The series of events that came to be known as The Great Lemonade War consumed roughly three glorious days the summer of my 12th year. It has subsequently passed into the lore of the town and proven to be one of the few great events that the old hands and townies still talk about that didn’t involve the local university. (See: The Great Campus Riot of 1994, The Pig’s Head Incident of 1991 and the intercine Dorm Wars of the 1970s amongst others.) Time has somewhat clouded recollections of what actually happened that long, hot summer, and subsequent tellings and re-tellings of the story have seen it pass into legend and tall tale. Lurid tales of Japanese yakuza and Chinese triads are false, while the involvement of the Russian mob and the local Wiccan coven are, in fact, true. And it wasn’t a stabbing that ended the war: it was a stampede of goats and the mauling of Alderman Irvin G. Yoder by a particularly ill-tempered one of them.
But all of that was in the future, in the meantime, it began innocently enough:
It was early summer, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the temperature were hovering between seventy five and eighty degrees as we headed down the highway on the south side of town out toward the home improvement store at the edge of town. Dad was on the hunt for a new stain for the deck and Mom wanted to paint the basement and since my older sister was working to save up for college this summer, I got to tag along wherever they went. So, I was bored. Until I noticed something on the bank sign as we drove past it: “ASK US ABOUT BECOMING A LEMON BOSS”
“Dad, what’s a lemon boss?”
“Damned if I know,” Dad said. “Sounds kind of fruity- ow!” He protested as Mom slugged him in the arm. “Stop that,” she said reprovingly.
“What?” Dad said. “Lemon’s a fruit.”
“Honey, I think it’s probably to help people set up accounts for lemonade stands,” Mom said.
“Oh,” I said and lapsed back into silence. To be honest, I didn’t know that people still did the whole lemonade stand thing any more. No kids in our neighborhood did. The words ran through my head again and then the idea lit up my brain. No kids in our neighborhood had lemonade stands. Every summer, we’d ride around the neighborhood and I hadn’t seen a one. So why not open one? It could be the way to get the skateboard that I’d had my eyes on for months now.
This wasn’t just any skateboard. This was a Tony Hawk Pro skateboard with a giant phoenix design on it and I wanted it. So, so badly. I had asked, of course. I had begged, pleaded and cajoled and got met with the same two replies roughly every time. From Dad, “No! Save your damn allowance.” or “Ask your Mother.” From Mom, “Well, honey, just wait until your birthday. Or Christmas” or “Ask your Father.” When I would point out to one or both of them that my birthday was, in fact, in November where not exactly many people were skateboarding I was met with indifference, exasperation or eye-rolling.
I had been saving my allowance. I had even been doing extra chores to try and get to the magic number, but it was a painfully slow process. Maybe, if I had a lemonade stand. Maybe if I was the only game in the neighborhood, I might be able to help myself reach my goal just a little faster and get myself that much closer to the ultimate prize: the Tony Hawk Pro skateboard: Fire Phoenix Edition.
Timing this was key though, so I dutifully said nothing as Dad strode around the home improvement store like a man possessed, itching with impatience as Mom took her time in the garden section. I waited patiently through the rest of the afternoon and ate all my dinner and rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher exactly like I was supposed to. And then, it was time.
I made my approach carefully, waiting until Dad had cracked his solitary beer for the night and settled into the large, brown recliner that he had spent weeks trying to align in the perfect position in front of our overly large television. Dad did the same thing every night. Dinner. One, lonely beer and a sporting event. Didn’t matter what kind of sporting event it was either. He’d watch everything from Aussie Rules Football to competitive Zamboni riding. Tonight though, it was women’s softball- what looked to be a thrilling content between the University of Oklahoma and the University of Alabama.
“Hey, Dad.”
“What’s up, kid?”
“Um, I have a question.”
“I might have an answer,” he said, “but hang on a second. I want to see if Oklahoma can tie this up.”
I turned my gaze to the television along with his and watched for a few seconds as the pitcher stopped, stared down the waiting batter and then whipped her arm around to send the ball whizzing toward the batter who-
“Swing and a miss,” Dad said. “Damn. Now, what’s up?”
“You know that new skateboard I want?”
He sighed. “The stupid expensive one with the fire bird on it? Wait until your birthday.”
“Well, I could do that,” I said. “Or I was wondering if I could start up a lemonade stand to see if I can earn enough money to buy it.”
