Hope by the Numbers

It looked like Opie had taken a detour straight off the Mayberry lot and appeared on my front porch.    With the door open to let the early summer breeze through the screen, I looked up from my kitchen to see the silhouette of a small figure with a ballcap tucked over cropped hair—ears sticking out like the Sugar Bowl trophy. 

I opened the screen door to get a better look at the boy—eight years old, I guessed—wearing a clean t-shirt, colorful board shorts, and a pair of flip-flop sandals.  He peered up at me with eyes pure blue and launched into a well-rehearsed pitch. 

“We’re painting house numbers on curbs.  Do you want us to do yours?  It’s only $15.” 

Unsolicited visitors frequently knock on our door with fundraising requests.  So I make it a policy to limit my support to kids and causes from my own neighborhood.   I raised an eyebrow at the pint-sized salesman and asked, “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and my brothers,” he said, waving a hand across the street, where two older boys—clearly kin—were busy painting my neighbor’s address on the curb.  

“I see.  Do you live around here?”

“On Adolfo,” he said.  “It’s real close – we just rode our bikes.”  

“Uh-huh,” I replied. “Is this for a club or some group?” 

“No.”   

“Then what’s the money for?”

“I don’t know,” he said, endearingly honest.

“Hmmm,” I said.  “You know you’re supposed to have a permit to do business in the city, don’t you?”

He shook his head solemnly.  

“So technically what you’re doing may not be exactly legal, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” he responded politely, shuffling his feet, sensing the sale wasn’t going his way.  

I paused, torn.  The numbers on our curb were almost illegible and my mama’s heart longed to reward the boys for their resourcefulness.  But my husband was away, and he tends to be a stickler for doing things right.  I thought he might not approve of my supporting their rogue enterprise.  

“I’m proud of you guys for being so industrious, but I’m afraid I can’t say yes,” I told the boy, reluctantly.  

“Ok, thank you,” he said with drooping shoulders, turning away and hopping on his bike. 

As he pedaled up the block, I kept watching his brothers and eventually ambled across the street to get the rest of their story.

“You guys are working hard,” I commented.   “How did you figure out how to do this?” 

“YouTube,” replied the oldest one succinctly, clearly the ringleader.      

“Ah,” I laughed. “So you’re still recouping your start-up costs?” 

“No, we already did.” 

“Wow!  What are you planning to do with the money?”

“I’m going to buy a pressure washer so I can start a real business.”   

Hiding a smile from the young entrepreneur, I asked the middle brother, “Where do you guys go to school?” 

He mumbled shyly, “We’re home-schooled,” while the older one clarified, “They are, but I go to Beacon Hill.”  

“I haven’t heard of that one, is it a private school?”  I asked.

He nodded, selecting another stencil from his kit.

Watching their meticulous work for a moment, I told them, “I’m sorry I can’t hire you, but I admire your initiative.”  I dropped a ten in their open toolbox and said, “Let me take your picture for a story and we’ll call it a donation for a good cause.”

“Thanks!” they said in unison, posed for the shot, and then went back to their task.    

Later when my husband returned home, I asked him how he would have handled it. 

“It sounds harmless,” he said, “kind of like a lemonade stand.  I think it would’ve been okay.”

I was glad.  And as I looked up and down the block at the freshly painted numbers, I felt a grace note of hope.   With kids like these, maybe we’re not in such bad shape after all.  

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