Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

So head to Williamsburg this afternoon. Your taste buds (and conscience) will thank you.

Next day I sell out batch in fifteen minutes. The people are coming at me so fast I cannot believe it. They are like animals, crazed for these pickles! It is like time in Slupsk that there was plague and only one witch selling medicine.

When I am down to last jar, there are still many people in line. Two people rush to cart and begin screaming.

“I was here first,” says bald man with black glasses. “I’ve been waiting here since seven.”

“That’s not true,” says tiny Chinawoman. She has ring in nose like pig.

There is lots of arguing back and forth.

“Look,” says the bald man finally, “I wasn’t going to say anything. But I work for Jake Gyllenhaal.”

At this point, I am frightened. I have not heard of this Jake man, but I can tell from crowd’s reaction he is probably sheriff or constable.

“I am sorry,” I say to woman. “I must do as I am told.”

“That’s bullshit!” she screams.

“I am sorry,” I repeat.

I am handing the jar to the man when the Chinawoman pokes me on the shoulder.

“I’ll give you five dollars!” she shouts.

I stop my movements.

“Oh my God,” I say. It is first time in life I have seen price go up in a market. I have never been this shocked, including the time I was brined a hundred years.

“Oh my God,” I say again. “My God.”

I am about to hand woman the jar when the man shouts, “Six dollars!”

At this point, something strange happens, which is that my body begins to dance. I am trying to be professional and keep my face normal, but my legs and arms have all begun to dance.

“Seven!”

“Eight!”

“Nine!”

The man reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and counts all the bills inside.

“Seventeen!”

I assume this must be the end, but then the woman pulls out twenty-dollar bill. It is like I am in strange dream. What are all these millionaires doing in Williamsburg?

I take the Chinawoman’s money and stand on cart to address the growing crowd.

“I am out of pickles,” I say, causing everyone to groan. “But do not be afraid! I will return in three days with giant batch.”

The people begin to cheer, like I am Elijah announcing the Messiah.

“Also,” I add softly, “I am going to raise prices.”

From that point on, I sell jars for twelve dollars. You would think this outrageous figure would slow sales, but it is the opposite. The more I charge, the more people want the pickles. By end of second week, I have $2,219 in lockbox.

I am happy to be making such big profits. But secretly part of me wishes people haggled. Screaming over money is what makes the market fun. Sarah used to threaten to kill the potato man whenever his prices went up. She would take out her knife and say, “I will kill you with this knife for robbing me.” He would curse her in Hungarian and then the two of them would wave their fists around. It was good times for everyone. These days, though, nobody has that kind of will. It is all please and thank you and have a nice day.

One evening I am selling jar when I hear familiar voices. I look across street. It is Claire and Simon. She is pulling him toward me by the wrist while he struggles to break free.

“I don’t want to,” he is whispering, like toddler being dragged to work his loom. “No.”

Eventually, he manages to flee her and darts into the Starbucks Café. Claire sighs and continues toward my pickle cart.

“Herschel!” she shouts. “Over here!”

“I am with customer,” I tell her. I complete my sale, lock money into box, and only then turn toward her.

“Hello,” I say.

She gestures at my money cart and laughs.

“This is so cool!” she says. “Herschel, your cart looks amazing. ”

“Is fine,” I say with modesty.

“Simon and I were reading New York Magazine, ” she says, “and we saw your cart in the Approval Matrix. We couldn’t believe it!”

“I am in magazine?”

“Herschel, you’re everywhere!” she says. “ Gawker, Eater, Brooklyn Vegan. You’re a huge success!”

“I am nowhere close to success,” I tell her. “I vowed I would buy house for two millions. I have barely made two thousands.”

“That’s pretty good for two weeks,” she says.

“Is nothing,” I tell her. “Like pennies compared to what is coming.”

She laughs out loud, as if I am making joke.

“You are not the first to doubt me,” I tell her. “When I was saving wages to leave Slupsk, my father told me that I dream too big. He urged me to stay and join his business.”

“What did he do?”

“He was shit collector.”

Claire scrunches up her face.

“What’s that?”

“What do you think it is? It is person who collects shit. He owned big shit cart, and every day he went around collecting shit. He smelled like shit and was always covered in shit. Finally, after many years with the shit, he saved money up for house. But before he could even go inside, the Cossacks got drunk and burned it. All that was saved was his shit cart, which the Cossacks had shit inside.”

“Wow,” she says. “You must hate those Cossacks.”

“No,” I say. “I am thankful to them. They gave me the rage I needed to work harder than most men.”

Claire nods.

“I can see where Simon gets his work ethic from.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Simon has work ethic?”

“Sure,” she says. “I mean… it’s less extreme now than when he was first starting out in the business. But he still really pushes himself. Like, last week, a studio asked him to write some movie taglines? And his allergies were acting up. So I was, like, ‘Just tell them you’re sick.’ But he sat down and wrote them anyway.”

“That sounds like real struggle,” I say, winking hard to show I am being facetious.

I look across the street. Simon has still not left the café. There is nothing to do but make more conversation with Claire.

“How is your schooling?” I ask.

“Just trying to figure out my dissertation,” she says. “It’s hard to pick a topic. There are so many aspects of the immigration process in need of reform.”

I wave my hands.

“Is fine,” I say.

“How can you say that? You went through hell to make it to this country.”

“Jews do not believe in hell,” I remind her. “That is strange Christian thing. But also, more important, I think you spend too much time thinking of others.”

She smiles. “What a nice thing to say.”

“I meant it as insult. In Slupsk we have popular saying. It goes: ‘You must always put yourself first, before everybody else, in every situation in the world, even if you have resources and they are about to die.’ ”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“Is necessary. You have just one life. If you give it to another, it is gone.”

Claire looks across the street. Simon is hiding behind lamppost, slurping coffee frosting drink. She waves at him, and he reluctantly approaches us.

“Hello,” I say when we are face-to-face.

“Hey,” he says.

Claire takes out her pocket phone and smiles.

“I have to make a call.”

“That is lie!” I say. She ignores me and crosses the street, leaving me with my great-great-grandson.

Simon is twenty-seven, just like me. But sometimes it is hard to believe he is that old. His posture is terrible, so although we are same height, I am always looking down on him, like he is boy.

I also have trouble believing he is wealthy. I know he has made moneys, because this is basically all he ever speaks of. But his hygiene is so terrible he resembles newsboy. His breath is so awful from his coffees, it is torture to stand near him. His hair is full of dandruffs, his ears are filled with wax, and his teeth are stained like monster from the picture show. My standard for cleanliness is not so high. My father, as you recall, was shit collector. So when I say man needs to clean himself, it is pretty big statement.