{"id":132,"date":"2008-04-27T10:18:11","date_gmt":"2008-04-27T15:18:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.deepsicks.com\/?p=132"},"modified":"2022-03-19T20:51:02","modified_gmt":"2022-03-20T01:51:02","slug":"worthe-it","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/megasimon.com\/d6\/2008\/04\/27\/worthe-it\/","title":{"rendered":"worthe it"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"Dense<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Walking home from the fake chicken store, I see a couple kids across the street, business-poised proud and hailing me over. Yippee, and hell yeah! Young entrepreneurs selling some flavors, lemon sour sugar sweet refreshment on an okay, so it’s a gray April day that doesn’t need ice-cold relief. But a brightening\u2026? I’ll take it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I like to support the local economy, creativity and the confidence to get away with things. I always stop for Kool-Aid stands and Not Marked for Individual Retail Sale snackcakes and candy, cardboard counter boulevard black markets. Even if I’m in my car, I’ll pull over, preferably with an unnecessary U-y.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I used to be that kid. Rinsing cups in an ice cream pail and using them again, with a Band-Aid tin cashbox and chunky plastic camping thermos of liquid summer wired youth. Wishing the adult I would become would come around and humor me. Take me seriously. Give me money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can’t read the sign from across the street. The writing on the tagboard attached to the post is faint; what I can make out makes no sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"\/<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

“Hey, what are you guys selling?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Water.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Water?!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Yeah, 25 cents a cup!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“You can’t sell water!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“But we don’t have anything.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I bound through traffic to inspect the sign and their sincerity, can’t tell if they’re joshing me, appreciate or are aware at all of the absurdity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Plastic shamrock shot glasses are lined up on a picnic table. Tap water awaits in a 2-liter pop bottle. A large coffee can contains an impressive amount of change, and the youngsters try to sell me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“We put it in the fridge first, it’s really good.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It’s the best!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“We want to buy our mom a present.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had taken them for friends, one of them not quite white, the other not quite black. I try to imagine what Mom looks like and can’t get past a sucked cigarette. Uneven light. A stuck story, I know, it’s hard to be the narrator. Generous to the just passing throughs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I pick through my pockets for the coins I don’t want, cents spare from the yuppie grocery faux chicken patties to punch out my middle school cafeteria craving, and hand them to the giggly one, a shoulder-length androgyne even with the nail polish lets the other do most the talking but is quick to hop to, collect and count the money then select a pre-poured shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hoist it high and drain it down, the water from the faucet and their fractured grins half holy crap it worked, we tricked her good! half understanding I would have to be in on it, complicit, for it to happen. Or, I’m an idiot. Suspending and embracing the farce.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Walking home from the fake chicken store, I see a couple kids across the street, business-poised proud and hailing me over. Yippee, and hell yeah! Young entrepreneurs selling some flavors, lemon sour sugar sweet refreshment on an okay, so it’s a gray April day that doesn’t need ice-cold relief. But a brightening\u2026? I’ll take it.…<\/span><\/p>\n

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