How a Pyramid Scheme Ambush Nearly Ruined My Junior Year
--
In high school pottery class, I sat next to a Horse Girl named Joss. Horse Girls are considered a bit kooky, often dunked on in the mainstream. The archetype wears plenty of denim, braids her waist-length hair, maybe she plays the flute. Above all else, Horse Girl loves horses. “Cat ladies with money,” the memes say.
Hear me out though:
Back home, Horse Girl is an esteemed title. They’re a subset of Hicks, the cool farm kids who drive trucks and drink in the cornfields. Horse Girls party like Hicks, but their families are wealthy enough to maintain horses.
Joss was a sweet introvert, one year my senior. Introverts tend to either 1) hate new people or 2) appreciate a chatty person because there’s less conversational pressure. I tend to ramble. Joss listened, laughed, and gradually came out of her shell to bond over our mediocre pots.
When she handed me an invitation to her 18th birthday party I was elated, mostly to meet Joss’s other friends. The invitation specified her family’s barn, which elated me further. My first barn party! With older kids, no less. Would it be an all-nighter? Would I finally try beer? Should I dress in layers?
I planned for a cool evening, but things were gonna get real tepid.
After a slow grind along a gravel driveway, I parked my silver Volkswagen next to a pink Cadillac. A grim portent of things to come. Growing up in the country, certain social radars don’t always develop. For instance, maybe you’d never heard of pyramid schemes, or their flashy rewards for aggressive salespeople.
Maybe nobody told you about the Mary Kay pink Cadillac.
Even if somebody had, the dead-silence of the party barn would still be an unsettling surprise. One dozen high school girls sat around two folding tables, carefully watching a third table. No snacks, no drinks. Where the heck was the keg?
A blonde woman fussed over the third table, apparently organzing skincare products for display. She wasn’t a guest, but seemed to be in-charge. I took the cue, sat with the other girls, shut up, and waited for the adult to address us.
When she opened her mouth to speak, all of her Adult Credibility fell out. She lost me during her warmup act: Being a teenager is hard. Your hormonal skin is bad. Only these products can un-ugly you!
Acne does suck, but it’s part of growing up. What really sucks is an adult who would exploit a room full of insecure high school girls for profit.
Multi-level marketing promotes a profound misappropriation of the word “party.” MLM entrepreneurs will host “parties” to move a bunch of stock quickly because they’re operating at a loss and their spouse wants some closet space back.
These “parties” are usually attended by uncomfortable adult friends who will sample the products out of obligation and pity-buy an essential oil or something because damn, Kayla is so screwed if they don’t.
When an adult offers to throw a party for a teen (or any child), the kid is just going to expect snacks. Maybe decorations. My theory is that Joss may have been mislead with the idea of a ready-to-go party, but it was too late now. Instead of eating chips and chatting in a barn, her guests were getting their skin negged by some lady in a pink coat.
My heart went out to Joss, but the party was an absolute bust. After a dutiful 45 minutes, I trotted out my trusty violin lesson excuse and said my goodbyes. As I left, the consultant touched my arm.
“Are you sure you don’t want to buy anything? We have creams for severe acne like yours!”
I yanked my arm away, straining my cheeks into a polite smile.
“Thanks, but I’m good! Great party! Happy birthday, Joss!”
I tore out of that barn like the Final Girl in a horror movie. I slammed my car door, fumbled to find the key, and sighed with relief as the engine turned over on its first try. As the gravel road unwound behind me, I anxiously checked the rearview mirror for anything pink.
The joke was honestly on our consultant. Most of the products she offered were anti-aging. Chew on that. Really think about the best way to sell wrinkle cream in a barn full of unemployed kids.
Joss and I were fine afterwards. We didn’t talk about the party, but she seemed content. Her experience could’ve been totally different from mine. Maybe this was a coming-of-age, mature feeling for her. She was an adult now, the world worked for her, she was being performed for and sold to. Who knows?
Similar dubious “parties” would happen that year, and I declined them all. I began screening invitations with the question “what kind of party?” Unfortunately, small towns can take pyramid schemes very seriously, so this would not be the last honeypot op to snag me and waste my time. A girl never forgets her first high-pressure sales pitch in a barn, though.
Ultimately, there’s some satisfying irony at play: Everyone at the party bought my violin excuse. So in a way, I made more sales at Joss’s party than the damned consultant.
One Cadillac, please.
