Chapter 4: Peaches and the Panhandle
🍑 “Who Wants to Sell Some Peaches?”
“Who wants to sell some peaches so we can get to Florida?” Mike yelled from the yard, even though we didn’t have a choice. Mike was Mom’s latest loser boyfriend.
There are too many to remember, but Mike stood out. He seemed like one of the good ones. Maybe his friend Snake should’ve been the giveaway to his sleazy character. Theirs was a weird, drunk-buddy codependence, straight out of the Deep South central casting department.
Mike had a camper, and hatched a plan to fund a trip to Florida using us kids.
And so, at 10 years old, I unknowingly added another entrepreneurial role to my resume: selling peaches on a sunbaked truck hood.
🚚 Entrepreneurship, Southern-Style
The first stop was the Pick-Your-Own-Peach Farm in Chilton County—sorry Georgia, but Alabama’s peaches are the best (according to Mom). At 95 cents a bushel, the markup potential had Mike’s mouth watering.
Next, we posted up shop in the local K-mart parking lot. My sister and I leveraged our cuteness and my larger-than-life personality to attract customers in the blazing mid-July heat.
Who could resist two barefoot kids in shorts and smocked tops, hawking peaches with the charm only Southern children can muster?
Days of selling those peaches gave me a new perspective and a lifelong empathy for kids being used to make a buck. Even now, when I see them on the streets, I often stop to suss out the situation—offering food or toiletries instead of cash.
🧃 Used and Spit Out
The money we made went straight to Mike. And that’s just how it was. Mom didn't have a say. It was his plan, so it was his take.
My mother was a magnet for these kinds of men. They could smell her from a mile away, like stank on shit (pardon my French, but it’s important you get an authentic taste of Southern vernacular). People would ride roughshod over her. Mike was just the latest parasite.
🐊 Welcome to Florida
The trip to Florida itself was forgettable. I don’t even remember going to the beach. We rode in Mike’s truckbed camper with no air conditioning or bathroom. There were the five of us (including Mike's buddy, the ever-blacked-out Snake, of course) sleeping in that roaster box.
We drove through the night and parked. In the morning, we opened the camper door to our first sight in Florida, a sign reading:
“Don’t Feed the Alligators”
We shut the door tight. Any time we snuck in a burst of wet Panhandle air, Mom would scream, “Y’all be careful out there and make sure you’re not up to your ass in alligators.”
🔄 The Revolving Door
Soon after we got home, the revolving door of boyfriends swung open and shut again. One after another, predators fixin’ to use a single mother of three and her kids any way they could. Give ’em an inch and you might just end up in Florida by morning.
THE EXPERT GENERALIST LESSON: DON’T FEED THE ALLIGATORS
Effort without boundaries invites exploitation. Constantly giving to those who only take will leave you drained. Recognize the difference between collaboration and being used. Protect your time, your work, and your worth. If you keep feeding the takers, they’ll keep coming back for more.
To order a copy of The Expert Generalist- An Unpaved Road to Leadership
When did you realize someone was using you?
Maybe it was a job, a friendship, or a relationship that took more than it gave.
What helped you finally draw the line—and keep it?
