Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  Nicole’s shoulders sagged as she sat back in her chair. “I’m sure you won’t, Greg, and I don’t mean to be challenging you on this. I guess . . . I didn’t realize how anxious about this job thing I’d become.” She reached out and took another sip of the SlowBurn. That seemed like a good sign.

  Greg got up and walked around behind her, leaning over and nuzzling her behind her ear. “It’s okay, hon. God came through. More than that, he’s stacked the deck for us to win. This is it. I can feel it in my bones. We’re coming into our blessing, just like the pastor said.”

  “Oh, Greg, I hope so, but I just don’t know if that’s the right way to think about it.”

  “Trust me. It’s happening whether we understand it or not.”

  They cleared the table in silence. His course was clear to him. What had seemed like a test would become his testimony. Maybe he needed to exert his headship of the family more strongly, focusing on the vision he felt God had given him even if his wife couldn’t see it. He thought of other metaphors: a strong and steady hand on the helm, a tight rein on a narrow trail, determination in a sea of doubt. He could tell she really wanted to follow his lead. He just needed to stay in control in order to bring her along.

  That night, after the kids were asleep upstairs, he reached out to Nicole in bed and drew her close. It had been a long time since they were intimate. Not good. But tonight she surrendered to him willingly enough and for a while seemed to respond with passion . . . but then it slipped away as though something had distracted her while Greg charged on until he lay spent and panting. Well, he couldn’t help that.

  As his wife’s breathing slowed into sleep, he stared into the darkness reviewing the people he planned to talk to the next day about SlowBurn. His warm lists grew—prospective consumers on one and people who had ambition to better themselves on the other. They would be the most valuable because every sale they made would mean more profit for him. He finally fell asleep as the lists got too long for him to remember all the names.

  * * * *

  Saturday—Greg got up eagerly and hurried through breakfast so he could unload the Jeep Cherokee, stacking the SlowBurn boxes in the garage, though they barely left enough room for the car. He warned the kids not to mess with the product, that it was Daddy’s new business and would be very expensive if any of the boxes got damaged.

  Nicole came out to the garage and leaned against the doorframe, surveying the stacks of SlowBurn cases. “Did you have to pay for all that stuff?”

  “Yep, and it’s all paid for. Which means everything we receive when we sell it goes into our pocket.”

  “How much?”

  “Every penny.”

  “No, I mean, how much did it cost you?”

  “Oh, that. A little over thirteen . . . almost fourteen hundred. But I gotta have product for my associates. Plus I get a larger profit margin when I buy in quantity. It’s like any business.”

  Nicole just stared at the boxes, then abruptly turned and went back to the house.

  Greg squared his shoulders. He couldn’t let his wife’s reservations slow down the launch of his new business. He had to get out there and make some sales. His warm list included family, friends, and former business associates—all those people he’d worked with at Powersports. He might not be in the powerboat and off-road vehicle business any longer, but he had wisely preserved all his contacts.

  But first he needed some practice. He needed to make his pitch to several people who had good potential but weren’t likely to become high-volume sales reps. People in his church and even those right here in the neighborhood might be good candidates—people like Harry Bentley and Jared Jasper, who Bentley said worked out at O’Hare Airport as an air traffic controller. Now that was a job where you had to keep alert. Greg grinned. Everybody in the tower needs “the Time-Release Energy Drink that won’t let you down!” That ought to be an easy sell.

  But first he’d start with Harry Bentley. They’d gotten to know each other pretty well at the Memorial Day barbecue. Going back into the house, Greg grabbed a six-pack of SlowBurn from the refrigerator, put a few brochures in his pocket, and headed over to Bentley’s.

  He rang the bell to the second floor unit three times with no response and was debating whether it was better to introduce SlowBurn casually—like he’d planned—or set up formal appointments with people, when the old lady from the first floor apartment came to the door.

  “Oh.” She took a step back. “I didn’t know someone was here. I was just going to post this card to my son in Elgin. It’s his birthday next week.”

