Chapter Twenty-Two: Everything I Ever Learned about Economics I Learned From my Son​​​

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      A master promoter by his third birthday, Jack caught the entrepreneurial bug at an age that would have put even the great Bill Gates to shame. While Alma and I were intensely proud of our son, Jack’s newfound business acumen still took us by surprise. Truth be told, we spent much of Jack’s first two years just hoping he would talk.

 

     Like all modern parents, Alma and I cataloged our children’s expected mental and physical milestones with an intensity that occasionally traveled well beyond obsession. In doing so, we grew concerned about Jack, a typical child in every way except his utter refusal to speak.

 

     I tried sharing our concerns with my mom and dad. “By two, he’s supposed to have a vocabulary of at least fifty words.”

 

     Forever pragmatic, my parents thought I was insane. My mother spoke for them both. “I don’t remember you spouting fifty words at that age – maybe two or three with forty-seven multi-syllable baby noises we assumed meant something. Your father and I figured you would talk when you were ready. If not, we were going to tell the relatives you invented a new language. Knowing your father’s family, they might have even believed us.”

 

     My mother’s assurances aside, Alma and I persisted in encouraging our son to speak. Joined by his older sister, we spent hours with our son pointing to and naming objects around the house. We asked about favorite foods; looked at picture books – all the things parents usually do when they’re hoping to generate a response.

 

     Unfortunately for our peace of mind, the only reaction we provoked was the smug “silly parents” smile displayed at times by all children. In Jack’s case, that grin hinted, “I’ll talk when I’m ready, older morons. In the meantime, how about a picture book?”

 

     Jack’s verbal dam finally broke at suppertime one Sunday evening, just a few weeks after my conversation with my parents. Alma, Emily, and I sat eating vegetables and a roast while Jack stared at his baby food with rapt concentration.

 

     It is at the simplest of moments when life almost seems to wink.  Turning towards me with an “are you ready for this” glint in his brown eyes, Jack said, not just a word but an entire sentence.

 

     “I need two hundred dollars.” 

 

     At first, I thought I misheard. In the middle of a conversation regarding some television show, Alma and Emily both stopped and stared. Jack had finally spoken – what the hell did we do now? 

 

     I figured a question was in order. I needed to see if this was a one-time thing - like the Browns winning a football game – or an event that might actually be repeated.

 

     “Why do you need two hundred dollars?”

 

     “I need bread, milk, juice, and meat.”  The kid not only needed two hundred; he had an actual game plan for how to spend it. My mother had been right all along – Jack just needed something to say.

 

     From that day onward, Jack rarely stopped talking. He always spoke in complete sentences, almost always on matters related to money.

 

     Alma and I never figured out where Jack picked up his love for finance. Neither my wife nor I shared any particular passion for the topic. We had a nice, middle-class lifestyle; our bills got paid, and we never went hungry. Neither of us had any desire for European vacations, sports cars, or any of the other yearnings associated with the one-percent. As near as we could figure, Jack’s fiscal predilection arose from TV based on his fondness for penny-pinching characters like Scrooge McDuck and Mr. Krabs, SpongeBob’s miserly boss at the Krusty Krab.

 

     Unfortunately for Jack, both Scrooge and Mr. Krabs already had their money. If Jack wanted to play in their league, he would need to find a way to get some. The fact that few, if any, three-year-olds ever managed to build such portfolios did little to deter my entrepreneurial son. Jack needed to think big, and he would continue thinking big until he became a success.

 

     It started with the telephone conversations. The fact Jack didn’t own or know how to use a cell phone would not discourage my frighteningly ambitious son. If you wanted to build an empire, you needed to communicate. Via practical means or his imagination, Jack would find a way to do just that.

 

     Alma and I first noticed this phase early one Saturday morning, just after the unwelcome ring of our alarm clock. Set free in a big kid bed only two weeks prior, Jack banged open our door in timing with the sound.

 

     Our son had important matters to discuss – not with us, but with his business partner. Holding his right hand to the side of his head to mimic a phone, Alma and I listened in rapt attention to Jack’s side of an imaginary conversation.

 

     “How soon will the building be done, Ron?”

 

     After a pause - “Four weeks isn’t good enough. I want it done in two.”

 

     Alma and I stared at each other, neither of us sure what to say. My son either required a child psychiatrist or an audience with Jeff Bezos. Finally, Alma spoke up.

 

     “Honey, I love you, but it’s Saturday morning. Maybe you should tell Ron you’ll call him back on Monday.”

 

     “I love you too.”

 

     Suddenly concerned his reply might be misinterpreted, Jack turned back to his phone, “No, not you, Ron.” 

Ron put neatly in his place; Jack quickly hung up his handphone and returned it to his side. Watching him, it seemed like an awfully convenient human-phone arrangement. I wondered briefly about his coverage area, but I figured I should join in the conversation.

 

     “Who were you on the phone with, Jack?”

 

     “I was talking to Ron.”

 

     “I heard that part. Who is Ron?”

 

     “Ron works for me.”

 

     “And where exactly do you work?”

 

     “The Lister Company”

 

     I always knew the Listers would make it big someday. “Where is the Lister Company?”

 

     “Remember that big building we saw when we went out to supper last time?  I work on the top floor.”

 

     “What does the Lister Company do?”

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     “We make toys, cars, and lots of other stuff.”

 

     Lots of other stuff – the marketing possibilities were endless. With that thought in mind, I scooted Jack out of our room while Alma and I digested this new piece of information.

