Part 2 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
When I was young, there was a Quickie Mart about a mile away from where we lived. But it wasn't just a Quickie Mart. It was The Promised Land. Candy, gum, sodas, snacks, pinball machines (and later, video games), and wrestling magazines were all available.
If you had the money.
And most of the time, my friends and I didn't.
So we were constantly dreaming and scheming, trying to figure out ways to make money. And like all ten-year-old entrepreneurs, things never went as planned.
One day at recess, I pulled from my pocket a little rubber ball that was painted like the Earth and started bouncing it on the basketball court. A crowd of boys gathered around me.
"Wow!" What's that?" Boy1 asked.
"My Earth ball."
"I'll give you a quarter for it," Boy2 said. He had my attention. I immediately stopped bouncing the ball.
"I'll give you this rubber spider and a marble for it," Boy3 offered.
"I'll give you a quarter for the spider," Boy4 said to Boy3.
"And I'll give you a dime for the marble," Boy5 said to Boy3.
I quickly exchanged the Earth ball for the rubber spider and the marble. I then turned around and sold the spider and the marble to the two interested buyers for thirty-five cents.
I was dizzy with delight from the transaction. I had just sold a ten-cent rubber ball for thirty-five cents. Suck it, Donald Trump.
Unable to contain my money lust, I ran over to Chuckie, my partner in crime. "Did you just see what happened?" I asked him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
The next day, we hit the basketball court armed and ready to deal. My backpack was filled with gum, candy, yo-yos, and other little trinkets we didn't want anymore. We would sell items to the highest bidder. We would trade for other items (but only if we were getting the better end of the deal). After a few days, the kids were actually waiting for us on the playground, eager to see what treasures we had for sale each day.
We had a steady stream of buyers and suppliers. We were pulling in ten to fifteen large a week (hey, ten to fifteen bucks are large when you're ten). Life was great.
Until...
There's always an until. If this were a movie, this would be the point where one of us got hooked on drugs or incurred huge gambling debts or some girl came between us and destroyed the operation.
But we were ten-year-old whitebread wusses. Drugs and gambling hadn't entered the picture yet. And despite the fact that both of us had "girlfriends" (in name only), neither of us knew what do with one.
No. We were undone by a snitch.
I prided myself on selling quality merchandise. If something was damaged, I would not sell it or trade for it. One day, some kid (we'll call him Snitchy McSnitchalot) bought one of those paddles with a ball on a string attached to it. It was perfectly fine when we sold it to him but the string broke after he played with it for a few minutes. He demanded a refund. I explained to him that the item was in working order when we sold it to him, so no dice.
So what did he do? That's right. Snitchy told the teacher about our operation.
And after a very heated parent-teacher conference, the Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag was no more.
Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
