that promised the less than athletic children of the comic book
demographic a hard muscular body in no time. The most popular of
these ads pre-dates my comic book reading days. It involves a
skinny guy getting kicked around at the beach and laughed at, only
to return post Charles Atlas course ripped and to whoop up on the
bully who humiliated him before. I never saw this particular ad
growing up nor was I bullied around much. However, the thought of
being the most ripped kid at McBrien Elementary School was
appealing. In the back of a Boy's Life magazine was a short but
simple ad. It showed a very muscular man and beside it the words
"An Atlas Body in Days". Below were instructions to send
twenty-five cents to an address in NeW York City. If this
marvelous physique could be had in days for only 25 cents, then I
was certainly going to go about doing it.
How naive I was to think that there existed some magic exercises that would see me achieve in days what body builders labor years to accomplish. However, the laughability of the story does not end here. I was all ready to plop my quarter in an envelope and mail it off. My mom however, insisted we send a check. Yes, a check for twenty-five cents. I don't know if the check was ever mailed. I recall my mom saying it was, but that may or may not be true. Regardless, the secret to being muscle bound in a matter of days never arrived in my mailbox. If the check was in fact sent, I daresay those selling the secret found the time and cost it would take to process the check not worth their time and laughed
as they tossed it in the trash. I can understand the need to send a check as proof paid, but did my mom really think these people would send collection agents after a quarter? In truth, I doubt my mom ever sent the check and likely thought I would forget the matter. Well I didn't forget it. After a few weeks of
disappointing trips to the mailbox, I told my mom I was going to take action. I was going to write the folks at Charles Atlas and say, "If you don't send me the book, I will sue you." My mom shot a most serious reply and said, "Don't you dare!" I guess my mom feared some serious legal action against this 7 year old who was cheated out of a quarter would be the result of my threat. I don't doubt my sloppy cursive on a sheet of tablet or notebook paper would have had those corporate lawyers shaking in their shoes. I guess it is telling that on this occasion, she did not encourage any other kind of follow up on my part. Maybe a polite inquiry about the status of the mailing.
If I couldn't be the strongest kid at school, maybe I could be the richest. Through the comic book/Boy's life magazines that were my media, I found another fine money-making opportunity. So grand was this opportunity that it was limited to a 1x2 inch ad in the back of the magazine. This opportunity took up an entire page. On the page were a plethora of fabulous prizes. There was a trampoline, a tent, a bicycle offered to young people whose salesmanship
excelled. I seem to recall some really lame prizes like x-ray glasses and whoopee cushions for those who sold very little. I recall my friend Jason and I considering a partnership in this
venture. Two kids could no doubt sell even more than just one! I told my dad about this idea and nixed it. Suprisingly, he was polite about it and not condenscending at all. He just told me it was not a good idea as the products were very hard to sell. I
daresay he was right. Number one: salesmanship has never been a gift of mine. Number two: I was not allowed to venture very far from home and my clientele would have been very small. Should I have made a few sales, I doubt they would have been repeat business enough to earn me that trampoline or even the whoopee cushion for that matter. A few years ago, I read about kid who actually attempted this and found it a very entertaining read. If you like, check it out for yourself
-http://rockass.net/allmyjobs/2005/08/salesman-for-captain-o.html, but only after you finish reading my blog. It's fun to read about the guy's other jobs too.
On a side note, my friend Jason and I also envisioned making a pile of money stuffing envelopes. There used to be ads in the Chattanooga Times that read something like, "Earn extra money stuffing envelopes-Free Supplies". Again, our thinking was that
two bodies could stuff even more and make even more money. I think we had envisioned one of us folding whatever went in the envelope while the other sealed them. I don't remember any parental discouragement on this one, but I did read few years later it was a scam. It seems you either end up paying for supplies only to be told, "Now find somebody who needs envelopes stuffed." Another scenario was that you wind up stuffing envelopes as you send other poor saps information (that they paid you for) instructions on how to post their own envelope stuffing ads.
These are but a few of the grand ambitions of my youth. I also considered setting up many a lemonade/snack stand in my yard or that of a friends. I am sure if my family had a working lawnmower for more than a week at a time, I'd have pursued that angle. Some friends and I started a bicycle repair shop once. I think our
handmade sign lasted a few days on the telephone pole of a very lightly traveled road. Another friend and I were going to open a bike track complete with ramps and all. I don't doubt this business would have thrived, at least until his dad came come and parked the car in the middle of our bike track that doubled as his driveway.
Where did this ambition and enterprise go? Is it the thought of the hard work or the economics that stifle such entrepenuerial efforts now? Does age shrink dreams? It seems I should be envisioning auto repair shops now, go-cart tracks, restaurants or
landscaping businesses now that I am older. Instead, I work a typical 9-5 job and the thought of owning a business of my own offers very little appeal. I guess life in the real world can zap a person's gumption.
I guess I could run an ad offering quick and easy weight loss for a quarter...I just hope nobody sends me a check.
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