I look right then left, not a car in sight, been a half hour or more since one passed. Everybody hiding indoors, washing their hands, watching the news. Rinse, repeat. Say two Happy Birthdays and three Hail Marys.
Used to be I had competition on every corner. Now most are laying low with their families, peeping out through curtains and yelling at delivery guys to stay back, shouting at them where to leave their fried chicken bucket or burgers or other such essential supplies. As if eating greasy food when toilet paper is as rare as common sense isn't living dangerously.
I look over my shoulder, up to the nearby stoop where the dope in shades is meant to be keeping an eye. I give him a wave but he doesn't move. Probably fast asleep behind his goofy sunglasses. Some lookout.
A van rumbles along, slowing to a crawl as it passes my spot. The side reads "Pigment Plus Painting Services - A touch of class" but the van is a bad advertisement, all rust and flaking paint. The tired looking woman behind the wheel eyes me. She doesn't stop but I figure she'll be back.
Another engine.
I squint and make out bubble lights above a blue and white paint job. I have just enough time to look back at Sleeping Beauty before the cop car pulls up.
"Still here, kid?" the driver says.
I shrug, nod and say nothing. Call me shy.
"How's business?"
"Can't complain," I answer, being social.
"Looks like you got the market cornered."
"When life gives you lemons, huh?" the cop in the shotgun seat snickers. I don't respond.
"How much?" he asks, once he's finished laughing.
I name the price and they threaten to take me in for robbery and extortion. Say the word "profiteering" like capitalism is a crime.
"But hey," I say, all social again, "for the boys in blue, I'm doing a two for one special. You guys are my icons."
"Idols, you mean."
"Sure, whatever."
They laugh but hand over the money just the same. They know a deal when it's done and drive away happy.
I hear footsteps behind me, then a few little splashes. I roll my eyes up to the sky, asking it to rain down patience upon me.
"Dad!" I scream. "Don't put any more ice in, you're ruining the product!"
"Honey," old Sleepyhead replies, straightening the ribbon in my hair as if I can't do it myself, "maybe it's time to come inside now."
I adjust my mask and disposable gloves, tighten the string on my plastic apron and give the stand another wipe down, making sure my operation is clean and kosher.
"I've still got two jugs worth of lemonade to sell, don't be so wasteful," I say.
He tries to stay strong but scarpers when I turn on tears that dry up as soon as he's gone.
There's a sucker born every minute, even an eleven year old girl can tell you that.
Thank you for reading.
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