Dad furrowed his brows for a moment. “How much lemonade do you think you’re going to sell?”
“No one else is the neighborhood has a lemonade stand,” I said. “And we’ve got Mom’s secret recipe, which you always said was the best lemonade you’ve ever tasted.”
“What makes you think Mom’s going to share her secret with you?” Dad asked.
“Well, I uh, don’t know…”
“It’s a big responsibility,” Dad said. “Because I ain’t gonna help you make signs or set up a stand or make the lemonade. You want to run a business, however small, you’re going to have to do the legwork. We’ll give you those cups on the top shelf of the closet we never seem to get around to using, but that’s it. After that, it’s all on you.”
“Yes, sir,” I saluted and he smiled.
“Smart ass. All right, you can do it-” he raised a finger. “On two conditions,” he said. “One, if your Mom says yes.” He raised a second finger, “and two, as long as you don’t expect me to buy or drink any of the swill you’re going to sell.”
I extended a hand. “Deal.”
He shook my hand. “Deal. Now get out of here and let me watch the rest of this game in peace.”
Mom, as it turned out, wasn’t a problem at all. Weirdly, she was excited about it. She swore me to secrecy and lent me a card table, chairs and lead me downstairs to where she stored all the craft stuff to see what she supplies she could find to help me make a sign. All of which was cool, but there was one big question that I did need to ask her and it took me a couple of minutes to work up the courage to do so. And by ‘work up the courage’ I mean, I just sort of blurted it out.
“Can I use Grandma’s recipe?”
She paused. She was standing on a stepstool, her arms buried deep on a shelf in our basement as she was trying to find glitter, glue, and paint to help me make what she had insisted on referring to as ‘THE BEST SIGN EVER’ making it clear that she was speaking in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS every time she said it. I held my breath. This was a big request. Grandma’s Legendary Lemonade Recipe was a family secret known only to my mother. It was a source of great family drama- I’m talking like Beaches or Steel Magnolias level drama, as my Grandmother had only told my mother the recipe on her deathbed and my mother had refused to tell either of her sisters, insisting that their mother had sworn her to secrecy. And, true to her word, she had sat on the recipe like a mother hen. Occasionally during the holidays, one of my Aunts would get into the Fireball whiskey and slip us kids a twenty to see if we could get it out of her, but she refused. She was going to tell us, she said- any of us, until the first grandchild was born.
“No. You know that.”
“But Mom, it makes the best lemonade! I could sell so much lemonade!”
(It wasn’t until years later, after my older sister had given birth to her first child that Mom finally gave up the goods. My sister with an air of resigned disgust had revealed the truth to me. Grandma’s recipe was in fact nothing more than an off-brand Slovakian powdered lemonade mix that she had shipped in from the old country. Of all the childhood illusions that were shattered as I grew into adulthood, this one stung the most. Especially given the subsequent events of that summer.)
“Didn’t your father want you to do this yourself?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“And haven’t I already helped you enough already, what with the table, the chairs and the BEST SIGN EVER we’re going to make?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“It’s a good idea your father had. You should do this yourself.”
“You mean make lemonade from scratch?” My face fell and my heart sank. That sounded like a lot of work.
“Yes. Lemons are cheap. Powdered stuff just doesn’t taste the same.”
(That last remark of hers is etched into my brain to this day. Especially since the truth of Grandma’s recipe came out.)
“But I don’t know how to make lemonade,” I wailed.
She turned and looked down at me, fixing me with a withering glance and arched an eyebrow at me.
“Really?”
I sighed, knowing I was beaten.
The next day, I spent in the kitchen. I grabbed the grocery bag of lemons from the cupboard where I had left it the day before and rolled them all out onto the counter. First, I had to cut them in half. Then, I had to find the juicer.
“Mom?” I called.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Where’s the juicer?”
“Cupboard to the left of the oven.”
I knelt down and opened the cupboard and after looking for a second grabbed the juicer and a nice big jug which happened to be down there as well. Then I got back up on the counter and started to juice. I realized after about three lemons that I was going to have to really work these lemons to get the juice out of them. I needed every drop. So I set to it with a will and started squeezing.
Around about lemon number seventeen Mom came into the kitchen.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
She chuckled and then walked over to the bookshelf where she kept her cookbooks and pulled one down off the shelf. She set it on the counter next to me and then, pursing her lips in thought went back to the shelf and pulled down another cookbook and set it on top of the first book.
