Thomas G. Fiffer

The sombrero pictured is not the one in my story. I sold the original— for 10 cents—to a neighbor who, despite my mother’s admonition, wouldn’t give it back.

Neighbor: “A deal’s a deal.” And in response to Mom’s cold stare, “It’s a good lesson.”

Mom: “He’s a child.” And to the neighbor’s shrug, “And you’re a thief.”

I was maybe 10, not yet schooled in business, and I had the brilliant idea to pretend I was the peddler from Caps for Sale, a favorite children’s book. So I stacked hats (assembled from basement baskets and our coat closet shelf) atop my head and cruised our street, balancing my wares, calling out “Caps for sale!” to every passerby. When the neighbor offered a dime for the sombrero, I was ecstatic. Candy was still a penny or two, and a scoop of ice cream was 25 cents. I was rich!

So why was Mom so upset? Well, the sombrero had been bought (before I was born) for one of my brothers at Disneyland. It was not mine to sell, and it had cost 10 dollars. I’d been so pleased with myself and now felt like a fool. I was yelled at—but not punished—and the neighbor was vilified forever as a “bad man.”

My next sales adventure was less harrowing—and more profitable. I wised up, selling Kool-Aid for a nickel a glass, using the cheaper unsweetened powder (purchased, like the cups, with earnings) and my mother’s sugar—which was…free.