Sales

Welch's Fruit Snacks.

When I was nine years old, I was obsessed with Welch's Fruit Snacks.

There was nothing that could bring me as much joy as Welch's Fruit Snacks.

My family moved from Thailand to Brooklyn when I was three years old. To keep me safe, I spent a lot of time at home eating Welch's Fruit Snacks while I played video games, read books, and instant messaged my friends.

The reason we were in America was because my dad was the greatest salesperson I knew. Well, also, I'm nine years old, so I don't know that many adults.

Anyone with an immigrant parent knows why my dad is the greatest salesperson: he convinced my mom to leave generations of family behind in China to move to New York City for more opportunity, knowing no one and having nothing, to live in a box. I mean, I know we're here to find more opportunity, but how do I find it if my apartment window looks at another brick wall?

Two other things you should know about my dad. One: he teaches me by dropping me into the deep end of the pool. Literally. He thought that he could teach me how to swim by holding my body above water and then dropping me. I am still learning how to swim today. Two: Chinese is his first language, English is his second language, but much like my dog, he mainly communicates with me using grunts.

One day, my fourth grade teacher tells my class that we have a spring break trip coming up and she gives me two ways to pay for it. I could pay $75 in cash, or I could sell two huge boxes of candy.

I go home and I present these two business opportunities to my father who then looks at me, says nothing, and then grunts. I know that that means I am selling two boxes of candy.

That Saturday, I start my first day at my new job as the CEO of a small candy enterprise. We get on the subway and I have one of these two cardboard briefcases of candy. My dad takes me to the Chamber Street train station, which is a stop away from Wall Street, so he's probably trying to tell me about my future career options.

It's a very crowded day and I am terrified. I don't remember reading a book on how to sell candy on a Subway platform. I don't remember playing this level in a video game. I did not get to message HR about these unsafe work conditions.

My dad decides to go sit down on a bench. He points at all the people and he says, “go.” I look at him and I say, “wait, I'm sorry. What?” He looks at me and grunts.

Fortunately for me, most people love Welch's Fruit Snacks. I open my box, I go up to my first customer, and without much conversation, they take a bag of Welch's Fruit Snacks, they hand me a dollar, and then they walk away, no questions asked. I think to myself, wow, this is actually pretty easy, and soon enough, all my Welch's Fruit Snacks are gone.

I've also since then learned to never eat anything from a subway platform without asking any questions, but that's another story.

I look into my box again and I have Hershey's chocolate bars. I try selling them, but no one's buying them. In fact, they're actually asking me a lot more inappropriate questions like, “what is this candy for?” and “who are you?” which is a question I don't know how to answer because I'm nine years old.

I realize that I can sell Hershey's chocolate bars if I give people a good enough reason to buy them. I tell them it's for a school trip, and soon enough my Hershey's chocolate bars are gone.

I open the box and I see that people saved the worst for last: Paydays. I hate Paydays. As a kid, I hated Paydays. I still hate Paydays. They're like, peanut butter you have to chew.

I go back out there and I try to sell these paydays, and then the questions get much more invasive.

“Where are you going on this trip?”

“Why do you want to go on this trip?”

“Is this for charity?”

I mean, technically isn't any money you give to a child, “charity”?

I'm stuck. I don't know how to sell bad product.

After a couple of failed marketing campaigns, I realize I have not been using my secret weapon.

I am nine years old and I am cute.

I am freaking cute.

I'm freaking cute.

I decide to go up to people and I no longer ask them if they want to buy candy. Instead, I ask them, “are you willing to make my dream of going on this trip with my best friends come true?”

They ate that up.

They ate it up.

They ate that up.

Soon I sell what should have never actually existed in the first place: the rest of my Paydays.

After I clock out and I stamp my time sheets, my dad rewards me with a chocolate bar, which I think is some sick mind trick he's playing on me. He looks at me and he says, “good,” and tells me I have to come back tomorrow to do this all over again.

On Sunday, I do what cartoon creators learned to do a hundred years ago: use cuteness to make money from adults. That day I stop feeling terrified and I start feeling a flow of candy, leaving my box and dollar bills, lining my tiny nine year old pockets.

I go back to school on Monday and I bring back two empty candy boxes, I hand my fourth grade teacher in envelope stuffed with cash, I look her in the eye and I say, “I've done my part of this deal and you need to do yours”

A couple weeks later, I go on this trip.

I don't remember this trip.

I think we went to Maryland?

I do remember how good it felt knowing how I paid for this trip.

When my dad sat on that bench, he was waiting for me to do what he knew I could do. That, and making sure I didn't get kidnapped.

Most importantly, I knew I could do it too.