“Thanks Bartley, I’ll talk to you soon,” Wendell ends the call. He stares at the wooden case of lemons, the five pitchers, the gallons of water, and cups in three different sizes.
“You see Cirelli, customers need variety. You can’t just give them one option. They need a choice. Small, medium, or large. Maybe I’m really thirsty, so I go for the large. Maybe I’m not that thirsty and I just wanna wet my whistle, so I go for the small.” Wendell should’ve reserved his wide-stretched arm motions for an investors meeting. Cirelli is kicking around a kickball on the lawn.
Wendell rolls up his sleeves and sits behind the stand. In an act of inspired obliviousness, he remembers to change the price on the sign, but not the misspelling. It now reads Leminad – The Sip $0.50,The Standard $1, The Premium $2.
A chrome, loud chopper pulls up next to the stand. A grizzled man, who prefers to express himself through tattoos of guns and cannonballs, destrides the bike . He strokes his beard and fixes his leather vest.
“What the fuck are you doing at my daughter’s stand?” He’s about to spit in Wendell’s face. Actually wait, he did.
“Excuse me, sir, but this is now mostly my stand. I’m the majority stakeholder as your daughter gave up the ownership rights in favor of kicking around a rubber ball. This is my stand.” Wendell speaks with entitlement.
Mr. Venner, Cirelli’s father, slams his fists on the table, rams his head near Wendell’s, and tries to make himself understood.
“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing at my daughter’s stand?”
Wendell stands up. “Excuse me, once again, sir. She’s not the owners of this stand. She started it, found a great location, yes, but I’m the one who’s invested in getting the supplies she needs, I’m in charge of branding it now, and I’m doing all the leg work. She’s a ditz and I should fire her for her indolence.” Wendell doesn’t back down to strangers, no matter how tattooed and sunburn encrusted they are.
The scene cuts to black without much hesitation. We hear some scuffling, cursing, and whatever the sounds of rough-housing are. The scene fades back with Cirelli still kicking, only it’s Wendell’s face instead of the ball. She’s laughing in a lighthearted manner, while Wendell’s heart feels heavy because his chest is about to cave in thanks to Mr Venner’s knee.