleavage. "I am going to need the car tonight." He said. His handsome features and his confidence had me distracted for a moment. I looked at Cynthia dismissing my inappropriate attraction to him.
"Actually Tim, Lauren and I are going to use the car. In fact, we were just talking about leaving right now." He looked at me. I smiled awkwardly, like an insecure little girl seeing her crush at school. He chuckled, "Alright." He restocked his handful of cookies and left us.
"Let's go." Cynthia said. She had not consumed a perceptible amount of wine from her glass, she poured it out. I handed her my glass. "Did you not like the wine?' she asked, offended by the small amount remaining. "I did."
We started toward the door, "So my coach told me about this secret place that is a perfect lunch spot. She knows the owners. We are going, and you need to try their amazing special. My coach loves it and so do I." She grabbed the debit card off the desk in front of the keyboard and put it in her purse, then handed me my purse. "Sounds great. Is your coach also going to be my coach?" I asked. She looked at me with a dismissive glare. I followed her out to her car.
