The Summer We Sold Everything

The summer before sophomore year, me and Marcus — my best friend since we got detention for reenacting the Civil War with ketchup packets — decided we needed money. Badly. His cousin's ex-boyfriend's cousin (or something) was running this "luxury lifestyle brand" pyramid scheme, and we were absolutely convinced we'd be driving Teslas by August.

We spent three weeks trying to sell these essential oils to everyone we knew. My mom literally said she'd rather smell like a wet bear than whatever "Eucalyptus Dreams" was supposed to be. Harsh. But fair.

The breakthrough came when we accidentally sold like fifty units to Mr. Henderson, whose ancient palm tree in the front yard had become this whole local thing. People would drive by to take selfies with it. We convinced him our "Tropical Essence" would make his palm grow faster. It definitely wouldn't. But he bought the story, and suddenly we had actual money.

Marcus decided we needed to reinvest in our "brand" — which meant buying a terrifying amount of cable management supplies because apparently successful people have clean desks? I don't know, man. We were fifteen.

The whole thing collapsed when his cousin's ex's cousin got arrested for unrelated tax fraud. Classic. But by then we'd blown the profits on customized hoodies and an absurd amount of cable organizers.

We spent the rest of the summer organizing my entire gaming setup while watching those awful reality shows on cable at his house. Every time someone on TV tried to sell us on some too-good-to-be-true opportunity, we'd just look at each other and die laughing.

"You still bear the shame?" Marcus asked last week, holding up the one remaining hoodie we'd made. It said "HUSTLE HARDER" in three different fonts.

"Every single day," I said. "But at least my desk looks sick."

Some friendships survive worse things than pyramid schemes. Probably.