Wild Card

Nothing is more appealing to a child on a hot summer’s day than an ice cold popsicle. That’s what little Ari wanted, more than anything in the world, on his daily trip to the Wilmington Park Pool. My parents never really believed in giving allowances to my brothers and I, and I hadn’t quite yet grasped the concept of “saving money” at an age when Pokémon cards were all the rage. I wanted that popsicle, and I was determined to get it by any means necessary. Flaunting my dimples and proudly displaying my gap-toothed smile, I asked my Dad for a couple of quarters to go buy a popsicle from the concession stand. My Dad, the pockets of his swim trunks as barren as the Sahara after already giving me a dollar an hour earlier, replied with a calm yet satisfied refusal. What kind of man reaps enjoyment from the destruction of a child’s dreams? Had he no soul? His refusal empowered me, as I casually walked the perimeter of the pool, flashing that same grin and raking in the quarters from unsuspecting strangers. Slowly but surely, Little Ari had gathered about five dollars in change from people he had never met through boyish charm and sheer beauty. Clearly, I had a knack for persuasion. As I returned to the pool deck with twenty Flavor Ice popsicles in hand and a devilish grin from ear to ear, I heard a cry of despair from across the deep end. My little brother, face filled with anguish, was tugging at my Dad’s shorts, crying hysterically at his realization of my mental superiority. At that moment, as my Dad’s eyes burned through me from across the pool, I felt like Icarus; I had flown too close to the Popsicle sun, and my fall from grace would soon begin. The moments after are a series of blurs, but one memory that is ever-so-clear is the stinging pain of having my GameBoy Advance restricted for one week. One week? Had these law abiding citizens of the United States of America never reflected on the constitutional principles concerning “cruel and unusual punishment”? I cursed them as I twiddled my fingers in isolation, contemplating the very purpose of my existence. Truly, life had become meaningless, a bleak reality to an injured soul. From that moment on, I would learn to never reveal my successes. I would redeem this failure, and I would make my Dad wish he had brought just one more quarter to the pool that day.

The next school year came, and I emerged from my summer rest ready as ever to take on the rigorous challenges that kindergarten brought to the table. The tireless duties of line leader, hall monitor, and class reader were no doubt a strain on my sanity, but I persevered in spite of these evils in order to pursue greatness. My Mom was always willing to volunteer for my class, as her desire to be around me clearly could not be quenched by the remaining sixteen hours in the day. Everyday, she would give me three dollars to buy my lunch in the cafeteria. Now, any other kindergarten sucker would have taken that money and bought a nice, filling lunch to consume while reflecting over his placement at the bottom of the food chain. Kindergarten was a Darwinian environment; only the strong survived. I, on the other hand, was not your every day six-year-old. I was the type to be reading Harry Potter books while impressing the ladies with my sixty-four color box of Crayola’s. So, needless to say, the money my Mom gave me for lunch wasn’t going towards hot dogs and chocolate milk. In fact, I don’t know what it was going towards, but I know I felt a certain power in retaining such a grand fortune hidden in the compartments of my brown leather jacket. In retrospect, the money probably peaked at about thirty dollars, but by Kindergarten standards I was a millionaire. I transformed into an investment tycoon, a mogul in the midst of common folk. I wasn’t just a businessman, I was a business, man. I was Jordan Belfort in his prime, a miniature Bill Gates sitting on a nest egg worthy of retirement. I had redeemed myself in ways far beyond the imagination, and those financial talents have stuck with me to this day, as my parents still have no idea where their generous donations end up. Icarus, having learned his lesson, had learned how to fly.