The Bead Incident

Act One

My neighborhood threw a block party during Mardi Gras. I showed up with lots of beads to throw around, but it turned out to be a very different type of celebration.

There were poorly maintained children’s rides, a pair of baristas who claimed to be singers, and an opportunity to speak with the mayor, who was strolling the grounds.

I caught his attention by tossing a bead necklace over his head. He grimaced when he saw me.

“Not you,” he muttered. “Not today.”

I mentioned my book and offered to serve as the town’s author laureate.

(The mayor said he would take it under advisement.)

The moment seemed right for a public speech.

Before I could begin, I was swarmed by third-graders under the impression I was giving away bead necklaces to just anyone.

When I declined to hand them over, they lunged.

They were no match for my strength, but the strings of many necklaces snapped in the struggle.

A torrent of beads scattered across the asphalt like ball bearings.

Movement became impossible.

The third graders were the first to hit the deck.

The mayor landed on top of them.

I will pitch the author laureate idea again after my second book.

Act Two

Tim was among those injured in what has come to be known as the Bead Incident.

An older boy, Tim had slipped while rushing to rescue his younger brother, who was flattened under the bellowing mayor.

In his fall, he broke his wrist.

To avoid a lawsuit, I agreed to undertake the mowing of the numerous lawns Tim maintained on my street for the duration of his recuperation.

Needless to say, he did not cut me in on the proceeds.

As if mowing my neighbors’ yards wasn’t humiliating enough, Tim began to “supervise” by dragging around a white lawn chair from site to site.

He would perch on the driveway and sip a juice box, watching me. Sometimes his little friends would stop by, and he would hold court.

I drew a line when Tim asked to meet with me one morning, before the day’s mowing, for a performance review.

I hired a professional yard service to perform the remaining work.

It was cheaper than paying lawyers.

Act Three

Once Tim had healed, and I was under no legal threat, I enacted my planned revenge.

Tim would pay for my humiliation.

Literally.

I started a competing neighborhood lawn service, undercutting his price at each house by fifty cents, because I knew what he was getting paid. 

(Tim had made me knock on doors to collect his money.)

Ours became a street divided.

Some of my neighbors irrationally took Tim’s side, simply because he was a child. They shook their heads when I walked past.

Others (fewer, clearer-headed) understood that marketplace forces can be cruel. It is our way.

I was teaching Tim an important lesson, and saving my supporters fifty cents per week, so they waved politely when I greeted them.

Tim eventually conceded and sold me his remaining customers for twenty dollars. My victory was complete.

But now I spend all day mowing because the professionals were bankrupting me.

I’m thinking of giving the business back to Tim.

About the author
Stanton Fenwick spends his days building an archive of his photos and writing, so he can ask AI to rate him as a human being. He is hoping for a 6/10.