You guys,
“Okay, I’m only buying this on one condition,” said the woman in the black baseball hat with “Trouble” written across the front.
Kylie and I stood and watched as Sam negotiated the sale of one of my rope light signs. We were on the Venice Beach Boardwalk and had just walked out of James Beach restaurant where we ordered expensive margaritas that tasted like they were made with moldy limes and sour mix squirted from a gun. We didn’t want to return them so we had asked the bartender to top them off with orange juice and he did so without a word.
We’d seen the woman walk past when we were inside and Kylie had taken one look at her hat and whispered to us, “Here comes…”
The woman walked past and said, “I heard that,” over her shoulder.
Kylie was my best friend and funniest person I knew. Our entire high school class agreed and named her Funniest in our yearbook superlatives. She was known to prank call teachers and students and speak in different accents and keep them on the phone while the rest of us in the room held our mouths and writhed on the floor with stifled laughter. When I told her I was leaving California and moving to North Carolina she booked her flight. We’d spoken on the phone for six years about my life in LA and my friends and my places of work and she wanted to see it all. She also wanted to see Hollywood Boulevard and the Hollywood sign and if we could be so lucky, a few celebrities.
I never thought I would leave California and yet the decision was simple. I no longer cared about the LA scene of partying or potential screenwriting connections. I wanted to be with Sam and I wanted to pay off my college and credit card debt and that was about all I could see in front of me. I could move into Sam’s bachelor pad in Charlotte, get a restaurant job, and not pay rent.
Our eight-month long-distance relationship had been thrilling at first. Each time we saw each other—once or twice a month—felt like a vacation. We dropped everything to just be with each other and deepen our connection. But the goodbyes had become unbearable. I sobbed in his arms in the hours leading up to his departure even though I knew I’d see him in two weeks. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I wanted to be with him.
It was Kylie’s idea to bring the “Venice” rope light sign with us when we went to the boardwalk, to try and sell it there. When we got in the Uber she looked at the huge sign that lay across both our laps and said, “I was kidding about bringing the sign. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”
My Etsy shop opened eight months prior and I hadn’t sold a single sign. I would have just guessed a price that seemed reasonable but Sam made a spreadsheet—which I didn’t know how to do—and asked me to save my receipts and send him how much everything cost. I never paid attention to those details. I bought what I needed and put it on my credit card and would deal with paying it later.
With Sam’s help I learned it cost approximately a hundred dollars to make each sign so I charged three hundred dollars a sign. After a few months I knocked it down to one hundred and fifty dollars.
The signs were made of thick-cut redwood oak and each had a different word on it in cursive rope light that could be plugged in “to turn any room into a ‘woah’ experience” as advertised on my home page. They piled up on the floor of my apartment: “Lumos,” “Hogwarts,” “Jolly,” “Eats,” “Whiskey,” and “Venice.” I did have one custom order from a bouncer at my old job—“Get Rich” in red rope light on a black-painted board, and eventually sold “Whiskey” to a friend. The “Venice” sign was my least favorite one. I’d made it early on, before I figured out how to make the cursive letters look clear and evenly spaced apart. I was happy to give it away if someone would take it.
The plan was to walk the Venice Canals, grab a drink, then post up on the boardwalk for ten minutes to try and sell the sign. If we couldn’t sell it—which we surely couldn’t—we would lean it up somewhere on the boardwalk for someone to find.
We walked out of the restaurant where a scene from “I Love You, Man” was filmed. This was as exciting for Kylie as spotting Paul Rudd. She declared it the best day of her life. We walked ahead but stopped when we heard Sam talking to Trouble. He held up the sign, presented it to her, and asked if she was interested. “That’s really nice,” she said, and dug through her purse to retrieve a lighter. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the white brick exterior of the restaurant.
“We’re asking for two hundred,” Sam started.
“Oh, no,” Trouble interrupted him. “I don’t even live in Venice. I live in Marina del Rey. I don’t have anywhere to put that, my husband will kill me if I bring that home.”
“...but for you,” Sam continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “we’ll give it to you for forty.”
“Forty dollars?” she said. “Wow, that’s a good deal. I’m sure someone will buy that from you off the boardwalk.”
This punk-rocker-chic lady in her designer ripped jeans and white T-shirt just wanted to go outside and smoke her cigarette in peace. But Sam didn’t budge. He stood there, proudly displaying my sign. I wanted to grab his arm and apologize to the woman and get the hell out of there.
“Forty dollars?” she said again, and rummaged through her purse. “I might have forty dollars.”
She pulled out two 20s and held them up as she explained her conditions for the exchange. I stood at attention, shocked, ready to do anything she asked.
“It’s not for me, it’s for my friend,” Trouble said. “She’s inside. She’s getting married. I know she would love this. But you have to go in there and present it to her.”
The three of us thanked her and sprinted inside, unable to stop giggling.
We walked past the bar to a sign that said “Private Event.” A restaurant employee stopped us. “Are you with the party?”
“Yup!” I said, and continued past with Sam and Kylie trailing close behind. I opened the door to a scene out of Beverly Hills Housewives. It was a lady’s brunch. Fifteen women in fancy dresses with hair and makeup perfectly in place sat at a long table. No wonder Trouble went outside for a cigarette break.
“Where’s Ashley?” I announced to the room. I felt bold and buzzed from the tequila, with the added adrenaline rush of forty dollars in my pocket from making a sale.
I didn’t have to scan too far to spot Ashley at the head of the table in a white dress. All the women stopped talking and looked around, unsure and unsmiling.
“I am?” Ashley answered.
There was a long table against the wall filled with presents but the whole left side was completely open and there was an outlet on the wall right behind it. Sam and I propped the sign up on the table and plugged it in.
Delighted screams echoed through the room. Ashley stood and walked over. “This is for me?!”
I pulled out a black Sharpie to write my shop’s name on the back of the sign.
“You made this?! Oh my God!” Ashley approached me with arms outstretched, crying (seriously, she was crying). I wrapped my arms around her, open black Sharpie in hand against her pristine white dress.
The women and Kylie took pictures of Ashley with her new sign. She said she couldn’t wait to put it above her bed.
The three of us were out on the sidewalk moments later. We jumped up and down, free of the weight of my rope light sign. “And you didn’t think I was a good salesman!” Sam said.
—
Until next week,
Charlie
P.S. I still have my signs. “Jolly” is in our guest room; “Lumos” is in George’s room.
Charlie - GREAT story. You hooked me in and kept me hanging the whole time. 😁. I kept wondering if something bad, out of the ordinary, etc was going to happen and the flow was terrific.
What a great story. You never know what may give someone great pleasure. It's also a story about the positive elements of salesmanship and good economic transactions that get the right thing in the right hands.