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Jack stared at the hundred dollar bill, trying not to drool and looked inside his change box. He had less than ten dollars change. “Sir, I can’t accept a hundred dollar bill.” “What? You didn’t tell me that before. Why did you waste my time?” “I didn’t realize -” “My money is perfectly good. It’s not counterfeit. Look, look at the watermark.” “Sir, I can’t accept it. You’re going to have to take your business elsewhere.” The man’s tiny green eyes seemed to shrink and his jaw dropped open. He put his hairy black hand on the table and snatched the hundred dollar bill. “Kid,” he said lowly, “you don’t know who you’re screwing with. You and your crappy lemonade stand is going down. I’m going to rub you into the ground like a piece of dirt.” The man rounded the side of his Mercedes and hopped in, peeling out from his parking space and leaving Jack to disassemble his stand. Business had been good that day. Jack and Mrs. Cash ate cookies and lemonade for dinner. The next day Jack decided to get an early start. It was impossibly hot by 9AM and he wanted to test business. He got the lemonade out and the leftover cookies, assembled them aesthetically on a plate and went to the garage to retrieve his stand. He set up outside and watched the kids across the street run through the sprinklers, hoping they might eventually beg their parents for money and visit his stand. By 10AM Jack only sold one glass of lemonade and it was to his next door neighbor Mrs. Grub, who had in turn complained that it was too sugary and wanted her money back. Jack refused and worked for the next hour on an elaborate “NO REFUNDS” sign. Just as he taped it to his table, the black Mercedes from the day before pulled up to the curb and the same man came out, jabbering on his cell phone. He ignored Jack as if he didn’t notice his brightly painted lemonade stand. “Yeah. I’m standing right here, it’s on the middle of Whitecastle Rd. Okay. Listen. Are you on Whitecastle Road? Uh-huh. All right. See you in a few.” Then the man stood, pacing back and forth and staring at his watch. Jack wondered if the man was bringing hitmen to sabotage his precious stand. About two minutes later an enormous truck pulled up with another black Mercedes behind it. Three business men in suits came out of the Mercedes and the truck backed up as the first goateed man directed him. “That’s enough!” he shouted. The truck stopped with a jolt and the businessmen opened the back of the truck, carrying out first an enormous carnival tent and then a lemonade machine, a cotton candy machine and a popcorn popper. They dragged out an enormous LEMONADE sign, bigger than Jack’s front door, complete with battery-operated red lights and set up their stands, running extension cords to Mrs. Grub’s house to run their lavish machines. Mrs. Grub was happy to help. By 11AM the LEMONADE stand was up and running, and everyone in the neighborhood was lined up to buy. “We’re going to have ice cream as well,” promised the green-eyed man with the goatee. “Come back tomorrow and try a hot fudge sundae!” And all the while, he never gave Jack a single glance. It was as if he didn’t exist. Jack sat motionless for five hours, watching the people line up outside the candy-striped tent and rave about how good the food and lemonade was. At four o’clock he dragged his lemonade stand in the garage and downed the entire warm pitcher of lemonade and ate the plate of cookies. “I’m suffering from a work-induced depression,” Jack told his mother. “Business was bad today. I have some steep competition.” “I noticed that. Who were those men? How strange for them to set up right there.” Jack put his head on the table. “Can I have a drink?” “Sure, honey. Whatever you want.” “Apple juice, on the rocks.” She poured him his juice and handed it to him, ice clinking against the glass. He drank about half of it and then announced he was going to bed. “Long day,” he said. “I’d stay up with you, but I’ve got a headache.” “That’s all right, sweetie. I understand.” Jack had hoped that the LEMONADE stand would be gone the next day and he could continue with his own lemonade business, but at 10AM the whole crew arrived again and set up next to Jack’s tiny stand, never acknowledging him. This time the businessmen brought carnival games and stuffed animal prizes and Jack didn’t sell a single cup of lemonade. People were driving to Whitecastle Road from other parts of town and even Bubbles came, overweight and in a Hawaiian shirt. He pulled up in his rusty Pinto and bought some cotton candy, laughing at Jack’s feeble stand. That was it. Jack couldn’t stand it anymore. At 1PM he dragged his stand inside and watched the news instead. As he was watching the news, it turned into the story of a local lemonade stand with a carnival theme that was winning the hearts of locals. They were interviewing the goateed man live, outside his own house. Jack went to the window and watched as it happened, feeling like a failure. His mother came and sat next to him on the sofa, where he was peering from behind the curtains at the madness outside. The news crew was wrapping up and leaving now and his mother patted his back. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. You’re eleven years old. You’ve done enough work, maybe it’s time you took a vacation. You could run through the sprinklers with the Wopner girls across the street. You’ve saved money now, you could go see a movie if you wanted.” Jack nodded. “I think I’m going to retire.” “I think that’s a good idea. Want a glass of lemonade?” “Please.” His mother got up, crossed to the table and fished a five dollar bill from her purse. “Go outside and ask them for two lemonades and anything else you want.”
Jack slid off the sofa and opened his front door. Everything was
loud and there were couples walking by with stuffed animals, families
with popcorn and sundaes and groups of kids sipping on tall glasses
of lemonade with curly straws. Jack waited in a long line that
went all the way past Mrs. Grub’s house. After fifteen minutes,
he found himself at the front of the line, shaded by the tent
and staring at the goateed businessman. |