Sell Your Heart

by Amanda Bintz

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 waves goodbye. She picks up her discarded racket and heads up the hill to the club’s main building. 

Before his next appointment arrives, Jason practices his serves, dribbles the ball and dodges from one side of the court to the other. He stays fresh, even though his opponents are laughable. Tennis is the only thing he’s ever been good at. It bagged him a scholarship to a private school. He was one of the best on the team. Tennis was all he cared about in high school, and that didn’t change in college—that’s why he flunked out. Now he’s got two years of loans from one of the most expensive universities in the country to pay off. He can barely afford to live away from home. 

His parents are members at the club. That’s how he got the job. They didn’t help pay for his college and they don’t help him now. Hell, they spent more on their last island getaway than all his loans combined. They “helped” him get the job here only in that their name was influential enough to pull his application out 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 2001 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; it’s been on for months. Every time he drives the 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 be so much to fix this piece of shit, he really needs to just start saving for a new car. Saving? Hilarious. 

At home, Jason 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 Googles some things. “Refinancing,” “Income-based loan payments,” “Consolidating.” 

The screen pings and flashes wildly. It’s 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 $5,000 in your first week of sales!!! Sell FitJuice! Don’t just change your life—change the lives of everyone in your life!” 

If he’s already got a virus, what harm can it do? He clicks on “Click here to change your life!” The ad closes. 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 two business days. Maybe it’s a scam, sure. But it seems sort of legit. He’s seen celebrities hawk these sorts of products on Instagram. Why can’t he? Anyway, student loans are a fucking scam. It’s time to fight fire with fire. If he could bring in just a couple hundred more dollars a month, he could afford a new car. It’s worth a shot. 

He’s about to close his laptop when an email bings its arrival. “Welcome to FitJuice!” its subject line reads. It’s from Melissa@FitJuice.com. It says he’s been approved. His supply will arrive in two business days. Along with it will be instructions on how to use the product and how to sell it. Welcome. Get ready to change your life—and the lives of everyone in your life! It’s signed “Melissa, your personal FitJuice! sponsor.” 

—

The next morning, Jason’s running late. He almost trips over the box on his front steps. It’s from FitJuice! Overnight shipping—he’s impressed. He already locked the front door, so he takes the box with him. When he gets into work, he stashes the box in his locker and heads out onto the court. He’s five minutes late, but his first appointment of the day isn’t there. He waits the necessary 15-minute cancellation time then goes back to the locker room. No one else is in there. Weekend days are never busy in the morning. 

He opens the box. Inside is a small cooler packed with plastic packets full of powder and empty plastic bottles with FitJuice! labels. Underneath the cooler is not an instruction booklet like he expected, but a single sheet of paper. There’s not even anything on the back of it. It reads: 

FITJUICE! Revitalize now! 

1: Add equal parts water and FitJuice! Revitalization Powder. 

2: Shake!

3: Drink. 

4: Experience all-natural changes to your life! Repeat!

Below, it gives sale prices and suggested vocabulary: “revitalize,” “energy,” “fresh,” “all natural,” “new you!” There’s a warning: After mixing powder with water, juice must be consumed in 24 hours. There is also a “friendly” reminder: Do not consume juice yourself or you will owe Fitjuice! the difference in sales. At the bottom it says, “Don’t just change your life—change the lives of everyone in your life!” and once again is signed “your personal FitJuice! sponsor, Melissa.” There is an address below her name. It’s local. No wonder the shipment came so fast.

He reads the ingredients on a packet. Lots of plant-sounding names and chemicals he doesn’t recognize. It’s definitely not all natural, but he’s not gonna be the one drinking it. He checks for a denotation that they need to be refrigerated, perhaps after opening, but it doesn’t say anywhere on the packet or paper. The cooler must be to keep the product cold while selling. He tears open two packets, fills the bottles at the sink and shakes them up good. He takes the cooler with him to his next appointment: Mrs. Chase, 9 a.m.

“What have you got there, Jason? Picnic lunch?” Mrs. Chase asks with a little chuckle. 

Jason has an idea. “Oh, it’s my FitJuice! I didn’t have time to drink it this morning. I drink two bottles every day. Keeps me lean and energized for my lessons.” 

“Oh! I’ve never heard of it!” 

Jason takes out a bottle and sloshes the purple liquid around. “It’s all natural exotic plants. It’s awesome. You’ve never tried it?”

“No! Does it help you lose weight?” 

Jason hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to oversell it then have her demanding a refund. “It gets your body working more efficiently. I haven’t gained a pound since college thanks to this stuff.” 

“Oh wow!” Mrs. Chase’s eyes widen. “Can I try some?” 

Jason smiles. “Here’s a sample bottle. If you like it, you can get a reduced price through me. I’m a brand ambassador.” 

“Wonderful! I’ll try anything to get rid of this stubborn paunch.”

Mrs. Chase drinks half the bottle upfront then sips it as they play. Jason expects a placebo effect—that she’ll work harder, be more pumped up. She’s definitely sweating more than usual, but halfway through the session she looks totally beat. Her face is so red, Jason starts to get worried. She pants, gasps for air. She stops and covers her mouth with both hands. 