“You’ll find decent recipes in here.” She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Have fun.”
You know how in the old, cheesy 80s movies there was the inevitable montage set to really bad music? Imagine that only about making lemonade- because damn, did it take forever. But finally after two batches that I messed up so bad I had to pour down the sink, I got it right. I wrote down the recipe carefully:
1 ¾ cups of white sugar.
1 ½ cups of lemon juice.
8 cups of water.
The key, I figured out, was combining the sugar and the lemon juice at the right temperature for the right amount of time. Since it produced some truly fantastic lemonade, I’m going to leave those details out- but when I was done and it had cooled down, I poured myself a glass and took a sip.
“Wow,” I said out loud. “Mom?” I called.
“Yes?”
“Come here and try this! And bring Dad!”
A few moments later the two of them came into the kitchen. “Here,” I said thrusting a glass at them both. “Try this. Tell me what you think.” They took a sip, one after another and I watches as they reacted. Mom smiled.
“It’s good,” she said.
“Actually, it’s better than good,” Dad said. “It’s delicious. Way to go, kid.”
“Thanks. Think people will buy it?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
And sure enough, the next morning I got to find out. After breakfast, I lugged out a card table out of the basement and dragged it outside. (Yes, by myself- this is a character building exercise, remember?) Then, I got the BEST SIGN EVER (all caps, remember?), a chair, a bunch of plastic cups and set them all up on the table. Then, I went back inside, got the lemonade and headed outside. I placed the jug on the table. Then, I sat down and just like that, I was in business. I looked up the street. Then, I looked down the street. Nothing. Not a car, not a person walking their dog, just me, my table, a pleasant warm breeze and a beautiful blue sky.
Needless to say, this didn’t seem like the most auspicious start. Happily, my silence was shattered.
“Hey, dork.”
“Hey, witch.” It was Tabby McArthur from the spooky house just across the street from us. I had a huge crush on her and it wasn’t just because she wore a lot of black, well, everything. Tabby and I shared a love of RL Stine’s Fear Street novels and a distaste for anything popular in school. Together we were our own little countercultural island. We hadn’t discovered weed or making out yet (that was a couple of years into our future) but we were friends.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Selling lemonade. Or trying too.”
“What for? That seems really lame.”
“I want a new skateboard,” I said. “So I need money to supplement my allowance so I can get it now rather than in the middle of January when nobody is skateboarding.”
She raised a dubious eyebrow at me. “And lemonade was your answer?” Her voice took on a mocking tone. “How cute.”
“Got a quarter?”
“Why?”
“Well if you’re going to mock my lemonade, you should at least try it.:
Tabby considered that for a moment before digging around in her pockets. “A-ha!” She said, triumphantly holding up a quarter. “Hook me up,” she said, handing me the coin.
“My first customer!”
“Your only customer,” Tabby said. “So far, anyway.”
I poured her a glass and waited as she raised it to her lips and took a drink. “Hey,” she said. “That’s really good. Like seriously good. What brand is it?”
“I made it myself.”
“For real?”
“For real,” I confirmed.
Tabby gave me an approving glance, nodding her head up and down. “Nice job, dork.”
“Thanks, witch.”
“Maybe,” Tabby said walking backward across the street, spreading her arms wide as she did so. “Maybe I’ll tell some friends about your tasty lemonade.”
“You got a witch meeting coming up or something?”
“It’s called a sabbat, dork.” She yelled from across the street. I laughed. Call the meetings of her local Wiccan coven, ‘witch meetings’ was a pet peeve of hers that I used to deliberately bother her with great success.
“Tell your witch friends,” I yelled back. “I need the cash.” I wasn’t sure if she had actually heard me or not, but I shrugged and settled back into my chair and waited for customers.
Turns out, that first day was going to be really long and really boring. I stuck it out though, manning my solitary table until dinner time, when Mom called me in. I broke down the table, brought up my cups and cooler along with Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER and placed them just inside our garage, taking care to make sure they weren’t in the way of any vehicles. Then, I went inside. I washed my hands quickly and headed into the kitchen, where Mom was putting out the lasagna. As I sat down, Dad must have noticed the slump of my shoulders and the expression on my face.
“Slow day?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Any customers?”
“Not a one.”
