The Summer of Shawn (Part One): Dirty Lots and Things that Go Boom

Graduating from college came with a strange mix of excitement and fear.

After I walked across that stage in early May 2013, I felt the weight of bills and job pressures on my back. It was yet another point in my life when I truly felt I was growing up.

When I should have been searching for entry-level jobs at any publications hiring, I was happy-hour hopping and staying up late – trying to make sure I didn’t miss a precious, reckless minute of university life. I was able to land a part-time, unpaid internship at a news website, though, and that allowed me to continue writing after school.

Instead of getting a part-time job in addition to the internship to actually make some money, my roommate, Kory, and I turned to Craigslist. There, we found lists of online classifieds that we saw as opportunities to continue our post-collegiate, no-job lifestyle.

And in early June, we found our true calling: selling small explosives from a tent.

The ad stated that over a 10-day period, vendors could make between $3,000 and $5,000, depending on sales. Kory and I saw that money split two ways and immediately made some calls. By the next day, we were on track to become TNT Fireworks salesmen. We traveled almost two hours for a daylong training session about how to calculate sales, report numbers and set up the product – all of which we listened to with a “no shit” attitude.

On the day we received our product, we spent 12 hours unloading boxes, stacking Pop-Its and bottle rocket fountains, and sweating all over the Walmart parking lot where our stand was located. Our day was finally coming to an end when a steady rain started to fall. I drove back to our apartment for a quick shower and meal, but when I walked in the door, drenched in stench and rain, I looked at my phone – three missed calls from Kory.

“Dude,” he said with defeat, “the tent caved in. The fireworks are getting soaked.”

The only words I could mutter in my state of disbelief were, “Are you kidding?” For the next couple weeks, everyone else who heard the story repeated that same question.

It turned out that the tent was set up wrong. A few of the poles were crooked and there wasn't enough weight holding it down. Some guys from the tent company came out late that night and secured the tent with concrete blocks as the Leaping Lizards and Mad Dog Fountains lay in puddles. At around 2 a.m., we sat in the back of my mini-van speechless and nearly defeated.

“So this is the real world,” I joked into the uncomfortable silence. Kory looked at me and smiled briefly. Our anxious laughter carried us through that first night. By the next morning, we both desperately wanted out of this arrangement. I went to my internship while Kory tried to explain to our regional manager that we had lost all interest, enthusiasm and, more importantly, our Snakes and Morning Glory Sparklers. The manager, with all his slippery, used car salesman aura, simply pointed to the fine print and let Kory know that he signed a contract. If we quit, legal action would be inevitable for the $10,000 worth of merchandise. We were stuck. Instead of taking it to court, we did what any pair of new college graduates would do – we put minimal effort into redecorating and visited the nearby six-pack shop daily.

By Friday, our tent was back up and running. Sales were slow and the tent was bare, but we were actually doing it. To reward our efforts after our stressful week, we threw a small party inside our tent. The middle table that had been our main display with assortments and prize packs earlier in the week became the beer pong table. Things got a little out of control, and after a brief conversation with the local cops, Kory and I spent the rest of the morning sitting outside of our tent, sipping warm beer and taking in the dull, orange sky.  

And that’s when we met Josh.

Looking back, the signs were all there that Josh was homeless: the overly stuffed backpack, the makeshift cast for his broken hand, the blank stare at his hand as he sifted through broken cigarette remains from his pocket at 4:30 in the morning. Maybe the fact that he was young and conversational blinded us from how crippled his posture was from carrying his life on his back for months.

The next day, when our replacement fireworks arrived, Kory and I started to see what we were dealing with in Josh. He continually asked for money and ate all of his meals at the nearby McDonald’s, which was open 24 hours. When we broke it to him that he couldn’t hang around anymore, he asked to call his sister.

“I’m down at the Walmart by your house,” he said to her. “Can you pick me up?” There was a long, stale pause. “Because it’s fucking raining. You keep saying you love me but you never show it.”

With that he hung up and called his “friend.” Twenty minutes later a small, soft-spoken man from a local church named Andrew came to pick up Josh. He told me that Josh’s family had basically disowned him. They drove off and I realized that Kory and I were probably the closest things to friends Josh had had in years. We would see him periodically for the rest of our time there, wasting away on a bus bench with his head bobbing in the wind seemingly from intoxication or exhaustion. 

After the busiest day of sales - July 4 - Kory and I sat on our lawn chairs, watched the nearby fireworks display and took a deep sigh of relief. We handed out free sparklers to children as the colors exploded overhead.   

Days after we returned all of our extra fireworks and made a modest profit, I drove by our lot. The tent was gone and most of the spots were empty. A slow-moving line of cars in McDonald’s drive-thru was getting longer by the second. Some people looked pissed and others looked hungry. Most were just waiting and daydreaming about something the comfort calories just never seem to provide.

Before the light changed, I took one final glance at the parking lot. It looked as if Kory and I had never been there. 

And I couldn’t help but feel a little upset at the thought that we would never be there again.