Child Labor
On hot days, there is a little girl who sells lemonade down the block from my train stop. The first day I saw her, I thought it was cute. I didn't have any cash on me at all so I shook my head at her offer, but I smiled as I walked by.
She was there again the next day, her mom hovering in the background with re-inforcements. They had a customer, so I didn't stop. But I heard the lady standing there with her wallet say, "A dollar a cup?" Yeah, that's kind of steep for a small Dixie cup of Countrytime, but it was over 90 degrees with 95% humidity. Supply and demand, my friends.
Two days later the little girl was selling lemonade again. I noticed Mom holding a big pickle jar full of money. Business was good.
But apparently not good enough. Last week, the little girl and her pickle-jar-carrying mother relocated to directly in front of the train exit. The little girl was now giving her shill in a creepy repetitive chant. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME LEMONADE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME LEMONADE." The entourage had grown to include several adults, all of whom were visibly thrilled by this new cash flow. They pushed the girl out into the middle of the departing throng and started filling cups. Most people, like me, murmured a no thank you and hurried along. Nobody wanted to hurt her feelings but there was something disturbing and distasteful about the adult profit motive clearly at play.
No, honey, I don't want to buy any lemonade. But here's a buck to go tell your mom to find her own fucking job and let you be a kid. You've got your whole life to work. But you only have so many lemonade stands.
She was there again the next day, her mom hovering in the background with re-inforcements. They had a customer, so I didn't stop. But I heard the lady standing there with her wallet say, "A dollar a cup?" Yeah, that's kind of steep for a small Dixie cup of Countrytime, but it was over 90 degrees with 95% humidity. Supply and demand, my friends.
Two days later the little girl was selling lemonade again. I noticed Mom holding a big pickle jar full of money. Business was good.
But apparently not good enough. Last week, the little girl and her pickle-jar-carrying mother relocated to directly in front of the train exit. The little girl was now giving her shill in a creepy repetitive chant. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME LEMONADE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME LEMONADE." The entourage had grown to include several adults, all of whom were visibly thrilled by this new cash flow. They pushed the girl out into the middle of the departing throng and started filling cups. Most people, like me, murmured a no thank you and hurried along. Nobody wanted to hurt her feelings but there was something disturbing and distasteful about the adult profit motive clearly at play.
No, honey, I don't want to buy any lemonade. But here's a buck to go tell your mom to find her own fucking job and let you be a kid. You've got your whole life to work. But you only have so many lemonade stands.
Tequila Red called it a day @ 9:50 PM
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