  “Sorry to have startled you. I’m Greg Singer. We live across the street. You’re Mrs. Krakowski, aren’t you?” When she nodded, he went on. “Do you know if the Bentleys are home? I wanted to see Harry for a bit.”

  “Haven’t heard them all morning.” The old woman shuffled outside and clipped the card to her mailbox. “But sometimes I don’t hear a thing unless they’re playing that music with all that boom, boom, boom.”

  “Oh, well, thanks anyway.” Greg turned and stepped down the first step. “I hope your son has a happy birthday.”

  “Thank you. That’s kind of you. We’re going to have a big picnic with all the family a week from Sunday, but I wanted to get my card there on his actual birthday.”

  A big picnic with all the family . . .

  Greg turned back. “Uh, would you have a few minutes to talk, Mrs. Krakowski? I’ve got something I’d like to show you.”

  Chapter 16

  Greg didn’t really see old Mrs. Krakowski as a blue-ribbon member of his team, but she was his first sale and, in fact, his first associate. Her check for forty-nine dollars was in his pocket, and he would take her SlowBurn starter kit over to her as soon as the rain stopped so she could sell it at her family picnic.

  The thunderstorm had come up while they’d been talking, but it would pass quickly. Back home, he sat down at his computer and registered Mattie Krakowski’s name and information under his own. At least it was a start, and who knew where it might lead?

  By noon there were only a few drops still falling from the trees when he delivered her product and assured her she could earn fifty dollars or more, all depending on how much she sold the cans for. “But the best thing for you is to get some of your relatives to sell it too. Then you’ll really make money.”

  She squinted at him, then shrugged and shut the door.

  Before he left, he tried Bentley’s doorbell one more time and was surprised when Harry’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Hey Harry, it’s Greg Singer from down the street. Will you be home for the next few minutes? I’ve got something I want to show you, but I’ve got to run home and get it.”

  Selling Harry Bentley on SlowBurn wasn’t as easy as Mrs. Krakowski. Not that his neighbor didn’t listen courteously, but Greg could see in Harry’s eyes when his interest switched off. Nevertheless, Greg hoped he might score a reversal.

  “So, what do you think? You like how it tastes?”

  “Oh yeah. Tastes okay, but I just like my coffee. Estelle too.”

  “Coffee’s good, especially in the morning or when it’s cold. But in the summer, people want something refreshing, and—”

  “Then I grab a Pepsi. Used to be I’d reach for a brewsky, but I had to cut that out ’cause they seemed to, uh, multiply, if you know what I mean.”

  Greg chuckled and nodded. “But how about your grandson?”

  “Oh, he might like one of these drinks from time to time.”

  “And that would be a good choice for you to encourage. You know, kids are always drinking something. What could be better than providing a healthy alternative, an energy drink that’s not loaded with sugar and caffeine.”

  Harry shrugged. “Well, you can ask him. If that’s what he wants to spend his allowance on, that’s up to him.”

  “What about you? Even if you’re not into energy drinks yourself, a franchise like this could provide a welcome income stream
on the side. If you’re anything like me, we all can use a few extra bucks. Right?”

  “You’re wanting me to sell this stuff?”

  Greg raised his index finger as though asking to make one final point. “As your neighbor—as your friend—I just want to be sure you have a chance to get in on the ground floor of a serious business opportunity. I mean, working for Amtrak, you encounter thousands of people a week, and what better way—”

  “Hey, I don’t have anything to do with the food service or the concessions, either on the trains or in the station. That’s a completely different department, probably managed out of D.C. In fact, I don’t even have a clue who to talk to about that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t meaning the official food service, but on the side.”

  “Not a chance.” There was exasperation in Harry’s voice. “There’re regulations, against that kind of thing, ya know. But even if there weren’t, that’s not me. I’m just not into the entrepreneurial thing. Hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah.” Greg was tempted to press on, but Harry had made himself clear. “I hear ya. But, hey . . .” Greg stood up from the dining room table where they’d been talking. “If you ever change your mind, I’m your man. Okay?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” Harry reached out a restraining hand. “Before you go, though, sit back down for another hot minute.”

