It was one of those scorching summer afternoons when the heat sticks to your skin and even the shade feels like it’s given up. A day when the sun shines down on you without mercy and the air hardly moves. A dilapidated little lemonade stand sat on the side of a quiet street that had been bleached by the sun. There were two crates, an old folding table, and a crooked sign that proclaimed, “ICE COLD LEMONADE—25¢ A CUP!”
There was a kid, maybe 9 or 10 years old, behind the stand. He wore a worn baseball cap and a smile that made him look a little too confident of himself for someone selling watered-down lemonade. There was a pitcher of cloudy yellow liquid on thetable that was almost empty. His hands were sticky with lemon pulp and sugar.
The street had been mostly quiet all day, but then a man in his forties started to walk down the sidewalk. He looked fatigued and his clothing were saturated with sweat, like he had been outside in the sun for too long. His cheeks were red, his forehead was gleaming, and he paused when he noticed the stand, as if he had just found an oasis.
The man asked with a half-laugh, “Is it hot enough for you?” as he went into his pocket for money.
“Yes, it is,” the boy responded calmly as he reached for a cup. “But a little lemonade can help.”
The man dropped some money on the table, and the lad poured a lot of lemonade into a flimsy plastic cup without thinking. He put it to his lips and drank like he hadn’t had anything cold in a week. He smiled and set the empty cup down with a long, pleased “ahhh.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said next. “You know what?” “Hit me again, kid.”
The boy poured another cup without skipping a beat. The man drank that one just as rapidly. Then one more. And one more. He let out a quiet grunt after the fourth cup. He wasn’t in agony; he was just really full. He smiled from ear to ear as he leaned on the table and patted his big belly.
He grinned and said, “Son, I got my money’s worth.” This is the best deal I’ve gotten all week.
The child smiled and nodded, but there was something about his face that made it clear he was up to no good. His charming grin almost concealed the trace of evil in his eyes. Then, as if he were telling a funny story, he said,
“Thank you for liking it, sir.” You see, the lemonade stand isn’t real.
The man blinked, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”
The child pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at a small, ancient outhouse that was a little bit off. It seemed more like it belonged at a campground than in a neighborhood. The entrance was slightly open, and the whole building swayed to one side, as if it had its own stories to tell.
“That little house over there?” The boy shrugged and said, “Yeah, it’s broken.” “Wasn’t draining properly.” We had to find a way to empty it, my grandpa informed us. We put a lot of water, lemons, and sugar to it. You, um, just helped us get rid of the last batch.
Shut up. Complete quiet that will blow your mind.
The man stopped smiling. A drop of sweat slowly ran down the side of his face. He looked at the empty cup in his hand as it had let him down. Then he looked at the youngster, who was still there with the same innocent look on his face.
Nothing moved for three whole seconds. The wind even seemed to stop.
Finally, the man swallowed hard once, then twice, and nodded stiffly. He didn’t say anything; he just turned around and went away without looking back. Not even a “goodbye.”
The kid saw him depart, and he tried not to chuckle as the corners of his lips twitched. He gently placed the pitcher away, stacked the cups that had been used, and slipped the sign under his arm. Another day, another customer.
Was it true now? Was the kid right about what the lemonade was? Or was it merely a well-planned prank, like the kind of story kids tell each other in the summer? Who can say?
But one thing is for sure: if you see a kid at a lemonade stand on a quiet road on a hot day and they are smiling too much, you might want to ask them a few more questions before you grab your second cup.
