Tales from the Suburbs
Supporting the Grifter Youth of America
One rock at a time
“Wanna buy a rock?”
Not the best opening pitch from a cadre of rug-rats, but I appreciated the brevity. After frequent, long-winded inquiries about my daughter’s play schedule, this no-nonsense approach was a welcome reprieve.
Clearly playtime was over. It was time for the money grab. They had mouths to feed and a candy habit to bankroll.
That’s right, “they.” This was no lone huckster. This savvy chap brought a couple of wingmen along with his A game. The mini posse, none older than seven, loitered on my porch. Between them sat an impressive metal case with shelves that swung out like a first-generation Transformer toy. Each shelf was lined with faux red velvet to better highlight their wares; rocks.
White rocks. An assorted collection of white rocks that looked suspiciously like the “salt” from the ¾” salt and pepper gravel straight out of the neighbor’s landscaping. I was a little underwhelmed by the selection — all whitewashed and light on diversity.
Forestalling any chance for protest, they jumped in with tier pricing. As part of the neighborhood discount plan these little nuggets would only set me back ten cents apiece. Can you imagine!? Less than a dozen pennies, for a hand-picked rock. Quite a steal for a semi-precious stone that only made up half the population of our neighbor’s landscape. I mean, I was practically losing money if I didn’t snatch up the entire inventory.
But before I could start shucking out dimes from my belt fed coin dispenser, the real crown jewel was revealed.
It was clear to them I was a customer with an eye towards quality. So, as if to say only suckers waste time with mere gravel, they directed my attention to the top shelf item. Literally.
There atop the padded pinnacle was perched a string of purple plastic pearls. These were the classic beads one might only receive by flashing some skin on the streets of Mardi Gras or dishing out five arcade tickets at Chuck E Cheese. Judging by their greasy faces I was leaning towards the latter.
Regardless of its origin, they could see I was intrigued. They let the grandeur soak in for a moment. Let me visualize how this trinket might pair with my polyester shirt with the peacock design.
After a beat, they went in for the kill, telling me I could be the proud owner of this treasure for a measly ten dollars. To think, for the price of a hundred rocks I could score a strand of uniformed purple plastic.
Then it struck me. Was I their first customer? Did I have the right of first refusal and the chance at securing the deal of lifetime?
Or maybe the stray gravel and faux pearls were not the commodity they advertised.
Maybe they had more necklaces tucked away. Maybe they had an entire yard of gravel. Were they looking to profit from naïve neighbors?
They had to be stopped. I had to stop them before they could cheat the entire neighborhood. Before they could make fools of us, laughing all the way to the piggy bank.
“So?” one asked hopefully.
“No.” And I closed the door on their bewildered faces.
Tingling with satisfaction, my gut told me I’d made the right choice.
But then I hesitated. What had I done? Maybe the deal wasn’t legit. Maybe the beads were not worth a hundred rocks. But you had to admire their initiative, their go-getter spirit. They had the making of an honest salesman, or a burgeoning grifter, or maybe even the greedy CEO of a price-gouging pharmaceutical company. Was this any worse than Girl Scouts peddling corporate cookies? Should their diligence be rewarded? Should I support their ambitions and fund their adventures in capitalism?
I opened the door as they were packing up shop. I looked down at their eager faces and said with all sincerity;
“And Emma won’t be back until next week.”
Slam.