  Greg lowered himself back onto the chair.

  “I didn’t mean to put down what you’re doin’. In fact, I’m interested in how it turns out for you. So, is this energy drink thing what you’re doin’ full time now, or is it more like what you said—you know, a side income?”

  Greg looked down. Somehow the high he’d been riding was headed for a landing. But he pushed the throttle forward and looked up. “I think this is it, Harry. I think this is my big opportunity. I’m believing God for this. He has a big blessing for me—huge, beyond anything I can imagine. I really believe it.”

  With his eyebrows arched and his mouth in a maybe-so frown, Harry nodded. “Well, I hope it works out for you. But to be honest, if I was going after that, it’d be ‘penny wise and pound foolish’ for me.”

  “What? Oh, believe me, Harry, I’m not focusing on the small stuff. I’m going after the gold ring here. Know what I mean? And you could too.” Greg slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Join me.”

  “Nope.” Harry shook his head, his face sober. “But I will pray for you, Greg. Let me know how it turns out.”

  “I will. And hey, speaking of prayer, the last time we talked, you invited me to your men’s Bible study. Any chance I could take you up on that?”

  Harry’s eyebrows went up. “Sure thing. Every Tuesday at seven. Want me to pick you up?”

  “That’d be great. I’d like to get to know some of those other men.” Greg stood up again. “Guess I’d better get goin’, though. Nicole’s gonna think I got lost.”

  A few moments later, as he was going down the stairs, Greg pressed his lips together and pumped his fist, “Yes!” Connections to more people would surely turn into sales sooner or later.

  But outside the Bentleys’ two-flat he hesitated, then crossed the street to the Jaspers’ house. As he recalled, Jared worked a strange schedule, so he wasn’t surprised when no one answered the door. However tomorrow was Sunday, and he knew the Jaspers usually went to church, so hopefully he could snag Jared some time in the afternoon.

  But when he got home, he was surprised to find Jared’s daughter at his house.

  “Daddy, Daddy,” Becky crowed as he came in, “Tabby’s here. She’s Mommy’s helper, and we’re gonna show her our school.”

  “Uh, that’s nice.” Greg had no idea why Nicole needed a helper, and he was starting to feel some concern about their money. But he’d talk to her about that later. “Hi, Tabby, it’s good to see you. But don’t let these rascals work you too hard down there or you’ll have to join the Chicago Teacher’s Union.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Mr. Singer.” The young teen grinned and followed the kids down to the basement.

  Greg sat down at his computer to work on his warm list. He wanted to create a sublist of the eight or ten people he might see at church the next day. Some he only knew by first names—though Nicole might know their last names—but his intuition told him not to drag her into it just yet. A few of the people usually sat in the same section where he and Nicole sat, then there were the workers in the children’s church they interacted with when they dropped off the kids, a particularly friendly usher, and a couple of people who worked the coffee bar where Greg always stopped after the second service. He knew the names of most of the pastoral staff—or could look them up—but he doubted if any of them knew him. And again, his intuition told him to hold off approaching the church staff.

  After working the phone and Facebook for the next couple of hours, he had enough information to approach most of the people the next day and try to set up a meeting with them. He was proud of his sleuthing. But as he stared at the names on his list, he realized his church contacts were certainly different than the kind of relationships Harry Bentley talked about when describing his Bible study brothers. Sounded like those guys knew each other well enough to have each other’s backs during the week. Huh. He could count on two hands all the people he knew at church, but didn’t have a clue where most of them lived and hadn’t been inside even one of their homes.

  Must be the difference between a big church and a small group. At least now he’d get to know a few of the people from church—another benefit of SlowBurn.

  That evening at supper, Greg eyed Nicole casually. “So tell me about this mother’s helper bit. How’d it go?”

  “I think it went pretty well. What’d you kids think . . . Nate?”

