Currency

So I’ve already begun to lament the impending end of my summer legal internship.  Just a handful of days left to save the world.  I read a quote the other day that went something like this:  “I tried to remember the summer when I was 10 years old and I can’t believe there was only one.  It feels like there were at least two summers that year.”  And ain’t it the truth? 

I remember, back when my age was still a single digit, counting out my weeks of summer break, doling out what I would do with three whole months off, just like I sat on my bed, with a dumped out pillowcase formerly full of loot on Halloween Night.  I’d lay out the weeks, planning out trips to the lake, bike rides, adventures, camping in the backyard (which I never did, but always planned, too many creepy bugs), thinking of which trees to climb, which swamps to invade, everyday lists, wondering how to negotiate friendships with summer schoolers, planning to spend the morning with friends who didn’t have summer school and afternoons with those who did. 

Days would crawl by and I had plenty to work with, stacks of chips to bargain with just like Halloween loot.  Just like I’d spread out my take of Halloween candy and divide it into categories, lining up the soldiers of my confectionary army.  There was the chocolate:  Hershey bars, Reese’s Cups, Snickers, Butterfingers, M&Ms and the like, top shelf stuff; then there was the sweet candy I’ve never cared much for but ate when the chocolate was gone:  Skittles, Now & Laters, Jolly Ranchers, Mike & Ikes, etcetera; then there was the crap that I couldn’t care less about: Necco Wafers, licorice, Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts, Smartees and the rest of that ilk.  I’d decide then, once, and only once, everything was neatly accounted for, which I was willing to trade and at what price. 

My brother, who wasn’t a liner-upper, would just dump his candy out on his bed, and finger through it without regard for a neat or methodical system like my own.  I looked down on such frivolity.  Halloween was serious business.  So, after Alan got a feel for his take, he’d swipe all the candy back into the pillowcase with a forearm and come barging into my room, eyes wide open and glazed over.  Having a look at it all lined up like that made it seem like I had more, fostering the sibling jealously that ripens the bargaining table. 

Even though we knew what we’d trade and what the score was, there was always an air of competition, of bargain shopping, a strategy and a goal:  to get everything you wanted and not sacrifice your favorite candy.  It wasn’t like lunch, where mom would make us both ham and cheese sandwiches and I’d promptly peel the ham from mine and hand it off while Alan forked over his slice of cheese.  That was tacit, on the table, equal.  I hated ham, he hated cheese.  Candy was different, candy had currency.  Any kid knows Swedish fish is not a fair trade for Snickers.  You have to toss in a Mike & Ike. 

Usually we went top shelf first, but the low rungs.  I’d eye his Reese’s Cups and his eyes would fix on my Starburst.  I never let on that I couldn’t stand those gooey, sugary squares of plastic, but I knew he could care less about Butterfingers.  I’d save my best bargaining chips, Skittles, for those Reese’s.  Alan liked Butterfingers, sure, but for him, they didn’t compare to the cherry squares of Starburst.  So, we got that out of the way, an even swap to get the ball rolling.  Then, maybe there would be a lateral swap, perhaps my Reese’s Pieces for his M&Ms.  I could never eat Reese’s Pieces, I thought of them as the body of ET as the Eucharist is the body of Christ.  I knew deep down that it wasn’t actually flesh, but still to this day, it turns my stomach to think of ET nuggets. 

Once some friendly bargains had been struck, we’d smoothly hand over the good stuff, his Snickers for my Skittles, his Hershey Bars for my Starburst.  Occasionally there’d be a pleasant surprise that allowed me a peek at his tastes, say, for example, he’d hold out a nice yellow bag of peanut M&Ms and say, Twizzlers?  Score!  I hate Twizzlers!  Excellent deal.  But then maybe he’d get a bit ahead of himself and hold a handful of Tootsie Rolls while eyeing my Jolly Ranchers.  Slow it down, Cowboy.  You’ve gotta toss in something better for some Jolly Ranchers.  Kids lined up at the Ice Cream Man’s truck for Jolly Ranchers.  No one would think twice about a stupid Tootsie Roll.  So I’d make him toss in something like Milk Duds or Junior Mints.  The equalizers.  A box of four Junior Mints can really even the score. 

