Page 50 of The Man I Hate

“Let me know if you do,” she said with a smile. “In case you can’t tell, I’m kind of a gossip.”

“Whatever you’ve said stays with me,” I said. “I can assure you of that.”

She chuckled. “I wish I could say the same.”

Braxton

I paced the kitchen floor. “Well, how many do we have left?”

“Twenty-three,” Pratt replied. “Guy wants fifty. I can ship him the twenty-three, but I was thinking if we’re not going to be able to get any more, I might want to make a new ad and raise the price of the last bunch of ‘em. I could tell him we’re sold out, and then raise the price. What do you think?”

“Twenty-three?” I asked. “That’s all we’ve got left? I thought we had about eighty of them yesterday when I left.”

“Guy in New Jersey bought fifty last night,” he said. “He’s opening some kind of support shop, making masks for the hospitals up there. Setting up a production shop, basically.”

“Sell him the machines at the price on the ad. If they’re listed for that price, we’re already committed.”

In anticipation of a protective mask shortage—and the necessity to make an equivalent by hand—Pratt and I had purchased every inexpensive sewing machine we could get our hands on. We started with over 500 of them and were down to 23, in roughly two weeks. At $175 markup on each $90 machine, we’d made nearly $90,000 in profit.

“Get your ass over here when you can,” he said. “I need to get a couple of wooden crates made of some sort.”

“Ship the machines individually.”

“We’ll get a break on freight if they’re packaged together in a crate.”

“We figured individual shipping, just ship them separately. It’ll be less hassle to haul them to UPS.”

“Less hassle, but more in shipping costs,” he argued. “More shipping cost means less money in our pockets.”

“I’ve got to get down to San Diego, I don’t have time to run and meet you right now.”

“What’s in San Diego?”

“Hap. He’s of the opinion that he’s sick. This is the third time. His taste buds weren’t working. His equilibrium was off. Now, he says he feels flush. It’s a new symptom every day.”

“Why doesn’t he go get checked out?”

“He doesn’t want to go to the hospital if there’s nothing wrong. So far, there’s been nothing wrong. All I need to do is go have a beer with him and tell him he’s fine.”

“Were you there on Sunday?”

“Just like always.”

“Was he okay when you were there?” he asked.

“He was.”

“He just wants some company. He’s fine.”

Pratt was right but arguing with my father was impossible. I needed to see him, reassure him he was fine, and have lunch with him.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “I need to satisfy him, though. Ship the machines individually.”

“Tell the old prick I said hi. Oh, and tell him he cost us about $500 in profit.”

“I’ll let him know.”

* * *