Image courtesy of the author
At the start of the 2012 Hebrew school term, a seismic shift shook my world. It happened during the break between first and second period. I walked from class to the designated eating area, drool moistening my braces, ready to receive my ration of two pretzel rods. But when I arrived, the old snack cart that elicited this Pavlovian response was missing. Instead, the Sisterhood had rolled a new cart into the corner of the room with neatly organized bags of snacks, donning a sign that read, “$2”.
At age twelve, I knew injustice. My mom had said: “I pay a lot of money for you to go to Hebrew school, so you better get out of bed and get in the car.” I was no logician, but if my mom paid a lot of money for me to go to Hebrew school, then why were a bag of Utz pretzels two whole dollars? The math just wasn’t adding up.
None of this would’ve been a problem if we were allowed to bring in our own snacks, but the fear mongering administration was worried traif would be tracked into the holy school. My theory: the Sisterhood conspired with Mr. Greenblatt, the director of Temple Beth-El Hebrew School, to create this state-controlled monopoly.
My mom’s dad is a self proclaimed capitalist, and this wasn’t the first time his free market mind leaked into my brain. When the 2008 housing crisis hit, my parents sat my sister and me down, and told us that we might not be able to do all of the fun activities we used to do. We’d still have food – sure – but we weren’t getting partial season tickets to the Phillies that year.
At that moment, the quarter-capitalist inside me lit up. My first thought: lemonade stand. Every first-year Economics major knows that there’s one market that never dries up, even in recession: sympathy. That’s how Alex sells lemonade in the winter. But I didn’t have cancer. I did, however, have a cute lisp, and an immunity to embarrassment.
I would jump out in front of slow moving cars, and give them my elevator pitch: “Do you runt a cup of wemonade? It’s onwy two dowas, and the money goes to chawaty!” Unable to understand me, they would widen their eyes and soften their lips, passing over fistfuls of cash without even taking the product.
Staring down the synagogue snack cart four years later, I knew I could sell gloves to Captain Hook.
I watched as the sheep lined up to buy their Famous Amos cookies and Herr’s sour cream and onion chips. While they forked up dollar after crumpled dollar, my grandfather’s wet lips whispered in my ear: sell.
The next Tuesday before Hebrew School, I snuck into our pantry and began grabbing every snack I could. Already-opened bags of popcorn, hardened Milk Duds from Halloween, two liter bottles of Sprite Zero – nothing was off the table. My mom, naturally curious, asked what I was doing. Luckily, I had prepared for this eventuality. Deftly, I told her that we were having a party, and my teacher had asked us to bring in snacks. Satisfied by this answer, she acted as an unknowing accomplice in my grift, helping to shove the food into my repurposed sleepaway camp duffel.
Before class, I cornered Ben and Noah Gordon – brothers who were one grade apart, both in different classes than me. I told them to spread the word: I had snacks. Meanwhile, class came and went, but salesmen don’t need to learn what a mem sopheet looks like. I was busy calculating the profit of selling food for a dollar, when my overhead cost was zero dollars. I smiled to myself. The numbers looked good.
When the second class was over, I rushed out of the room and set up shop – out of sight of the Sisterhood. Whispers brought a flood. Kids from grades above and below swarmed my black duffel, waving dollar bills in my face.
“How much for the soda?”
“How much for the popcorn?”
“How much for the beef jerky?”
“Everything’s a dollar, except the soda. The soda is a dollar for a ten second chug, but I get to count and if you stop chugging you have to pay again!”
My customers seemed satisfied by the price point, and money began switching hands. I felt glorious to be king of snack time, delivering food to the hungry. But every king has his enemies. Mr. Greenblatt, all six foot something of him, sauntered down the hall towards the mob that had formed around me. I started to zip up my bag, but a younger kid spat his ration of Sprite Zero onto the ground, right in Mr. Greenblatt’s line of vision. The ruse was up.
I told my classmates to scram – I could handle Greenblatt’s wrath.
He looked down at me with what felt like a half smile. The bag was confiscated, but no punishment was doled out. He just told me to go to class. I was surprised by his lack of moralizing speech that I had become so accustomed to. I thought I was off scot free, but in hindsight, I shouldn’t have been so naive.
I walked to the pick-up area to meet my mom after class, but as I approached I noticed that she was deep in conversation with that dastardly Mr. Greenblatt. She was holding the duffel, and shaking her head, disgraced. Mr. Greenblatt had played the stronger hand this time. I folded and trudged – head down – to my mom.
On the car ride home she kept shaking her head.
“Come on, you had to know you were going to get caught. Why in God’s name did you think it was ok to do that?”
Only one answer would get me out.
“Grandpa said it was a good idea.”
