The Trouble With Gumballs
Author
James Nelson
Author Bio
James—Jim—was born in Denver, schooled there and in New Haven (code word for Yale), spent four WWII years in the Navy, then six in New York as an editor for Business Week.
After marriage and the birth of their first child, the happy couple moved to Sonoma, California. Jim freelanced there for five years (code for until the money ran out). One of the original Mad Men of the more relaxed West-coast variety, Nelson spent 23 years on the creative side of a San Francisco advertising agency. His first novel, On the Volcano, was published in 2011. He and Mary-Armour now live happily ever after in Marin County, California.
Description
A CLASSIC OF WESTERN NARRATIVE NON-FICTION
This portrait of a gumball entrepreneur’s life in 1950s America is a slice or retail business history and a funny freelance memoir all rolled into one.
When James Nelson decides to move his family out West to California in 1952, he takes the leap into entrepreneurship by buying a slew of gumball machines. The ad guaranteed quick profits and easy money, but comic frustrations were what he got. Savvy modern readers will laugh at Nelson’s charming naiveté while millennial freelancers will identify with his determination to keep on after endless setbacks. The gumball machine is an iconic symbol of 1950s Americana, and while the story chronicles Nelson’s foibles with gumball entrepreneurship, it’s the funny characters he meets along the way that are the true stars of this funny memoir. His larger-than-life descriptions of the characters of San Francisco and Sonoma county paint historic California as a fun scene—even for a man who makes his living one grubby penny at a time.
A fun read for fans of humorous travel writing, Sonoma County or San Francisco narratives, or anyone wanting to get an insider view of start-up from the days before Silicon Valley.
Book excerpt
My worst sin, however, was mechanical, not sartorial. For clutched in my left arm I carried a large, red, squarish penny-gum machine.
“I represent the Multivend Company, Mr. Grommet,” I said.
“The what?” Grommet growled.
“The Multivend Company,” I said. We offer a service which I know will please you and your customers. We operate the finest route of penny-gum machines in California.”
Grommet made a face as though he smelled sewer gas.
He inserted his little finger into his left ear until it nearly went out of sight, and rotated his wrist vigorously.
“Our service,” I continued, “involves no cash outlay on your part, naturally. We provide both the machine and the merchandise. And you get a generous—a very generous—percentage of the machine’s monthly sales.”
As Grommet’s finger came out of his ear, I heard a faint pop, as though someone had uncorked a bottle.
“What machine?” Grommet said.
“The penny-gum machine I want to install in your store,” I said.
“You ain’t putting no goddam machine in here,” he said.
“Of course not,” I said soothingly. “Not unless you want it. And why should you want it when I haven’t explained the many ways my machine can help you, such as—”
“What’s your name again? Nielsen?”
“Nelson,” I said.
Grommet scowled, “That’s what I thought,” he said. He opened his meat cabinet and sliced a generous hunk off a gray wad of Swiss cheese. He put half of it in his mouth and began to chew noisily.
“Now what we do,” I said, “is to put a machine in your store and keep it serviced and looking nice—”
“They was a Nielsen went around here car-stealin’, two, three months back,” Grommet announced.
“I’m Nelson,” I said.
“Stole a Buick,” Grommet said, staring at me through narrowed eyes. “Up Calistoga way.”
I set the gum machine down on the meat cabinet.
“My name,” I said slowly, “is Jim Nelson. N-e-l-s-o-n.” I felt as though I better start over. “I represent the—”
“’Bout your height, too,” Grommet said, “according to the police circular.”
I smiled stiffly. There was no use proceeding until Grommet made up his mind whether or not to phone the sheriff. After a minute of silence, during which Grommet made no move, I decided to plow in again.
“Once a month,” I said, “we take the pennies out of the machine and—”
“Car wasn’t old either,” Grommet said. “Only eight thousand miles.”
I nodded up and down and made a silent “o” with my mouth. Grommet hacked off another piece of cheese and wadded it into his mouth. I kept up the nodding routine for a while, giving him his chance to say—if he wanted to—that a car ain’t hardly broke in good by eight thousand miles yet. But he didn’t. He was way too busy licking his fingers and wiping them on his grimy apron. I plugged my smile in once more and turned up the candlepower.
“Your share is twenty percent of the gross,” I said. “And believe me, this merchandise moves! When you think that all you have to do is—”
“Eight thousand ain’t much mileage for a car, nowadays, Nielsen.” Grommet said.
Author Website
http://www.jamesnelsonauthor.com/
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