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THE ICE CREAM ON THE BEACH STORY
by Pepper
A favorite story of Max’s and one that his slacker children and grandchildren have heard a hundred times -- but always pretend it is the first time -- is this:
“When I was young, we lived in Brighton Beach, where the summers were steaming. Ya see, it was the Depression, and people couldn't afford electric fans, so everyone cooled off by the water. I was a little fella, about nine, but I was smart. My friend Ira and I used to roam around, looking to make some dough.”
“We bought ice cream bars, 40 cents a dozen, which we would sell for a nickel. But the bastards didn’t give us dry ice to keep the ice cream cold.”
“So we always moved ourselves, and our merchandise, quickly.”
“One day, it was so hot the air was wavy, and the ice cream started melting. Do you know what Ira did?”
“What?” we’d ask, for the 200th time.
“Ira sat down in the sand and began eating those bars, shoveling them into his mouth as fast as he could. And do you know what I did?”
“No,” we’d say, knowing full well.
“I cut my losses by selling ice cream bars three for a nickel. Sold every one and I broke even! This was my very first markdown,” he would say.
“And what happened to Ira when he grew up?” we’d ask, shivering with dread.
“He sure as hell doesn’t live in Beverly Hills!” my dad would roar, waving his arms around his expansive home.
Dad had a variety of answers as to our question: What happened to the other guy? Sometimes, it was: Whaddya think? Nothin’ much! Or dad would say the other guy got a doctorate in engineering. “But,” dad would say, “making a markdown has nothing to do with brains. It’s instinct.”