I was always a sort of venture capitalist. There was the time I made flyers and handed them to every neighbor on my street, offering myself as cheap, unskilled labor. Or when my friends and I unsuccessfully tried our hands at a real-life Babysitters' Club. But one of my favorite memories was when my friend and I became con artists.
We didn't set out to be con artists, persay. But we were fairly intelligent, overly creative, and bored. And the cure for summer boredom when you're 9?
You con the neighbor kids into paying to have their fortunes read.
We practiced for days. One of us would be the fortune teller, and the other would be strategically hiding underneath the table. Certain code words from the fortune teller would prompt the "spirit" to act appropriately. Lifting the table, knocking, and a gentle shaking were all part of the show.
When we went live, I somehow got stuck under the table for what seemed like hours while Sarah, in her best psychic garb, wowed the neighborhood kids with her powers. You know, after they paid their fifty cents.
It was going so very well until a leg cramp sent the table flying, exposing my sweaty, red-cheeked, cramping body.
Needless to say, we gave a refund.