Sharks and Underdeveloped Prefrontal Cortexes

A Story by Slim Pikkens

Everybody's got a story. Just listen, and you might have some of your own you didn't think you had to share.

I've been working in this business, practically my whole life.

Mum's always been an artist, and Pop's always been handy with wood, so... they created this business. We do classic games and such, it's not as corny as it sounds, honest it isn't. Pop makes them, all fine and round, and Mum paints them, all glorious, and I do my own artistic thing.

Sure, anyone can call themselves artists, that's like saying you're gifted because you can suck on a peanut M&M's, till there's nothing but the peanut left, eating the peanut, then taking a nap. But to say you're a talented artist, which I make no claims to be, is proving you can suck on 20 M&M's at one time, eating all the peanuts simultaneously, doing it again about 5 times, and staying awake. It takes time, skill and loads of patience. And it's no easy feat, my friend.

Anyway, as much as I love being a part of this developing legacy, (as I'm sure I'll keep doing this for a long time, have a husband to keep doing this with, and teach my children the same principles as my folks have taught me, so they can do the same with their kids, and so on and so forth.) The real fun is in selling the stuff. And it's not about the money, I mean, becoming an artist to make money is kind of like becoming a priest to meet girls.

It's the people. Good-night, Charlie, the people! You meet folks from all walks of life, with all manner of stories, and focuses, and dreams, and problems. To listen to someone new, and hear about some part about their lives; there's nothing like it. Sure beats a peanut M&M enthusiast's existence, anyway.

And you meet the good guys, and the bad guys.

For example, there was one older gentleman I met at a Farmer's market once. Said his name was Stoney, and he was one of the good guys. He was a little on the chubby side, wore small, round specs, and had a white, well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a wool poncho, and walked around with a walking stick when I met him. He wasn't eccentrically crazy or anything, wasn't trying to put on a show. You could tell by the way he walked; just quietly, and genially going about his business of getting tomatoes. He finally stopped at our booth, and we got to talking.

He'd been to more lands than I could count. Said he couldn't really pick a favorite. Each place had it's own unique charm and people. But he did say he loved the islands he visited in the South Pacific. He also spent about a decade of his life in North Korea, teaching English to school age children. He could have been lying, sure. But when he talked about his experiences and his students, his eyes lit up. It sounded too good, and fascinating to be real, but his manner was too wholesome and genuine for me to believe he would lie about his past like that. No one could fudge the kind of enthusiasm he had when he talked about his teaching career, and travels.

That was pretty cool.

Then there was Anya, from Russia, another one of the good guys. A short, stout, blonde, fifty-some-year-old artist, who made uniquely carved wooden jewelry. Her booth was right next to ours at the Stockton Asparagus Festival. She gave us all sorts of suggestions about our booth set up, because she went to business school in New York, which therefore, gave her opinion more merit than our years in the trade. We listened politely on the first morning of the show, and then went about our business of setting up. She'd say in her thick accent, "Tables should be even. Because eye does not like uneven lines. This will not attract customers." She pointed at our front tables, displeased ours were further out than hers. When she saw we didn't move, she moved her tables out to match ours, gave a satisfied grunt, and then withdrew into her tent.

"Good morning, Ms. Anya," I'd say the next two mornings. "How are you today?" She'd then say, "Oh, did not sleep good last night. My back hurts so, and my feet ache," I said I was sorry to hear that, and Pop offered her some aspirin, but she grunted a no, and said, "If you do not wish to know how I am feeling, then do not ask me. But do not say you are sorry," then she disappeared in her tent again for the next few hours. She was a tough broad in more ways than one, I'll give her that.

At the same show, I met a smooth-talking jeweler, who wore a pair of shades, and could flash a charming smile faster than you could say "No". A jeweler whom we shall call, Charlie. Not one of the good guys.

I was 16 at the time, passing by on set-up day, when some dazzlingly shiny objects caught my attention. Like a sucker, I drew closer to admire a pair of diamond earrings. "Hi there," he smiled. Polite introductions were made, then he asked, "Would you like to help me? I'm going to need another person to man the booth till my partner arrives tomorrow. Do you think you'd like to sell some jewelry? I'll pay you."

