My Name Isn't Fred

The joys of being an author—fame, riches, solicitation letters!

The Mark Orwoll Is at It Again Theme Song

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I HAVE WRITTEN FOUR BOOKS that you’ve probably never heard of. That’s OK. There is a small group of people who HAVE read my books, thank you very much. Or, at least, they’ve read the summaries on Amazon. Who are these people, you ask? They sell their marketing services to authors. “Tired of doing all the work only to sell 200 copies of your award-worthy book? We can help!”

Two hundred copies?! Heck, I’d pay big money to sell 200 copies. My sales are currently in the high two figures, 40 copies of which I bought myself to give to my so-called friends who expect free signed copies instead of shelling out the very affordable price of just $18.99. By the way, you can help me reach my goal of 200 copies by buying Just One Little Hitch (Pleasant Villain Press). And please remember that I don’t get a cut of used copies sold for $3.99 on eBay.

SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT!!

The author, age 22, with an attempted mustache and reindeer sweater, tries his darnedest to look dashing for the passport photo that will later grace the cover of Just One Little Hitch, available now from your favorite bookstore!

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Since writing my latest book, I continually get emails from people who want to market Hitch--for $2,000, $5000, or more. I would like to get them off my back. I finally responded to one of them. Here it is. Make a cup of tea or a Collins glass of gin, and settle in, because you’re in for a ride...

Dear Ma’am,

My name is Fred. I am Mr. Orwoll’s court-appointed conservator as he faces the challenges now before him. I pay his bills, oversee the staff, communicate with the judge and bailiff, keep his cars well-tuned, answer his emails, &c.

I will be frank with you. Mr. O (we call him “Mr. O”) has moved into the treehouse, without access to phone, email, text, or Netflix. Don’t be alarmed: Built by McKim, Meade & White, as I’m sure you’ve read, it is perhaps the most celebrated treehouse in the Northeastern U.S. We’re all quite proud of it. (Once Mr. O has recovered, we expect public tours of the mansion to resume, and yes, you can climb the treehouse for a nominal surcharge!)

The treehouse was built under the tenure of Mr. O’s great-grandfather, Uriah Orwoll, as a “folly,” in the English landscape tradition. It is of solid construction, so it is safe, and (Lord willing) Mr. O should be fine—at least, from a collapsing-treehouse point of view, which, unfortunately, is the point of view we are obliged to take these days. Thankfully, it is also within the permissible court-ordered ankle-bracelet zone.

The treehouse has four walls. He won’t easily fall out. “Our dear boy” has plenty of blankets and pillows and, from what I gather, every book in Sue Grafton’s “alphabet series.” According to Cook (the only person Mark will deal with, mainly because she brings him his meals), he is only up to “C Is for Corpse,” so he still has several dozen novels to keep him occupied. I do, however, worry about what will happen after “Y Is for Yesterday,” the last book in the series. As you know, Ms. Grafton succumbed to illness before her intended finale, “Z Is for Zero.” Lately, though, Mr. O has been telling Cook, as she raises the rope bearing his meals (oddly, Swanson’s Spicy Jalapeño Mac ‘n’ Cheez is his preferred choice, even for breakfast), “Bring me Dickens! Everything the man has written. Start with Pickwick! These Grafton books won’t last two weeks!”

I am writing this to you from Mr. O’s studio, a second-floor office with a direct view of the treehouse, in the back of the estate. I see him sometimes. He won’t respond when I call to him. He has stopped wearing clothes, his beard is down to his chest, and his, well, body odor is palpable within 10 feet of “Mark’s oak,” as the staff and I have begun calling the tree in which he now resides. And this even though there is a functional bathroom with toilet and (admittedly small) shower! I sent him cartons of Irish Spring Original 12-Hour bar soap and Pureology Hydrate Shampoo, which he used to swear by, up the rope pulley, but the next morning, I found them on the lawn, near the rose garden, as if he had tossed them out the treehouse window!

A complete and utter waste of soap. But the lawn smelled great for weeks!

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Honestly, Ma’am, I’m at my wits’ end. And I apologize for using contractions in what I hoped would be a formal reply, but, but, well...I’m sorry. Sometimes, I am simply overcome by the situation at hand. Complain if you must, and I will tender my resignation.

Edna, our housekeeper, has threatened to leave service, “Unless someone does something for poor Mr. O. Somebody, do something!” Then she weeps as if her sister had died.

If you have any advice, any at all, about our next steps, please let me know. I saw our groundskeeper, Eric, out trimming the hedges on the outer wall a week ago. He turned to me and shouted, “Don’t despair, Mr. Fred!” He gave me a huge smile and a thumbs up. Then, just yesterday, I went below-stairs to the kitchen to schedule the week’s menu with Cook, and you’ll never guess what I saw: A handmade sign written by Cook’s helper, Maureen, that said “Never despair!” If it weren’t for the lobster bisque that Maureen had accidentally spilled on the kitchen floor moments earlier, I would have gotten down on my knees and sobbed like a baby. Like a baby!

I’m sorry for having gone on at length, but your kind email prompted me to reply in some greater detail than normal. I will stand at the window of Mr. O’s studio, look toward “Mark’s oak,” and shout out every word in your kind correspondence. He will hear it whether he wishes to or not! He shall, ma’am! Have faith in that! And remember, never despair...

My regards, with thanks for your concern, I remain

Yr obdt svt,

Fred

(Sent by Fred from Mr. O’s personal email account.)

And now, for you special subscribers, which means anyone who is reading this, here is some bonus content! (This, apparently, is a thing. Huh. Bonus content. Anyway, here goes…)