Wendell Willington, wearing a trim watch to match his suit, walks home from the train station. As he’s walking through the town, he notices two things in a row that are quite lucky to experience consecutively. He feels sweat on his undershirt and then sees an innocent sign written in black crayon: Leminad – 25 cent.
Wendell approaches the stand. “Hey little lady, how’s business?” he rests his forearm in front of a pitcher.
“Gooood,” she’s squinting to avoid the sunlight.
“I’ll take three lemonades please. How much will that be?”
“1..2…75 cents!” Her eyes beam. Wendell chuckles, then reaches into his back pocket. Out of his wallet comes a crisp twenty dollar bill.
“Do you have change?”
“I have a quarter”
Wendell ponders. Twenty dollars would be a great boon to this, apparently, fledgling stand, but he couldn’t stand to make such an irresponsible investment.
“Well do you take debit?”
The girl stares emptily.
“How about credit? Of course not…lemme guess, you wouldn’t happen to take bitcoins?”
The girl picks her nose.
“Hell, it’d be a ludicrous stretch to expect you to have one of those smart phone attachments that accepts credit or debit? Guy that invented Twitter was involved with that, what’s his name…” Wendell strikes a pose and strokes his chin.
The girl pours some lemonade for herself. She takes a sip, spilling on her dress. “Twizzler?”
Wendell’s eyes go wide. “WHAT’RE YOU DOING? ARE YOU CRAZY? You have 25 cents liquid, no actual change, no card terminals, and now you’re consuming your own product?!?! This has gotta be the worst small business ever, no wonder these things are failing faster than a school full of druggies.”
She carefully climbs down her chair, one that’s high enough for her to see customers but a little too high for her to easily escape the annoying ones. She walks over to the befuddled business guru.
“I’m Cirelli. What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter my name, your business is a sham. Do you even read Forbes? Do you understand how tough it is to compete? You’re gunna get wiped out like that,” Wendell snaps his fingers.
Cirelli tilts her head full of air. “I’m 7.”
“And I’m 33, but you don’t see me complaining.” Wendell’s very stressed about the situation. He gently yanks on his tie and wipes sweat from his brow. “I’ll tell ya what, make me the President. Lemme bring some of my expertise. We’ll have this place up to snuff in no time.” He combs his hair with his fingers, mentally planning the next moves.