He felt pathetic for thinking it, but even at eighteen, Topher held the fictional doctor in as much regard as he had when he was a child. Cash Carter’s character had always been a source of strength and inspiration during rough times. To this day, whenever he faced a challenge, Topher asked himself, What would Dr. Bumfuzzle do? and an answer would present itself.
Even though the character didn’t exist, Topher was often inclined to express his gratitude for his positive influence. So whenever the spirit moved him, he’d venture to CashCarter.com and write the actor a thank-you letter. It was either that or have a conversation with the poster in his bedroom.
Dear Mr. Carter,
It’s Topher Collins again from Downers Grove, Illinois. I know I’ve said this to you a thousand times, but once again I feel the need to thank you for your work on the show. I understand as an actor you have very little control over the things your character does, but the way you’ve portrayed him through the years has had such a profound effect on my friends and me. He’s our hero and we have you to thank.
Watching Wiz Kids is what brought us together, and watching the show is going to keep us together. We recently graduated high school and are splitting up soon to attend different colleges. I don’t know how we would stay connected if it weren’t for our Wednesday-night viewing parties. I’m sure it isn’t easy being famous or working on the same show for so long, but please know you have fans that couldn’t be more grateful for everything you do.
I don’t want to take any more of your time, but in case I get busy with school and don’t have a chance to write you again, it’s been a pleasure watching you and a privilege growing up with you.
Sincerely,
Topher Collins
Downers Grove, Illinois
PS—We leave tomorrow for a cross-country road trip. If you’re free, we would love for you to join us! LOL.
Topher figured that was enough vulnerability for one letter and sent it in. Just like all the letters he had sent Cash Carter over the years, he was sure it would get lost among the thousands the actor received daily. Regardless, it felt nice to pay his respects.
Topher went downstairs to check on his brother and found Billy sound asleep in his favorite Captain America pajamas. He slept so peacefully it made Topher tired just looking at him. With a huge day ahead of him, Topher got a glass of water from the kitchen and climbed the stairs back to his room to put himself to bed.
When Topher returned to his bedroom, the first thing that caught his eye was a notification on his computer screen he had never seen before. It was an alert from CashCarter.com letting him know his letter had been received… and the actor had replied!
Topher’s heart began palpitating and almost dropped into his stomach. Was this real life? He read the notification over and over again but it never changed. Holy shit this was real life! He dashed to his desk at lightning speed, tripped over his chair, and crawled on his knees to the edge of his desk. He clicked the link on the notification and the actor’s response loaded. With two words, Topher Collins’s life would never be the same:
What time?
Chapter Three
What the Psychic Said
Sam Gibson hated garlic with a fiery passion. At four o’clock, Monday through Saturday, the restaurant below her mother’s apartment, Garliholic’s, fired up its stoves and sent a strong aroma through the floorboards of Sam’s bedroom. The odor clung to her clothes and was impossible to mask with perfume or cologne, so she carried it wherever she went like a smelly Scarlet Letter.
The only thing in Sam’s arsenal to combat the zesty fumes was a collection of candles that rivaled the altar of a Catholic church. She had every seasonal and exotic fragrance imaginable laid out on her windowsill and lit them all to battle Garliholic’s. Sometimes the combination of so many scents gave Sam a headache, but it was better than smelling the restaurant’s sixty-clove chicken pasta specialty (which people ordered in droves every night despite all the one-star ratings Sam posted on Yelp).
The layered smell also acted as a repellent for Sam’s nosy mother, keeping her away from Sam’s room and out of her things—a happy byproduct.
Deep down, Sam was grateful for her intrusive mom and the garlic restaurant below them. Being smoked out of her own bedroom and preyed upon like a three-legged field mouse was perfect motivation to get the hell out of Downers Grove. As sad as Sam was about separating from her friends, she was counting down the days until she moved to Providence and attended the Rhode Island School of Design.
Sam was an extremely gifted artist for two reasons: she was talented and she was poor. She learned early in life that if she wanted nice things she would have to get creative and make them herself. And Sam was planning to make a career out of this skill.
Of all the credentials in her application, the Rhode Island School of Design admissions board had been most impressed with Sam’s portfolio of the do-it-yourself furniture in her bedroom and the descriptions of how she created it.
Dumpster Diving Décor is how I would describe my unique style of design, Sam wrote.