“Buck up, kiddo,” he said. “Tomorrow is another day. It takes time for word to get around.”
I nodded, feeling glum and somewhat depressed about the whole thing. The Tony Hawk Phoenix Fire skateboard seemed more elusive than ever- and I went to bed that night feeling annoyed. “ASK US ABOUT BECOMING A LEMON BOSS” that stupid sign kept haunting me. Stupid sign. Stupid idea. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Lemon boss, my ass.
The next morning, my mood was better and by the time I had eat breakfast I was feeling optimistic, cautiously optimistic anyway. I made a fresh batch of lemonade and, with Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER in tow headed outside to the garage where I got my table and chair and set them up where I had them the day before on the curb and then turned my attention to the cooler. I needed to dump out the water and get fresh ice in there, but that was accomplished easily enough and soon enough I had my cooler, cups and lemonade all ready to go and was waiting expectantly to see what the second day of my little quest would bring.
As it turned out, it brought quite a lot.
Tabby must have spread the word somehow, I realized, because the majority of my clientele- if that was the correct word- well, let’s just say there were a lot of tie-dye shirts, long, intricately patterned sundresses, hemp clothing, sandals, the vague smell of marijuana and something I would later come to recognize as patchouli- they all seemed to be driving Jeeps and Subarus. Not that I had much chance to take a comprehensive survey- I was too busy making more and more jugs of lemonade.
Three hours flew by and before I knew it, I was somewhat astonished to find myself 25 dollars richer, which meant that I had somehow managed to sell 100 cups of lemonade at a quarter a piece. When I finally got a lull in the action, I hung a sign on the table indicating that I would return after lunch and headed inside to grab a sandwich.
“Oh, hi, honey,” Mom said, “How’s it going?”
“Amazing! I need a new money bucket!”
“How much have you made so far?”
“Believe it or not, 25 dollars!”
“Wow,” Mom looked impressed.
“I better eat fast,” I said. “I want to get back out there.”
“I bet you do.”
So, I wolfed down a sandwich, emptied my money bucket and got back out there armed with a full jug of lemonade.
The afternoon was a little less hectic than the morning had been but it was still steady. 100 cups turned into 110 and then 115 and then 120. What the hell had happened? How many people did Tabby actually know? If the size of today’s crowd was anything to go by, she must know a ton and a half of people.
I was happy. Things were going swimmingly. That Tony Hawk Fire Phoenix Skateboard? It was in the bag.
Then, the limo pulled up.
It was long and black- a sedan limo and not one of the newer, Hummer models. The passenger side door opened up and the tallest and widest human being I had ever seen stepped out of the limo. He was in a black suit- black jacket, black pants, black shoes, black socks- the only other color was the white shirt he was wearing and even that had a black tie. He stepped forward and up onto the curb and covered the short distance between the edge and my table in a single step. I gawked up at him, since he was pretty much blocking out the sun.
“Um, can I help you?”
“Yes,” The Giant rumbled. He sounded Russian or Eastern European. “How much for lemonade?”
“25 cents.”
The Giant reached into his pocket and pulled out a single quarter. “One cup, please.” He handed me the quarter and I took one of the cups, poured him some lemonade and handed it to him. “There you go.”
“Thank you,” he replied. He turned and walked back to the limo, where a window in the back of the car rolled down and the Giant handed the cup to someone in the back and the window rolled up again. The Giant opened the passenger side door, got back in, closed the door and just as quickly as it arrived, it sped away.
I didn’t think anything of it, at first. The day was busy and I soon put the random incident out of my mind. I ended the day just shy of 300 cups of lemonade, which put my totals somewhere around 75 dollars or so. That night, Dad was genuinely impressed at my haul. His eyes narrowed. “You been spiking your lemonade with my vodka?”
“What? Of course not.”
Dad chuckled. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
Dad just smiled. “I’m messing with you, kid. Good job today. Proud of you.”
The third day dawned, the day of the brief, but all too memorable Great Lemonade War dawned cloudy with light rain. Mom assured me at breakfast that it would clear up by mid-morning and as it turned out, the weatherman got it right for once, because, just before lunch, the clouds thinned, the rain tapered off and then, suddenly, there was sun. I had lunch and waited for the sidewalks to dry out a little and then I lugged all my stuff out into the front yard, set up my stand, put out Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER and prepped my lemonade.