Sometimes my mom would come in and watch the show, watch her little capitalists at work.  Maybe I’d argue with my brother, twisting his arm to close a deal and he’d whine to my mom about some trades he felt unfair.  She’d roll her eyes and stand in the doorway, arms crossed, not so sure how she felt about this whole regime.  If it were up to her we’d dump all out candy into a big bowl and share it flat out.  Or worse, donate it to Children’s Hospital or some such nightmare.  So, we knew we had to quit the whining and get back to the bargaining table as if she weren’t there, overseeing.  Sometimes she’d try to stick up for my brother and say a trade wasn’t fair, but I’d have to argue that it’s fair to him, he really likes Mike & Ikes, just because she didn’t think they were worth a Mr. Goodbar, didn’t mean he thought it was a bad trade.  I’d be salty that she let him in on my shady dealings, but I’d argue my point, hoping my rhetoric sounded to him empowering of his right to choose, or bolster his sense of rebellion against my mother’s conventional mores.  He’d usually be right behind me, on my side while I argued against my mother, saying, “Yeah!” to prove my point.  Mom would roll her eyes, uncross her arms, point a finger dramatically at me and say, “You should be a lawyer,” then walk out of the room, thinking us incorrigible and resigned to the exploitation of younger brothers by older sisters. 

Summers of my childhood were like that.  Arguing with our best friends, the Lyons, about who’d go first into the mucky, swampy creek, bargaining, threatening, making deals, smoothly or with much coaxing.  Choosing teams for a pick up game of whatever sport there were enough of us around the neighborhood to play.  Bargaining.  I was always chosen first for basketball, for obvious reasons, I’ve been this tall since the fourth grade.  I was usually chosen last or damn near last if there were little kids who counted even less than the fat girl for games where you had to run, like softball, because everyone knows fat girls can’t run, and because they usually forgot how hard my swing was, how far I’d crack the ball and make them run to chase it.  Negotiating what I could get away with, either what my mother would let me do, what new freedom I’d have that summer, or bargaining with my brother about what crimes of childhood we could get away with, “I won’t tell mom that you climbed that tree again, if you won’t tell mom I rode my bike on the Black Horse Pike.”  Okay, good deal.  It seemed the bargaining was endless, but I knew it was almost over when my mom said those two little words, “School Clothes.” 

Then, with the onset of that horror, a whole set of bargaining came, the haggling with mom about what the hell I would wear to school.  I remember having a penchant for corduroy and jumpers.  She favored pants and shirts to mix and match.  I wanted striped and button down, she wanted plain without patterns, something that “would go with everything.”  I loved the fat Sears catalog arriving at our door like so much promise.  I’d thumb through the girls and boys sections, knowing I would never be allowed clothes that were too boyish, but hoping on some of the more rugged pants, pants with pockets, in clothes that matched the dirt.  I’d even consent to wearing them with a girlish shirt, conceding to some from the girls’ section for some from the boys’ section.  In the end, there would usually not be any from Sears, all my highlighting and dog-earring went unheeded.  Mom would usually just arrive home from work with a couple of big K-Mart, Ames or Caldor bags full of the same 5 outfits in 2 different colors.  I’d wondered if she’d even taken my choices under advisement.  Probably not, probably too busy to even give a damn.  I’d stew in the injustice of it for a bit, but then, in the end, accept the defeat, not daring to let on to my disappointment.  I knew better than to complain, you had to be grateful for what you had, make do and find a new battle.  Wage a new campaign.    

Trades, concessions, defeat and small victories.  Looking at it in this light, it sure sounds a whole lot like my summer as a legal intern.  I’ve won some, lost some, been blindsided by the unexpected.  I’ve coaxed bargains, made trades I knew were a whole lot fairer to my side.  My climbing is done in an elevator and not by rubber soles against bark, I ride the train rather than a bike, but it’s all the same.  There are bosses standing at my door rather than parents, but regardless, my work is overseen, approved of and people still tell me I’ll be a good lawyer.  But, hey, no one’s buying me school clothes at the end of it.  Thank god for credit cards…I think I’ll go order a Sears catalog.