Failure Is Always An Option, Pablito
Failure Is Always An Option, Pablito
“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it for others.” - Charles Dickens
Dickens knew. He earned 6 shillings a week gluing labels on pots of boot black in a warehouse full of rats before he became the greatest novelist and noted philanthropist of the Victorian era.
I reflected on Dickens’ admonition when my girlfriend’s nephew, Pablito, a precocious 9-year old, came to me with a business idea. He was cautious, but excited. His caution was understandable. He had heard my cruel sarcasm before and seen my disturbing abuse of inanimate objects when confronted with stupidity, ignorance, and lack of curiosity.
“Jim, do you want to hear my idea?” His face an alternating combination of hope and dread.
“Not really,” I replied, “but who knows, maybe you are the next Elon Musk, a visionary, liar, and hustler, an essential combination to be successful in today’s business world.”
He paused.
“Go ahead,” I said, no humor. “You started this. Now finish it.”
Pablito looked at his Aunt Lorena, his eyes pleading for help.
“Don’t look at her!” I snapped. “Is she the one who gave you your ‘bidness’ idea?” I laughed sardonically.
“No.” he replied meekly. “It’s my idea.”
“Good,” I whispered. “So, let’s hear it.”
“My business idea is ‘Pablito’s Pizzeria.’ We . . .”
“Really? I interrupted. “Pizza? Pizza was invented in southwestern Italy’s Campania region, near Naples, around 600 B.C. You’re late.”
“My idea is different,” he replied softly. “It is not about pizza, but about an experience.”
“Now we are getting somewhere, little man. You have my attention,” I said, drawing deeply from an open bottle of Jim Beam I pulled from my jacket pocket.
“My idea is to make it a family experience, with the waiters and waitresses in costumes, like Olaf and Rapunzel, and have an animatronic band that plays music while everyone enjoys their pizza.”
I lowered my head. “Really? That’s it? Your idea is to violate both Disney and Chuck E. Cheese patents, copyrights, and trademarks? Your idea is to be in litigation the rest of your life and be left penniless after those mega-corporations get finished with you? That’s your idea??”
I shook my head. He stared at the floor.
“Pablito,” I broke the long silence between us, “I like you and so I am going to save you the shame of repeating in public what you just told me.”
I put my arm around him.
“We can save this Pablito by making a few changes,” I smiled confidently.
“Really, Jim? Really?”
“I’m no bullshitter, Pablito. If I say it can be done, it can be done, and will be done.”
He smiled broadly and reached to give me a hug.
“No touching, Pablito. We’re just friends.”
He stepped back instinctively as if he had seen a snake. Which he had.
“The only thing you said that made sense, Pablito, was, ‘It is not about pizza. It is about experience.’ Good. Good! Exactly right. Pizza is nothing but saturated fat poured over refined carbohydrates. Pizzas should come wrapped in our death certificates. No, it can’t about that. It is, as you say, about ‘experience.’”
He nodded, now excited. I continued.
“As to ‘experience,’ Pablito, we first must unceremoniously trash your idea of “family.” Families are a thing of the past. In ten years, they will be a dead as Blockbuster.” He cocked his head, confused. “I’ll explain later. Let’s just start with universal truth: no one wants kids anymore. It’s why the birth rate worldwide has dropped like a sack of dead cats. You were probably an accident like 94.5% of every kid walking the face of the earth today. What I am l trying to say, Pablito, is, ‘Forget kids. They don’t matter. Not anymore. It’s all about adults. Self-centered, bored, materialistic, nihilistic, hedonistic adults. That, Pablito, is our market.”
I could see he didn’t understand, but I was on a roll.
“It needs to be a place where adults can come with their extra-marital affairs or bring their unwanted children and spouse so as not to have spring for a babysitter. And a place where women feel reasonably welcome, or at least don’t feel like whores.”
Lorena laid her head on the kitchen table and began weeping, so I suggested she get us a snack, anything but pizza.
“Pablito, this rules out motels and strip clubs. No, ours will be a more subtle and nuanced experience. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” he lied.
“Doesn’t matter,” I continued. We will call it ‘Chiquita Pizza.’ The experience will be the young girls, the chiquitas, all young, nubile, with nothing less than less than D cups, long slim legs with great calves and tiny ankles. We don’t want to knock off Hooter’s and so we won’t go with short-shorts and push up bras. No, our chiquitas will wear the thinnest of Lycra body-suits, so we can claim, truthfully, that they are “fully clothed.” But that is all they will wear - no bras, no panties, and no hair on their bodies except on their heads. Best of all, they will work for tips.”
Pablito’s chin was on his chest and his head was shaking side to side, uncontrollably. He knew this had gone altogether wrong.
“There will be stripper poles everywhere and the girls will be taught to swing on them with one hand while serving the pizza with the other. Think of them like acrobats, except without talent. The music will be loud, hard rock, something to distract the patrons from the taste of a three dollar frozen pizza they pay twenty-five dollars for. We don’t want to go to the expense of having a kitchen and dealing with health inspectors. Just microwaves. We will spend the money on a liquor license. For the kiddies we will have mock-martinis and margaritas with only a spoonful of hard alcohol to make sure they are loose for the “experience” but not so ripped they projectile vomit cheese on their sisters. Mama and Daddy will get shit-faced on cheap rail booze that we market and charge as ‘top shelf.’ I haven’t done the numbers yet, Pablito, but I believe you can retire on this idea by 30.”
“30? Really?” His head had stop shaking.
“That’s right, amigo. This is a crossroads. You have a choice. You can wake up at 6 a.m. to an alarm, brush your teeth, take a shit, and go to an office where you will be abused and unappreciated for 40 years, or until you are laid off, all to make The Man rich, or you can execute ‘Chiquita Pizza’ perfectly and become The Man, and pocket half a million a year with your choice of chiquitas.”
Without hesitation, “Thank you, Jim!” Pablo screeched taking my hand. “You are the best!”
“Yes, I am, and to you, I am ‘Mister Jim,’ and your partner. I will be the “Creative Director” and do all the hiring for 60% of the take. You will do the rest. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Jim!” He paused, now confident, even cocky, a different kid.
“Lorena,” Pablito demanded, “where are our God-damned snacks!?
“It’s hard to get decent help anymore,” I offered.
“No shit,” he motioned toward his Aunt.
I smiled, proud that I had, like Dickens, lightened another man’s burden.
(C) 2021 J. Karger
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