The stream of customers was slower than yesterday, but I was making a decent showing of it. About an hour in, however, was when the trouble began. A city maintenance truck pulled up, a man got out and walked up to me. “You got a license for this lemonade stand?”
I was taken aback. “A license?”
“Yeah, a license,” he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ticket book. He squinted behind me as our house number and pulled out a pen and began writing. “What’s your name, kid?”
“I don’t have to tell you my name,” I said. Did I mentioned that my Dad was a lawyer? I probably should have mentioned my Dad was a lawyer. Oh, and Uncle Mike? He was a deputy with the Sheriff’s Office. Both of them, in turn, had given the same sermon to both my siblings and my cousins once we reached a certain age, the upshot of which was this: “Never, ever tell anyone your name or admit to anything without an adult present.”
“We’re going to find out anyway, kid.” The man said. “You can tell me now or can tell the health inspector tomorrow.”
“The health inspector?”
“Yeah, the health inspector,” he replied. He finished writing his ticket and tore it off the pad and handed it to me. “Have a nice day, kid.” Then, he turned and walked back to his truck, got in and drove away. I read the ticket and was about to crumple it up and throw it away but sighed. I should probably go ask Dad about this.
I grabbed the money bucket and hung out my “back in a minute” sign and headed into the house. “Dad!”
“I’m down here!” He called back. He was in his easy chair watching sports, as he often did on the weekends. I walked down the stairs into the living room and handed him the ticket. “I just got this.”
He read it and immediately a scowl came over his face. “Did you give him your name?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said. He had his phone on the small table next to his easy chair. He picked it up and scrolled through his phone for a moment before making a call. “Elaine?”
There was a pause.
“Yeah, what the hell is this crap you guys are pulling? My kid just got a ticket for his damn lemonade stand…”
A longer pause. I watched as Dad’s scowl deepened. “How old is that damn ordinance?”
Another pause.
“Yoder? Yoder is pushing this crap? Well, you tell Yoder to go fuck himself.” Then, he hung up.
“Shut your stand down,” he said to me. “We’re going for a drive.” He put the footrest down and stood up, looking incredibly annoyed. I headed back up the stairs and outside. I broke down my table quickly and was about to start carrying it all inside, when the garage opened. “Just throw it all in here quick,” Dad called. With a shrug, I pulled the table into the garage and stacked THE BEST SIGN EVER in front of it along with the cooler. “All good?” Dad asked. “Good. Now get in the car…” He shook his head as I headed toward Mom’s trusty van. “No, not that car,” he grinned. “It’s a nice day. Get in the TransAm.”
I tried not to act excited, but I was. Dad’s most prized possession was the black 1979 Pontiac Firebird that spent most of the year under a tarp in the garage. He took exquisite care of that thing and it was a rare, rare day when he allowed one of us to ride in it. I got into the passenger side and, closing the door, buckled my seatbelt as Dad got in and turned the car on. As he always did, he revved the engine and smiled to himself at it’s roar. Then, he put the car into reverse and backed down the drive.
“So, where are we going?”
“Kid, we’re going to where the other half lives,” Dad said. “There’s a house on Chestnut Ridge I want to check out.”
Chestnut Ridge was on the northwest side of town, out near the river and Dad was right, it was where the other half lived. The Doctors at the local hospital. The Professors at the University. The rich bankers. They all lived there in their huge, sprawling mansions- we could easily afford to live their as well, but the people of Chestnut Ridge…. Well, they weren’t exactly Dad’s crowd. He preferred a more easy-going, laid back type of crowd. He owned about three suits, all of which he wore to court and spent the rest of his time in sandals, old faded t-shirts from bands I’ve never heard of and either cargo shorts or jeans, depending on the season.
He loved to drive his Firebird though and we made our way- ‘the long way’ Dad said out to Chestnut Ridge and soon enough, we were there. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and pulled onto a side street and parked the car at the corner, well back from anyone’s house. He turned the car off and then he sighed. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
He pointed down the street. “Does that look like a lemonade stand to you?”
I squinted. There at the far end of the cul-de-sac in front of an enormous, opulent house- the biggest one on the circle and sure enough, there was what appeared to be a folding table, with a jug of some kind on top of it and a fresh faced, young girl, not much older I was appeared to be waiting for business.
“Yeah, it does.”
