My father was one of those eternally optimistic guys who would go to bed at night secure in the knowledge that today had been a good day and tomorrow would be better. I never got his “optimistic” gene: I go to bed grateful that the day was not as bad as it could have been, and hope that tomorrow will not be worse. My Dad might call me a pessimist; I would describe myself as a clear-eyed realist, although, honestly, is there really a difference?
Dad was a general contractor with a great work ethic and a superb product but not even a clue as to how to manage cash flow; consequently he was always looking for ways to supplement his income. Auntie, who was married to an excellent businessman (but a total prick) would lecture my father: “You can’t work for peanuts, John” she would say, “you need to make some real money.”
Given Auntie’s lectures, it was the ultimate irony when day Dad came home from work one day with the bed of his El Camino loaded with dozens of 5-gallon cans of roasted peanuts and a plan to make a fortune: He had just purchased a dozen vending machines which he planned to place in gas stations all over Fort Lauderdale. These machines, he pointed out, were absolutely state-of-the-art. They had a heating element, similar to that of an EZ-Bake oven, and for only 25 cents they would dispense a handful of warm, salted peanuts. The idea was that while you waited for your tank to fill you would chow down on a handful or two of warm nuts. In 1972, this was truly high-tech.
“It’s a no-brainer,” he told my skeptical mother. “I figure you can get 100 handfuls per can, and the cans only cost $9.99 each. Do the math!”
Thanks to his personal contacts and personal enthusiasm, Dad was able to place the vending machines in gas stations up and down Federal Highway, then, bullish, he went out and bought more peanuts. “Economy of scale,” he told my mother who was getting annoyed that her carport was so filled with peanuts that both cars had to stay in the driveway.
Problems began immediately. Several of the vending machines had faulty heaters so the nuts turned rancid and made people sick. A couple more lacked an air-tight seal so roaches, who also love roasted peanuts, could get into the machines; soon people would be getting a handful of warm nuts along with one or two surprised, but toasty warm, roaches.
By far the worse machines were the ones that would have been popular in Las Vegas: the customer would put in a quarter, turn the dial and every peanut in the machine would dispense, in an absolute torrent of honey roasted nuts. This annoyed the gas station owners who had no idea how many peanuts are in a five gallon vending machine. Worse, the greasy peanuts then assumed the qualities of ball bearings, and people would fall trying to walk over them.
In a horribly short time the plugs were pulled and the machines were history, and Dad was left to figure out what to do with the inventory. Typically, he soon lost interest but my brother and I discovered that if we put a can of honey roasted nuts in direct sunshine, and waited long enough, it would eventually explode noisily, sending peanuts, like shrapnel, all over the yard. This brought the rats.
Not long after this, my mother discovered that rats can chew through tin cans, at which point the inventory mysteriously vanished while Dad was at work one day. I’m not sure he even noticed; he was already planning his next venture, a plan to personalize pencils for easy identification if lost or stolen: for a small fee he would stamp the pencils with the customer’s social security number.