The Yellow Ice Cube

Visions of cancerous blotches on my arm kept creeping through my mind as I stood behind my little, wooden lemonade stand, the hot sun blazing down on my skin. I could feel the heat rising from the sidewalk causing both me and my glass lemonade pitcher to sweat.

I set up my little lemonade stand outside the local mall that August day, hoping that people willing to buy expensive crap would care to throw a couple of bucks my way.  Business location was everything. ‘Location-location-location’ was hammered into us in class.

A silver Mercedes pulled up to a parking slot across from me. A tall man wearing a shirt and tie stepped out and approached. His gold necklace and watch sparkled in the sunlight. As he neared, I saw his name tag: Clive Monet – Manager. He said, “What the hell is this?”

“Just trying to make an honest buck, sir. College left my bank account drained…empty, actually.”

“Oh, so you’re a college kid? Ha, you don’t need college. What you need is a real job,” he said, stroking his patchy beard.

Clive rubbed his chin, the hot breeze blowing his cologne scent towards me. It smelled like Tommy Hilfiger, which I hated. I inched over to get out of the odor’s path.

“Tell you what,” he said, “you see that camera right there?” He pointed at a white security camera at the nearest corner of the building, perched at the top looking like a wingless robotic bird, its solitary eye suspicious of me. “I’m gonna be watching you. I’ll see if you pocket any money for yourself. What I’m getting at is as long as you pay me my cut, which will be about…oh, let’s see…” He rubbed his chin again. “Fifty percent—“

“Fifty-percent! Screw it. I’m outta here,” I said.

“Think about it, kid. Where else are you gonna find clientele like this?”

As if on cue, a woman in tight jeans and high heels walked up to the stand with her two children. She ordered three lemonades and handed me six dollars. I poured her three Styrofoam cups of the yellow concoction and put the cash in my metal money box.

“Three of those dollars are mine. But don’t worry, kid. Business will be good for you today, even with you having to pay the rent.” Clive patted me on the back. “See you in a couple of hours.”

I was going to tear the stand down and take off just on principle alone but a small line of people began to form.  Quickly, my cash box began to fill up with cash.

The thought of running away crossed my mind but the green stuff kept me planted. As I poured lemonade and took in cash, I was constantly making calculations in my head. A hundred bucks and I can take home fifty. Two hundred bucks, a hundred for me. God, the fee was freakin’ stiff.

I ran out of lemonade around five and I guess ol’ Clive had been keeping an eye on me because he came out of the store and collected.  He stood next to me with his arms crossed, looking at my money as I counted it. Tommy Hilfiger made me want to puke. Or maybe it was this whole jacked up situation, this stupid job.

I gave him a hundred and fifty bucks. I could’ve taken home three bills and this butthead robbed me of half. But really, I wouldn’t have made this much anywhere else in this town. This was the only place people with money hung out.

“You did real good today, kid. See you tomorrow.”

I tore down the stand, my muscles aching, my head throbbing. That fat ol’ sun was killing me.

* * *

The next day, I had a little present for Clive. You know how they say not to eat yellow snow? Well, I had a yellow ice cube and I kept it in the ice chest, strategically placed on a sheet of plastic wrap. If the opportunity presented itself, I planned to use it.

The yellow cube sat there all day as I shoveled its clear relatives into foam cups, bathing them in lemonade and handing them off to the masses.

When Clive came to collect after another long day in the sun, I said, “Sir, have a drink with me. On the house, of course.”

Clive thought about it for a moment, hand on his chin again. “Why not?” he said.

I tried to contain my excitement as I skillfully scooped his ice, including Mr. Yellow, and poured him a cup. I fixed myself a glass too. I was going to toast the bastard.

But he beat me to it. Raising his glass, he said, “You’ve stuck it out for two days in the blazing sun.  You’ve paid my fees without complaint and now you’ve offered me a free glass of lemonade.” He paused, glass raised. “You’ve passed the test. I want you to work for me.  You don’t need to be doing this out here in the sun. Hell, with your degree, you could be assistant manager in a few weeks.”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“I sure am,” he was about to drink but then he said, “Oh, and here’s your money.” He handed yesterday’s share back to me. “I was testing your gumption. Here’s to you kid.”

I was in shock, disbelief at what was happening. What an opportunity.

Clive raised the cup to his lips.

But I didn’t know how to stop Clive.

He took a long drink. “This is good stuff, kid.”

* * *

I took the job at Zales but every day, I kept thinking how I’d made Clive drink the dirty lemonade. It ate at me, day after day, especially after seeing how Clive was actually a good guy, showing me the ropes.

After two weeks, guilt made me quit. 

To this day I can’t help but laugh thinking how I’d pissed away an opportunity.


Winner of the Writer's Cramp Contest 9/19/2009
(Word count: 1000)