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Jack Cash was described by most who knew him as a highly motivated individual. Besides his dashing good looks - freckled, fair-skinned with a sun-bleached shag and slanted, blue eyes - he had an entrepreneurial sense about him that far exceeded his years. At the age of ten, he'd started a dog-walking business within the four blocks of his home in the valley, complete with business cards that had his name in raised black ink. He'd purchased a laminated schedule board to write down appointments and a Rolodex with his valued customers’ telephone numbers and addresses printed inside. His mother would often come in his room while Jack was hunched over his miniature marble desk, mumbling to himself and scribbling ideas on a sheet of scratch paper. She would ask him if he was hungry for a snack of some sort, or perhaps some ice cold lemonade. “Maybe you could go out and play with your friends,” his mother suggested on a warm June day. “It’s awfully dark in here.” Jack dropped his pencil on the desk, closed his little eyes and sighed. “Mother, can’t you see I’m trying to work here? I have no time for friends or snacks. I have a business to save!” His fingers flew to his temples and he rubbed them. “I apologize - I’ve been a little edgy since the Sawyer account. I’m sorry.” He got up, brushed off his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt and crossed to his mother. He put his arm around her and escorted her to his bedroom door. “It was really a pleasure,” he added, shaking her hand. “Please feel free to drop in anytime. Business hours are 10AM to 4PM.” He scooted her out. He closed the door on his mother, who stood in the hallway as stiff as a broom, touching her ponytail and thinking too hard about something. “Women,” Jack chuckled to himself as he shut the door. As it happened, Jack’s first business - cleverly titled “J-Walk” - went bankrupt within two weeks. In hindsight, Jack felt the beginning of the end occurred with the fancy business cards. He discussed it with his mother on his lunch break, twelve to twelve-thirty, over peanut butter and banana sandwiches. “Next time it might be smarter to order less cards,” he decided. “Ten thousand was excessive, don’t you think? It’s where all the money went, to pay off those damn cards.” “Don’t swear, Jack.” “We’re talking about the cards here.” “Oh, well … it’s always smartest to buy in bulk,” advised Mrs. Cash in a singsong voice. Jack sighed and rubbed his temples again. “Nevermind. Isn’t there any aspirin in this damn house? I’ve got a migraine.” His mother scampered to the cabinet out of Jack’s reach and retrieved a tiny white pill and a small shot glass of water. She set them on the table in front of her son and he swallowed wordlessly. “Any coffee made?” he asked. “No … but I can brew some decaf if you’d like.” “I’d appreciate it. Doctors always say coffee helps a migraine,” he said, hopping off the stool and leaving his half-eaten sandwich. “You’re not leaving yet, are you? It’s only twelve-fifteen.” “I’ve got a lot to do. I might be working late nights from now on.” His mother nodded. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee when it’s ready.” “I take it black,” he informed her, strolling toward his room. “Oh - and mom?” “Yes?” “Next time go a little lighter on the banana in those sandwiches.” “Yes, Jack.” Jack’s eleventh birthday party was loud and filled with children, party hats, seedless watermelon, clowns and an inflatable contraption for kids to jump in. It was shaped like a giant dragon and Jack’s mother rented it from a company that specialized in party events. It was a surprise party. Jack came out to the kitchen at twelve o’clock on his lunch break and found thirteen grimy kids from his neighborhood screaming surprise at him, with his mother grinning down at them. Jack smiled and thanked his guests but pulled his mother aside and informed her that the surprise was not good for his headaches and he had a lot of work to do and would have to be excused from the party. He explained that he was not partial to cake, children his own age or those inflatable party things. “It’s just screaming for a lawsuit,” he warned her. “Some kid is going to break their arm and sue you for everything you own.” He shut himself inside his room and brainstormed ideas for a new business. His mother was worried and asked the overweight clown she hired, Bubbles, to take a stab at helping Jack have fun on his eleventh birthday. Bubbles knocked at Jack’s door tentatively - there was a Motel 6 placard hanging from the doorknob which said please do not disturb. “I’m busy,” a muffled voice replied from behind the door. “Can I just talk to you for a minute?” There was the sound of footsteps and the door opened. Bubbles looked down at the dainty boy who barely passed his waistline in height. “Hey, kid … happy birthday.” “Listen, I’m in the middle of something -” “You don’t have time to celebrate your own birthday?” “Maybe my mother didn’t tell you that I recently had a business go bankrupt.” “No,
kid. She didn’t say.” |