  Nate shrugged. “Tabby’s okay, but she didn’t want to play any video games with me. All she did was look at Becky’s school lessons.”

  Nicole frowned. “Hmm. Maybe she didn’t play video games with you because you didn’t have permission to play games this afternoon. At least you didn’t ask me.”

  “But you said she was a mommy’s helper, so I thought I could ask her.”

  “That’s true, but next time we should talk about it ahead of time.”

  Greg forked a bite of pork chop. “So, was this just a one-time thing?”

  “Not sure. I wanted to see how it’d go.”

  “You pay her? You know, hon, until SlowBurn takes off, we might need to watch our money a little.”

  “I paid her, but it wasn’t much. More like a tip.”

  They ate in silence a few moments. Then Nicole laid down her fork. “Greg, I really asked Tabby to come as kind of a test. I was thinking, with you out of work, maybe I should step up. I don’t think making jewelry or some kind of a home industry with the kids would make much money. But if I could get some reliable help with the kids over the summer, I might be able to pick up some part-time legal work.”

  “Legal work, part-time?” He tried not to snort. “That seems rather unlikely.”

  “Not really.” Nicole lifted her chin. “Most of what paralegals do is pretty straightforward—drafting documents and contracts and other administrative duties. And with the Internet, you don’t need a five-thousand-volume legal library, so I could help research relevant cases, court decisions, and all kinds of legal articles online.”

  “But the chances of actually finding a firm that would hire you—”

  “Mo-om!” Nathan whined. “I can’t cut my meat.”

  Nicole cut Nathan’s pork chop for him. “Maybe. But Lincoln Paddock told me they’re always needing help at his firm. He even said they have another paralegal who’s part-time and sometimes works at home.”

  Greg’s jaw dropped as he stared at his wife. “Paddock, the guy in that megahouse down the block?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t actually offer me a job, but he gave me his card. I think it’s a real possibility.”

  “Okay, now wait a minute. I don’t real
ly think that’ll be necessary. SlowBurn’s gonna take off, Nicole. I just know it. I mean, saying we need to be careful of our spending right now doesn’t mean I need to send my wife out to moonlight.” This whole conversation was making him upset. “By the way, when did Paddock talk to you about needing a paralegal, anyway?”

  “When he took the kids down to the zoo.”

  “Huh. You mean the day he spent with you down at the zoo? Did you tell him I was out of work? Because I’m not. I’m starting my own business.”

  “Greg, that was the day—the afternoon—before you came home and said you’d been laid off. So, no, I didn’t tell him you were out of work. I didn’t even know it myself at the time.”

  “I wasn’t laid off. Powersports closed. There’s a difference.”

  Nicole gave him a look, then picked up her fork again. “Whatever.”

  * * * *

  Greg couldn’t get Lincoln Paddock out of his mind as he sat through church the next morning. The man was hitting on his wife and she didn’t even realize it. Or maybe she did, but there was no way he was going to let her work for him. In fact, there was no way he was going to let her become the breadwinner for their family. How would that make him feel? Some men might not care, but he did. And he was going to make a success out of SlowBurn to prove he could support his family with his own business.

  But the response of the people Greg talked to after the service was mixed. Several said, “Sure, let’s find a time.” But more than half were hesitant, almost scared was the way Greg read them when he mentioned he had a business opportunity he wanted to share. Okay, that was understandable. Most people didn’t think of themselves as businesspeople, even though they might have great presentation skills.

  “Don’t approach people like you’re testing them,” Arlo had said. “Affirm them for who they are and nurture those skills that will make them become effective representatives.” Well, he’d follow Arlo’s advice when he met with the ones who’d agreed, which he hoped to do in the next two weeks. Arlo had emphasized how important it was for him to go to the company’s training conference out in Schaumburg, which was coming up real soon—June 22. He’d have to be sure and attend, even though he didn’t want to face the $695 price tag for the event, plus hotel room and meals. They didn’t have much cushion in their bank account. But maybe he’d have sold some product by then and lined up some associates. Two weeks was two weeks.