An Open Letter to the Old Man Who Bartered with My Cancer-Patient Daughter at the Community Yard Sale Fundraiser
Dear Old Man Who Bartered with My Cancer-Patient Daughter at the Community Yard Sale Fundraiser,
Thank you for attending the Alex’s Lemonade Stand community yard sale last Saturday. By “attending,” of course, I mean “looming over my ten-year-old daughter’s card table and haggling over the price of a sequined stuffed seal as if your Social Security payments depended on it.”
I imagine you saw the sign: ALL PROCEEDS DONATED TO CHARITY. The one my daughter painted with her one good hand while still hooked to a chemo pump like she’s the saddest science experiment ever.
Or maybe you noticed the giant cardboard cutout of her: bald head gleaming and feeding tube affixed to her nose like a fashion accessory from the Underworld’s spring/summer collection. The only thing better than having cancer is reminding the whole goddamn neighborhood about it with oversized props.
The table was covered with donated items: books, knickknacks, toys. Nothing priced over five dollars. This wasn’t Sotheby’s. This wasn’t even Goodwill. And yet, you, a grown man (and card-carrying member of AARP by my estimation) clutched a sequined stuffed seal like it was the Hope Diamond, and asked if I could knock it down from two dollars to one dollar.
You saw a child with cancer sitting next to a sign that screamed, “All this money will help kids like me not die,” and you thought, I think I’ll argue over the price of a mismatched salt shaker set.
When you woke up that morning and decided to show your face in public, did you think, You know what today needs? A child with cancer being forced to justify her pricing structure to me.
What is it that makes a functioning adult man look at a feeding tube and think, Ah, but what about my bottom line?
What were you going to do with that dollar you saved? Put it toward your retirement? Buy a hot dog at the Costco food court? Have you been saving up for a six-dollar latte, and my daughter’s blood cancer was in the way of your pumpkin spice destiny?
Or was it about principle? Were you staging a stand against price gouging at pediatric cancer fundraisers? History will not remember you as its hero. There will be no documentaries called The Man Who Saved Fifty Cents from Big Charity.
Don’t think I didn’t notice your wife trying to disappear into the bushes. She was shaking her head like she was trying to clear a swarm of bees, mouthing, I don’t even like him!
You stood there wearing cargo shorts with about sixteen functional pockets and an aggressive cologne and thought, These kids may be sick, but I still need to save a dollar so I can afford the early-bird special at IHOP. Do pancakes taste better after you make a bald child explain, “No, sir, the three-dollar stained-glass coaster set is not negotiable”?
I hope that sequined stuffed seal becomes a cursed object in your life. Its beady gaze will follow you around your house. Your granddaughter will pick it up, stare into the teal galaxies of its plastic eyes, and say, “Grandpa, this is the saddest toy I’ve ever seen. Did a dying kid give this to you?”
May the little gently used seal appear in your dreams. May it show up in strange places around your house: the bathroom mirror, your car dashboard, the freezer next to your generic-brand frozen waffles—its flip sequins spelling out: ALL PROCEEDS COULD HAVE GONE TO KIDS WITH CANCER, YOU SELFISH PRICK.
One day, when you shuffle off this mortal coil and stare into the abyss of whatever budget-tier afterlife awaits you, that fucking sequined seal will be there waiting. I hope it waddles up, its eyes sparkling teal and orange in the flames, and squeaks out, “Remember me, asshole?”
Back here in the mortal world, on the funeral home’s memorial page, I hope your family adds a link at the end of your obituary for people to make a donation to Alex’s Lemonade Stand in your dishonor.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Austin (The Mom Hosting the “Kick a Cheap Old Man for Charity” Booth at This Year’s Community Yard Sale Fundraiser)