Every fiber in my being whispered "Bad news. Bad news." But the underdeveloped prefrontal cortex of my frontal lobe thought that sounded like fun, and thus yelled "BATTER UP!" to the idea.

I talked it over with the folks, who weren't too far away, and told the guy I was ready whenever he wanted to start.

He had me wear a pair of dangling tourmaline earrings, a fine opal necklace and a gold ring. Which was more than alright with me. This was going to be great, my frontal lobe reasoned.

But I realized as more people started coming around, my first inclinations were right. This guy was a shark, and he was bad news.

I suppressed the growing urge to leave, because in the real world, sometimes you don't have a choice. I wanted to stay to prove I could survive in the real world, with the good, the bad, and the ugly for at least a day. Plus, I made a commitment, and I was going to keep it.

He had no qualms with lying. "This is my daughter" he said, giving me a squeeze in front of a chatty couple. That little statement helped him make a few hundred dollars.

Customers were served wine out of a paper bag under the counter after a sale was made, "To celebrate," Charlie said.

I didn't realize he had been doing this all day to make more sales from his already paying customers, until he asked me to get more cups. "Why?" I asked. At which he flashed a devilish grin.

After the show was over, I discovered what Charlie was doing was against the law.

Anything for a buck.

People who asked too many questions were told to beat it, but with a smile. One couple, asking where he got his gold, were asked, in turn "Are you going to buy anything?"

"Oh, not today," the woman said smiling, "But, I was wondering if you got your gold from Alaska."

Something in Charlie's voice frightened me, as he began to answer them. This sweet couple didn't realize he was mocking them.

Answering them with harsh words, but in mild a sweetness, that even a fool would know his gold was Californian. He suddenly seethed an animosity I'd never seen before in anyone, masking it with a freakishly controlled laugh. And they laughed with him, not realizing that's what he was doing. Or what he was. Then, with an ever-so-charming smile, he told them to get lost. He'd just called them a pair idiots, and they walked away sincerely thanking him for his time. Thanking him. Even today, I still don't get it.

His manner was so passive-aggressive, I came to realized this shark had a deep-seated monster hiding behind those shades. As the day progressed, I began shaking. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was anxiety from being so close to something I'd never seen first hand before. Maybe both.

But I fought the urge to leave, because in the real world, some people don't have a choice.

"Is that your boyfriend?" one older man asked me as I showed him a ring.

"No!" I said, appalled.

The man grinned, "Well, if you settle down, get someone like him," he said pointing. That thought made me shiver.

"Artists make good lovers. But jewelers make the dough," after he decided not to get the ring, he gave me a wink and walked away.

The old man was right about one thing, Charlie certainly made the bucks. In one day, he made more money than we would in an entire season. I sold around a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars worth, and at the end of the day, he gave me 60 bucks, the creep.

I kept making sales, my smile never faltering, and no one noticed my hands trembling. People carried on, smiling, drinking, buying merrily, but the air about this place was controlled, synthetic, edgy. Was I the only one to notice something wrong here? Or was it just me?

Robert, his business partner, finally came, but I was urged to stay, and promised more money if I came again tomorrow. (Boy, was that a farce.) This time, every fiber of my being screamed, "Bad news! Bad news!" But Mr. Frontal Lobe was louder, saying "BATTER UP!"

"Sure," I said.

Robert wasn't as cut-throat as Charlie was. He was a family man, and I even grew to like him a little. So I stayed, not quite so scared.

He explained on the second day, the reason Charlie asked if I could help wasn't anything personal. He wasn't a pervert, targeting young girls, and it wasn't for any salesman skills I had, either. It was to soften the look of a booth with a couple of sharks in it. But I didn't think Robert was a shark, not like Charlie, anyway.

His approach more was quiet, attentive and fast. Really fast. He made more sales than Charlie and me put together, and he didn't have to lie or give away free booze to do it. Make no mistake, though, Robert was all about the money. That's when I discovered there was more than one kind of shark in this world.

So these sharks, looking for bigger and better bites, tend to scare some folks away. "So a pretty little girl doesn't exactly hurt our image," he said. "We generally do better, so Charlie tries to find one every show." The creep.

