The other kids were all suckers. EVERYBODY had a lemonade stand, even that Russian guy down the street who mainly talked to other Russian guys in Oscar Meyer Wienermobiles about “targets” and didn’t seem interested in selling any actual lemonade. I was the only entrepreneur with enough vision to sell cake door to door.
Who can say no to cake? When it shows up on it’s own? I made a mint! Mint chocolate, but still.
Sure, there were a few logistical issues in the beginning, such as supply. One tray of cake wasn’t cost effective. That’s eight pieces? Ten? I’d barely get down the block. I needed to have more at a time, far more.
That’s when I got that plastic five-gallon paint bucket.
You might not think people would want a handful of cake that’s just been jammed into a giant plastic bucket by a ten-year-old, but you’d be as wrong as Johannes Kepler. It’s not as if I didn’t wash my hands, use of their sink and soap simply being part of the purchase price, so everyone was good. Even the health department checked off, though they were strangely more concerned with how much toffee bits were in my cake, per slice.
I think someone misread their job duties.
Anyway, I was a huge success. Soon I had to expand, mentally divide myself and astrally project several times a day in order to meet door-to-door cake demand as far away as the Bastille Day crowds outside the Boll Weevil Monument in Enterprise, Alabama. Admittedly, I had to kill that sumo wrestler outside Dayton who went around offering people free bites from his coconut raspberry Zingers, but that’s all part of doing business.
Even Marie Antoinette, the chick who washes motorcycle windows outside the organic rubber galoshes coop for buffalo nickels and an occasional cobb salad, will tell you that. It’s business, man.
published 23 September 2016