Dad shook his head and threw the car into reverse, backing down out of the side street and, once we were clear of the cul-de-sac and back on the main avenue, gunned the engine and sped away, back toward home. “All right, kiddo, here’s the deal,” he said. “We’ve got work to do and then some.”
“What kind of work?”
“Well, let me ask you this: has anyone strange come by to get some lemonade?”
I thought about it for a second. “Now that you mention it, yes I did. There was this weird limo and some giant guy got out of it and got a cup from me.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I replied. “It was weird, but it was a one time thing. He got the lemonade, got back in the limo and went away. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And then the next day that city worker showed up,” Dad said. “Son of a bitch. You pay attention to the city council, kid?”
“Not really.”
“Well, there’s an Alderman by the name of Irvin G. Yoder and surprise, surprise, he represents the ward that covers Chestnut Ridge,” Dad said. “That house with the lemonade stand back there? It belongs to another guy- a guy who was probably in that limo- his name is Vasiliy Romanko.”
“Who’s that?”
“Well,” Dad said, pausing for a moment to change lanes and speed pass a bus. “He’ll tell you that he’s a highly successful contractor.”
“But he’s not?”
“No,” Dad said. “He’s the local mob boss.”
“The mob boss?”
I sat back and listened, stunned as Dad explained the situation to me. It turns out that Vasily Romanko was a man of many talents and businesses and he didn’t have too many weaknesses, except his daughter, Ana. He could deny her nothing and when she asked for a lemonade stand, she demanded it be the best in the city. “At least that’s what I’m betting she asked… so, when he heard that you were doing so well, he sent someone to check you out.”
“That was the Giant?”
“Yeah,” Dad said. “And when he tasted your lemonade and found out it was so good, well, that meant Ana wasn’t the best lemonade stand in the city any more.”
“And so?”
“So, he called in a favor from his pet Alderman, Yoder and we got a visit from the health inspector.”
We were heading down our street now and soon enough we were pulling back into the driveway and Dad was opening the garage. He pulled the TransAm into the garage and turned the engine off. “So what do I do now?”
“You, kid, keep right on selling your lemonade,” Dad said. “I am going to make some calls.”
He didn’t elaborate on who exactly he was going to be calling and disappeared back into the house so I went grabbed my table, Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER and my cooler and set them up. Then I ducked back inside to get my money bucket and went back to work. The traffic was steady, but not overwhelming and I ended the day another fifteen bucks up- though I couldn’t help but be worried about tomorrow. I wanted to try and ask Dad what the plan was for tomorrow, but Mom said he would be working in his study most of the night. I went to bed feeling uneasy and tossed and turned around a lot that night, wondering what the next day was going to bring. Little did I know that the next day would pass into local legend and I would have the Tony Hawk Phoenix Fire Skateboard before the end of the day.
I didn’t know all of that then, though. The next morning I woke up to the sun shining through my curtains and, I discovered, a beautiful blue sky and not a cloud in sight. I went downstairs and Mom was waiting for me. “Pancakes?”
“Sure!”
“I can put chocolate chips and bananas in them if you want,”
“Okay,” I shrugged. I went back upstairs, got myself dressed and then headed back downstairs, tucked into my delicious breakfast and once that was done, brushed my teeth and then did what I had done for the past two days. I grabbed my money bucket, my folding table and Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER and headed out to the curb to set up my lemonade stand. The morning started slowly enough- but nothing was amiss. People would pull up, get a cup of lemonade, pay me and move on. Around mid-morning, I headed back into the house and made another jug of lemonade then headed back out.
I began to relax a little, almost forgetting about the imminent visit from the health inspector and I would have, except a crowd began to gather just before lunch. Tabby emerged from her house across the street and came over. “Hey, dork,” she said. “Reinforcements are here!”
“What reinforcements?”
“We’re standing in solidarity with you against the man!” Tabby said. “My mom is calling the rest of the coven and they’re all bringing friends.”
“What?” Tabby laughed at the confused look on my face. “Catch up, dork! Your old man has been working his rolodex all night.”
Everything clicked into place for me and almost as soon as she said that, Dad emerged from the house, looking pleased with himself and glancing at his watch. “Almost showtime, every one!” The crowd, which now numbered about fifty or so with more people arriving every second let out a lusty cheer and scattered applause. I was more concerned about running out of lemonade, but happily, with Dad out of the house waiting in the yard, Mom wasn’t far behind and, with her usual impeccable sense of timing, emerged as well- with two jugs of lemonade in hand. I gave a sigh of relief and kept pouring lemonade.
