Tales from the Projects: Failed Business Ventures

I grew up in the projects, so correct me if I'm wrong, but lemonade stands don't work. They are never profitable, and parents only foot the bill because it's adorable. In the summer of 1998, I was finally old enough to realize this. I couldn't have been more jealous of the property manager's daughter who was operating a booming Beanie Baby business out of the front office. Even rich ladies started coming in droves when they got wind of the killer deals that could be found in the hood.

Competing with her was a lost cause. Her father was the property manager; she lived in the projects, but she was not of the projects. She had the advantage of start-up cash and a sweet location.

All I had was SPUNK.

Part 1: Tadpolier than Thou

There was a creepy clearing in a nearby forest that contained a trashy, water-damaged, outdoor living room. Someone obviously dragged their old furniture out there for parties, but as a child the only explanations that made sense involved ghosts, forest demons, or aliens. 

The only other attraction the clearing had to offer was a pond full of frogs. In order to have a successful business, I knew that I needed to find the next hot commodity. I decided that after everyone was over Beanie Babies, they would all want tadpoles. You could put them in your kiddie pool and watch them grow legs! Science! Plus, why would anyone brave the forest or the creepy alien furniture when they could just buy their tadpoles directly from me or one of my associates? 

Here's a mock-up of my successful enterprise's future billboard.
There are a million more "tadlines" where that came from.

I caught five tadpoles in five separate Solo cups which my friends and I carried back through the forest. We were almost home when one of them tripped on a root and spilled the contents of her Solo cup on the ground. I should note that we probably could have saved the tadpole's life, but it freaked us out too much to touch it.

And then there were four.

We did not have much luck unloading our product. Either tadpoles were not the next big thing, or people realized that they could just get them for free with minimal effort. One of my associates set her cup down on the sidewalk while I was trying to make a sale. She then accidentally knocked it over with her hand.

And then there were three.

The evening progressed with nothing but bitter disappointment and two dead tadpoles. Believe it or not, but there was somehow another trip and fall. The details are fuzzy, but in this MS Paint drawing it's implied that my associate tripped on a skateboard. Let's go with that.

And then there were two.

My other friend bailed because I was being a jerk.

And then there was one.

I figured that since my ambition had destroyed my tadpole's family, the least I could do was return him to the pond. My dreams were shattered. I lost my business, my friends, and my tadpoles.

And then there were none.

Part 2: The Greatest Balloon Animal Artist of All Time

I absolutely hate it when people ask me what I like to do for fun. I always tell them that I don't have fun. It's true, I really don't. I used to, though. I used to be a great balloon animal artist. I sold out and started making balloons for profit because it was the perfect solo project. I wouldn't have anyone else's feelings to consider. Also, my friends all still kind of hated me for turning into a tadpole dictator. I outfitted my bike with all the components needed to turn it into a mobile storefront.

Get rich or die trying

At first, my business was pretty successful. Consumers wanted balloon animals, and they were willing to pay. Even the cop assigned to make the rounds through the projects was impressed when he drove by my line of people and awesome bike set-up.

He gave me a thumbs up!

The business only started to falter because it got too big, too fast. The line was very long and people started to abandon it. This enterprise had the exact opposite problem as the tadpole business but, like every business venture of mine, was also doomed to fail.

My first problem is that it took forever to pump each balloon. My mobile storefront had a crappy beginner pump taped to the handlebar. Perhaps if everyone hadn't hated me, I could have hired an associate to pump while I twisted. But everyone did hate me. My other problem was a direct result of my crazy. I kept leaving my bike to pick up pieces of popped balloons. 

When I started to dabble in clowning, my mother felt that it was her duty to sit me down and explain what she believes automatically happens when a small child sees a balloon fragment on the ground:

1. They will be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
2. They will assume it's candy and swallow it.
3. The piece will expand inside their throat until they suffocate
4. The Heimlich maneuver will be completely useless.
5. If you are the one responsible for the balloon, you will be just as guilty as if you had put a gun to their head.

There really was a kid in a wheelchair. He probably wasn't going to eat the balloon.

Epic Crossover between 'Confessions' and 'Tales from the Projects'

I'm a compulsive liar. I figured I could use my blog to disclose my many falsehoods and ease this crushing guilt. 

My mom:
My neighbors:
Taxpayers?:

I stole food stamps and then lied about it. Sorry.

Back in the day when food stamps were still made of paper, I would steal them from my neighbors and hand them in to my mother. My cover story was that I found them in the gutter. She still doesn't know about this, but she reads my blog, so I guess she does now. Stop reading my blog, Mom.

Tales from the Projects: The Very First Time I Was Ever Punched in the Face

When I was 5 years old, I lived in the projects outside of a reservation in South Dakota. I was playing in the jungle gym when this horrible 9-year-old boy and his cronies chased me off and told me that girls weren't allowed to play there.

I have some sweet gossip about this kid, readers. He was the illegitimate child of an American Indian guy from the nearby reservation which doesn't really have anything to do with this story, but I think it might explain the mean thing he's about to do. He probably had abandonment issues and didn't know where he belonged...like Hercules. Although Hercules never punched a little girl. Just saying.

I ran away, feeling guilty about violating the rules. By the time I got back to my house I realized that he obviously didn't have the right to tell me where I could and could not play. I concluded that the brave thing to do, the right thing to do, the thing Captain Janeway would do, would be to march back to those boys and give an impassioned speech.

Feminism!

So I did that.

And he punched me in the face.

I came home in hysterics with a black eye. My mom freaked out and put me in the car because she insisted on going straight to the authorities. We drove past that kid's house so that my mom could scream at them out of the window because we're pretty white trash. There's no denying it at this point.

That's right, we had a Geo Metro.

Epilogue: 

I'm not really sure what the Cops can do about a mean 9-year-old to begin with, but I wasn't going to snitch. I thought it was my fault that he punched me because I was the one who came back to the jungle gym/gave a speech. When we got to the Police Station, I just sat there and cried when they tried to ask me questions. Captain Janeway would have been so disappointed in me.

Tales from the Projects: Ice Truck Killer

The ice cream man doesn't take food stamps. I don't understand why he would choose to include the projects on his route, but I suppose that's neither here nor there. As a child, I witnessed a pair of sisters harassing our ponytailed ice cream man and demanding that he give them his lunch.

He ignored their demands and started to drive away. They chased him on their rollerblades. Keep in mind that this entire scene is playing out to the tune of Pop Goes the Weasel. Ice cream trucks don't go very fast, so the older sister was able to skate in front of the truck when suddenly, with a loud thud, he ran her over.

Her leg was broken or something, so we all carried her back to her notoriously mean mother. I want you to imagine the meanest, scariest, angriest person you know. Now I want you to imagine that their daughter was just run over by an ice cream truck.