 

     “Just remember,” I said to Alma, “You were the one who wanted him to talk.”

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     “Don’t blame me. He’s got your Y chromosome, not to mention your marketing gene. That kid is you all over.”

 

     As I began putting on that day’s clothing, I said, “I don’t ever remember reading about this in the parenting books.”

 

     “Not the sane ones anyway.”

 

     If the unveiling of the Lister Company was our first indication of Jack’s entrepreneurial spirit, it was certainly not the last. Over the next several months, the kid came up with more get-rich-quick schemes than Thomas Edison in one of his patent filing frenzies.

 

     While always seeking to make more, Jack was, to be fair, careful with the money he did have. This was something I learned one day as we watched a commercial on TV.

 

     As any parent knows, the most annoying thing about children’s television was the commercials. As Alma and I grew pretty good at saying no, Jack and Emily became used to ignoring most ads. No one, however, is entirely immune to a good pitch. My old marketing professor told us a successful advertising campaign includes just the right mixture of cajolery and threats. With Jack, that sweet spot came with Thumper’s Last Stand.

 

     When I first saw the name, I expected a rougher spin-off of Bambi, the movie that had given my daughter nightmares for weeks. Perhaps Thumper and Bambi finally corner the hunter – a revenge sequel of sorts.

 

     As it turned out, the Thumper in Thumper’s Last Stand had nothing to do with a Disney rabbit. Thumper in this case was a child mechanic. In a computer game designed for three to six-year-olds, Thump spent his days building and fixing cars to race around an oval track.

 

     I wasn’t sure if I would ever frequent a mechanic named “Thumper.”  The name sounded vaguely off-putting, like Thumper was prone to dropping tools around the old auto shop. The “last stand” part of the title also sounded ominous – I imagined a death race against some character with an equally absurd name. In truth, I wasn’t at all sure what the game was truly about, but I was not Thumper’s target market. Jack was, and he was hooked.

 

     Pointing to the television after the game’s twelfth commercial that afternoon, Jack said, “I need that game.”

 

     “You want that game. Remember?  We talked about the difference.

 

     “I need it.”

 

     I knew where this conversation was headed. Son wants something; Dad refuses; Dad is a monster. We had gone through this cycle on more than one occasion. To be honest, I knew I had put my parents through the exact same thing.

 

     In a rare burst of inspiration, I figured a way out.  Before approaching Jack with my idea, I first checked online and found Thumper retailed for twenty dollars. After clearing things with Alma, I presented Jack, the ultimate wheeler-dealer, with a compromise. I waited until the next time the commercial showed up on TV. When Jack again made his pitch, this time I was ready.

 

     “Jack, I’m going to give you a choice. Your mother and I will buy you Thumper, but you need to have some skin in the game.”

 

     Suddenly alarmed, Jack glanced in apprehension at his arms and legs. Clearly, I needed to re-think my expressions. Before my son ran screaming from the room, I explained further.

 

     “Thumper costs twenty dollars. Your Mom and I will kick in ten. Upstairs you still have the ten-dollar bill Grandma and Grandpa gave you for your birthday. If you add your ten to our ten, you will have enough to buy the game. The alternative is you wait until Christmas or your next birthday.”

 

     Knowing how tight Jack was with a dollar, I fully expected him to say no. Once again, my son surprised me.

 

     “I’ll do it. Can we go today?”

 

     Jack forgoing ten dollars - maybe he really did need that game. We agreed to put off our trip to Staples until the following day.

 

     The next day was Saturday. Emily had no interest in going with us, so Alma and I agreed on separate kids' days out - Alma would take Emily to the library while Jack and I went shopping at Staples. Afterward, we would all meet at McDonald’s for lunch.

 

     Jack would have flown to Staples if he could, but we agreed to use the van. I reminded him to take his ten dollars, but he already had the bill in hand.

 

     “You want to give it to me, Jack?  I can keep it in my wallet.”

 

     He thought carefully before giving me his answer. “I want to keep it. I need to say goodbye.”

 

     I didn’t know whether to be impressed or frightened. Young or old, very few people have that kind of relationship with their money.

 

     Running a close second to his love for cash, Jack liked Blue’s music, a genre I had introduced him to just a few months before. Because it was a guy’s outing, I turned on Stevie Ray Vaughn and drove while Jack sang along to “Sweet Little Thing,” my son coming reasonably close to the actual lyrics. As we reached the Staples parking lot, I couldn’t help commenting.

 

     “You belted that one out pretty good in the car. Were you singing to your Mom?”

 

     As if it should have been obvious, Jack said, “I was singing to my ten-dollar bill.”

 

At the very least, he would never end up living in our basement. We found Thumper’s Last Stand in our Staples game aisle, the cover picture featuring Thumper standing next to his race car. All in all, it was a surprisingly restrained pose given the game’s title. After buying Thumper, I called Alma to make sure she and Emily were finished at the library.

 

Jack and I then set sail for McDonald’s. After we arrived, I told Alma about Jack’s ode to his ten-dollar bill.

Turning to Jack, a half-smile playing on her face, she said, “So your mom’s not even worth ten dollars?”

 

     Jack was indignant. “Mom, you’re worth ten dollars.”

 

     Alma kept her tone earnest. “I’ll add that to the list of notable compliments I’ve received over the years, right next to your father telling me my meatloaf was, and I quote - not too bad.”

 

     I hastened to assure her. “Your meatloaf was and is excellent. Regarding Jack, just be happy you didn’t ask about a twenty.”