Charlie's son, and voluptuous girlfriend even came by to say hello and chat with a few customers. She wasn't exactly a deep individual, and when we were alone she said it was the money she was after. Before, I'd only seen people like this on TV. I was floored to find they actually existed.

By the end of day two, Charlie gave her a $1,800 ring, just for showing up... and then told me he'd pay me tomorrow when I came back, the creep. But I had underestimated this woman, I think the shallow-minded exterior was only an act, because she definitely knew what she was doing. And I learned that there's more than two kinds of sharks in this world.

Day three rolled around, and those pesky little fibers were screaming, "Get out! Now!", to which Mr. Frontal Lobe had no rebuttal, but started saying, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea,"

My shaking became more transparent as the day progressed, my voice trembled, my smile faltered. Surely, I was just over-reacting, "In the real world..." I kept telling myself "People don't have a choice."

I didn't have any control over how my body was reacting to the stress of being around this class of people, but what I failed to realize, was that this was the real world, and that I did have a choice.

The sales and drinks kept coming, and I was slowly losing it. Charlie started telling me when and when not to speak, what to do, and what not to do. Soon, I was limited to standing and smiling. Out of no where, tears rolled down my cheeks, one at a time. My right leg ached a little, so I kept rubbing it, and when Charlie saw I was crying, he sat me down and asked what was wrong.

This was the last person I wanted to see me like this.

So I said my leg hurt, and he had his son escort me to my family's booth. I was shivering uncontrollably in 79 degree weather.

A woman with a booth directly across from Charlie's had been watching me for the past few days. She came to our tent a few hours later and said she had been worried about me. She knew Charlie from other shows, and truly disliked him because she saw him for what he was, hating the idea of a young girl at his booth.

Ah, so it wasn't just me.

We thanked the woman for her concern, and she left. Before that, Anya, who saw me sitting and crying outside our booth asked "What is wrong?" I told her my leg hurt. She bustled away and demanded an explanation from my parents. I had just told them my leg hurt, so that's what they told Anya.

But Ms. Anya knew better. She told them in her thick accent, " No. I know tears," she said, "And I know those tears are not from simple hurting leg. This is something more." she said emphatically, "I know tears."

Of course, I spilled my guts later that day about everything. Anya, who was satisfied that she was right, grunted disapprovingly at Charlie's behavior. The young man on the other side of our booth, who was a metal artist, heard about what happened at the end of the day and gave me a beautiful metal flower. I think his name was Brad, or Brent, or Brian or something. Whatever his name was, I still have the flower hanging in my bedroom.

These sympathetic good guys, these friends, helped me calm down. But, there was still a problem. The cad hadn't paid me for the day and a half I had worked.

Pop went to address the situation, and my Pop isn't exactly a fighter. So when Charlie said, in slurred speech, that he'd already paid me, Pop returned with Charlie's reply...

And then Mama Bear came out to play.

I wasn't there to see it, but Lord help that sucker, when she declared loudly enough for people to hear, that he was "an unscrupulous businessman, who takes advantage of young girls".

Now, Charlie was a little drunk by the time they got to him, so he was talking in slurred speech that I wasn't getting paid because I didn't sell anything. This is not the thing to say to a mama bear. She grew hotter and hotter, to the point of scaring Robert.

So Robert, quick, quiet, family-man shark, Robert, pulled out his wallet and handed Mama Bear $20 bucks. She's principled, not greedy, so she walked away from the situation, having made her point.

I was glad not to see Charlie again, but I wonder where people like Stoney and Ms. Anya are now. May halfway across the world, but I'd like to think whatever they're doing, they're happy.

Since then, I've become a better judge of character, and I've learned to trust my gut, even when there's no tangible reason to do so.

That can save a person from a lot of grief.

I learned that although there are good and bad people out there, and that you WILL run into both, you've got a choice if you're going to let them into your life or not; and if they are in your life, you'll have to strike a balance between being peaceful with such ones and not to letting them get under your skin, or overwrite who you are. I think we've all seen that happen.

Now, everything you've read is true. It's as true as my memory allows it to be. And, although I don't know where these people are today now, I know I'm sure not going to forget them any time soon. And that's core.