Chapter 5: A Breakthrough—and a Cost

Back at work, I was still lost in mandarin math, doodling orange circles in the margins of my notebook. My boss noticed. I finally snapped out of it and tried another approach: messaging old classmates, even coworkers.

One old classmate finally bit. We caught up, and he asked why I was hustling mandarins instead of working my fancy job.

I just sent: [Not a business. Just helping the town sell what nobody else will. Got any leads?]

He wrote back: [How much you got? My uncle runs a fruit plant—jam, jelly, canned fruit, the works. Maybe he can help. I’ll ask.]

I could have hugged him. [Really? Thanks, man! We’ve got three or four hundred tons. If you can help, you’re saving my skin.]

He sent a laughing emoji. [Don’t get too excited. I just got married, wife’s pregnant, you know. Gotta make a little something on the side...]

[No problem, whatever’s fair,] I replied. At that point, I didn’t care about the details—just moving the fruit.

His uncle’s plant turned out to be big—rows of machines, the air thick with sugar and citrus, workers sorting fruit by the crate. I was impressed. A heavy step sounded behind me, then a voice boomed out.

"Heard from my nephew your town’s got mandarins?"

I turned, offering a cigarette out of habit, even though hardly anyone smoked indoors anymore. "Yes, sir. Our town’s got a bumper crop, but the old buyer ditched us. I’m just trying to help before it all goes to waste."

He nodded and led me to his office. We talked for ages. Turns out, he’d just lost a supplier—needed hundreds of tons, fast. His nephew had mentioned me at just the right moment. Fate, I thought.

To prove I was serious, I brought over a basket of local honey, a couple of tickets to the Friday night game, whatever might help break the ice. My classmate joked that I was getting good at this. I just shrugged. We’re all trying to survive.

I sent over samples—Dad picked the best-looking fruit, and the plant owner was impressed. Still, he didn’t say yes right away. Just, "I’ll think about it."

So I kept showing up, gifts in hand, never letting him pay for lunch. My wallet took a beating, but after a month, he finally agreed—he’d buy, trucks would come before Christmas. I called Dad the minute the deal was done, relief flooding through me. We had a shot.