A few cups of lemonade later and boos began to ring out- a city truck- the same one from yesterday- pulled up and, just behind the truck, the long, black limo- which looked like the same one, that had spat the giant out on my curb the day before yesterday. “Oh shit,” I muttered. “Here we go.”
The city worker got out of the truck and after closing his door, waited for a moment. Then, the limo door opened and an elderly looking man got out and walked over to where the city worker was waiting and then they made their way through the crowd who had fallen silent except for the occasional call of “you suck!” and a boo or two. The crowd parted to let them through and soon enough, they were there. The old man cleared his throat- but before he could say anything I picked up a cup of lemonade.
“Lemonade, sir?”
“Um, no thank you, young man,” the old man said. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m Alderman Irvin G. Yoder and unfortunately, I am here with my colleague from the City to shut down your little business.”
The crowd erupted in boos but my Dad, who had made his way through the crowd to stand behind Mom and I waved down the boos. “On what grounds?” Dad said.
“City Ordinance 11.24”
“Has that ordinance ever been enforced before?” Dad asked.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” Yoder replied.
“Because, I’ve been up all night preparing a lawsuit, Yoder,” Dad said. “And if you shut my kid’s lemonade stand down and let that stand over in Chestnut Ridge stay open, we’ll see you in court.”
“I don’t know why we need to make this unpleasant,” Yoder said. “But unfortunately, I do,” and he turned to the city worker, who handed him the citation. “Have to give you this ticket and ask that you immediately cease any and all vending of lemonade.”
“Is the stand on Chestnut Ridge going to be served with a similar citation?” Dad asked. “Will that stand be closed down?”
Yoder shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll let my colleague here monitor you as you shut down,” he said, ignoring Dad’s question.
“I’ll be going on a fishing expedition, Irvin,” Dad called as Yoder turned away. “I’ll be going after patterns of enforcement, your voting pattern, your donors.”
Yoder stopped and turned. “I believe in transparency in politics sir, I believe in public service and it’s people like you who drag our system through the mud and give politics in this country a bad name,” Yoder raised a finger, shaking with indignation. “Have you no decency, sir, have you no decency, have you no sense of-”
Before Yoder could continue a wild war cry that sounded a lot like Tabby echoed across the street and then, suddenly, there were goats. Goats everywhere and everything turned into chaos. The lemonade went everywhere, the table was turned over and I only just managed to grab the money bucket and somehow made my way to safety. The crowd was scattering, the goats along with them and I watched as Yoder and the City Worker were doing their best to keep their footing in the chaos, Yoder still trying to shout his indignation above the noise and in doing so, failed to notice the goat running up behind him until it was too late.
The goat was mad and running very fast and Yoder actually went a fairly impressive distance up in the air before coming back down with a cry of pain. The city worker and my father immediately went to his aid and that’s when the cops showed up.
It took awhile to untangle everything, but about an hour or so later, once the goats had been rounded up and safely returned to their owner (which, as it turned out, was Tabby’s Mom) and Alderman Yoder carted off to the hospital and we had cleaned up the mess of the lemonade stand- Mom’s BEST SIGN EVER now had a few bite marks on it- I was sitting on our front steps watching as the last cop pulled away after talking to my Dad. Dad came over and sat down next to me.
“That was fun,” he grinned.
“That was pretty crazy,” I said. “Are we in trouble?”
Dad laughed. “No,” he said. “The cops aren’t going to cite anyone- but they want me to drop the threat of my lawsuit. Turns out they had an investigation going already and they don’t want me spoiling their surprise.”
“Can I keep the lemonade stand open?”
Dad sighed. “That, I couldn’t swing,” he said. “Yoder isn’t wrong on the ordinance. The cops are going to be fair about it though- the Chestnut Ridge stand is getting shut down this afternoon as well.”
My shoulders slumped. “Well, I guess I’m closer to my skateboard, right?”
“You know what, kid?” Dad said. “I already talked to your Mom,” he said. “We’re getting you that skateboard tonight. Yoder’s been a corrupt son of a bitch for years now and he’s going down and that makes me happy and generous and you worked hard for this. I’m impressed.” He clapped me on the back. “You may have lost the Lemonade battle, but you’ve won the Great Lemonade War.”
