The kid selling lemonade on 5th Avenue yesterday.
I was heading down 5th in the Flatiron, and you and a young pal were hawking lemonade from the step of a storefront. You and your chum were about 7; he wore a Mets t-shirt, perhaps for sympathy, and you wore a blue shirt too.
Your mothers hung nearby to supervise.
Your little table held a sign that suggested that either you or your friend’s brother is ill with disease. It was one of those diseases with hyphenated last names; I hadn’t heard of it, but I sincerely hope–for the sake of your brother, your mother, you–that he pulls through OK.
The lemonade stand was, of course, a benefit for your stricken brother.
I walked by and smiled at the thought of a lemonade stand smack in the middle of Manhattan. Days before I was to move into Manhattan way back in, oh, ’92, a friend checked out our prospective block and building, and gleefully reported that there had actually been a lemonade stand going on on the street–an encouraging factoid for a neighborhood that had seen its share of crime in recent years.
I’d even patronized a lemonade stand over the weekend; twice, in fact–Little G and I were given a cup on the house (neither LG nor I had our wallet), then we returned with some change and got a second cup. The stand was manned by the children of a guy who’s running for a pretty high elected position round our parts; we joked with his wife about the kids helping out with the campaign fundraising.
So back to the Flatiron. I’d walked by, then decided I should backtrack and buy some lemonade. Who with a beating heart can so no to kids running a lemonade stand? In truth, it was the Mets t-shirt, not the placard for the diseased sibling, that drew me back.
I asked how much the lemonade was. You, local youth, said it was 50 cents. My eyes opened wide–subtly but noticeably. I’d paid half that up in the ‘burbs.
You, the kid in the non-Mets shirt, took my dollar and tried to temp me with a baggie holding a pair of sagging Lorna Doone’s. I declined. You asked if I wanted change. I said I did.
As you made change, you delivered the ill-advised zinger:
“You’re the only one who’s asked for his change back!”
I simmered as I waited for my cup and quarters.
“That’s not nice!” Mom shouted, then topped off my lemonade to make up for the slight.
She handed it to me and said, “You’re actually NOT the first one to ask for change back.”
As I walked away, I thought of a million suitable replies for you, such as, your customer service could use some work, and not everyone strolling down 5th Avenue has 50 cents to spare.
Of course, all the good ones hit me a block too late. So you got away with one, you little punk.
But thank you for reminding me that if I’d ended up raising kids in Manhattan, those kids would have a very good chance of being entitled smart-alecs with shaggy hair.
Tartly,
Trainjotting
[image: barista.net]