Jason runs up to the net. “Mrs. Chase! Are you alright?”

“I think—” she says, behind her hand, “I think I’m having an allergic reaction or something, dear. I’m going to be sick.” 

Great. What a start to his sales career. “Let’s get you up to the main building, Mrs. Chase. Come on.” Jason grabs the cooler and hurries her up the hill. She’s looking paler and paler every second. He helps her through the lobby to the women’s locker room. 

“Jason, come in with me—please,” she begs. Her hand is clammy. “I feel so faint.” 

“Are you sure? I can go find your husband—”

“No, I can’t wait! Help me, please.” She gags, then covers her mouth tight. 

Jason comes in with her. The women’s locker room is empty too. Mrs. Chase runs for a toilet stall. The door slams shut, but she doesn’t lock it. She falls to her knees—he hears them bang against the tile—and the unmistakable sound of vomit violently splashing into water echoes through the cavernous room. It doesn’t stop. It’s like a faucet handle broke off. He bangs on the door. “Mrs. Chase? Are you okay?!”

She doesn’t answer. She must not be able to. 

Jason takes out his phone and starts dialing 911. The vomiting stops. Shaking, Jason slowly opens the door. Mrs. Chase is slumped against the toilet, perfectly still. She looks hollowed out. Her skin is pale and drawn. Jason gags. In the toilet is an enormous amount of vomit. And floating in it… Jason almost vomits himself. Floating in it is what looks like a human heart. He feels like he might pass out. Frantically, he checks Mrs. Chase’s wrist for a pulse. Of course there isn’t one. Her heart is in the fucking toilet. 

Jason’s phone bings. It’s an email. The subject is “Re: The heart.” It’s from Melissa@FitJuice.com. Jason’s head spins. This cannot be real. But Mrs. Chase seems pretty real, lying there on the tile going cold, her eyes rolled back to their whites. The vomit smells real. The heart looks as real as he’d expect. He wouldn’t know. He’s never seen a human heart before. He dry heaves. He slides the email open. 

Dear Jason, 

Put the heart in the cooler. Leave the body. Bring the cooler to the noted address.

Signed,
Melissa, your personal FitJuice! Sponsor

Jason’s vomit joins Mrs. Chase’s when he lifts the heart bare-handed into the cooler. He washes his hands five times, but he can’t get the feeling or smell off. Mindlessly, he takes the cooler and all his belongings, throws them in his car and speeds to the address. He doesn’t tell anyone he’s leaving. He’s so terrified, you could tell he’s a Person of Interest just looking at him. And FitJuice! is watching him somehow. He didn’t kill Mrs. Chase. FitJuice! did. He’ll do what they say, and then he’ll get out of this… somehow. 

He skids to a stop at the given address. He takes the cooler and gets up on the sidewalk. His phone bings. Another email. Melissa@FitJuice.com: “Keep walking to the underpass.” Jason swallows. He looks around, expecting to see security cameras turning toward him or a helicopter circling above—something like in the movies. He walks to the underpass. A girl about his age is standing in the shadows looking at her phone. Cautiously, he walks forward. 

“You must be Jason,” she says. She holds out her hand. 

He stares at her. He keeps both hands on the cooler. 

“I’m Melissa.” She pops her gum. “No? Okay.” She drops her hand. 

“What the fuck is this, Melissa?” Jason almost screams. 

She shushes him. “Don’t attract unnecessary attention. Good job, by the way. Snagged your first customer in, like, two hours. I know how to pick ‘em. And you weren’t dumb enough to drink the juice yourself. But I mean, a heart’s a heart.” 

“What are you talking about? What’s going on?” 

“Organ donor scheme. Black market.” Melissa twists her long blonde ponytail on her finger. “Come on. Didn’t you expect something shady from a pop-up ad?” 

“I mean, I expected a pyramid scheme, but not… whatever the hell this is. Why the fuck do I have Mrs. Chase’s heart in a cooler right now?!” Jason brandishes the cooler. The heart thuds dully against its side. Melissa tries to take it from him, but Jason wrestles it back. “Why should I give this to you?”

“Simple. Give me this and you’re two sales away from being debt-free.” 

Jason freezes. “What?

“It’s $50k a pop.”

Jason feels faint. “$50k?”

“Yep. Two more customers, and Jason’s student loans go bye-bye.” 

“But… what about Mrs. Chase?”

Melissa looks down at her phone. “Already taken care of.”

“How?”

“Framed overdose. You have nothing to worry about, Jason. FitJuice! has this under control.” 

“And you’ll really pay off my student loans.”

“Jason. Duh. I said that already. It’s in your contract. Did you even read it?”

Jason hands Melissa the cooler.

“Thank you,” she says snottily.  

Jason drives back to the club. An ambulance is pulling away, dozens of concerned rubberneckers watching it go. Poor Mrs. Chase passed away, a coworker tells him. She was taking dangerous weight loss pills. Typical. Jason goes to his locker. Inside is a new cooler. In it is the other bottle of FitJuice! he made before. Jason checks his watch. It’s time for his next appointment: 11 a.m., Mrs. Hansen. He takes the cooler with him. 

This story first appeared in Mania Magazine’s “Issue Three,” published March 2024.