That Time I Tried to Sell Coochie to Support a New Life on My Own

It’s cold and lonely on the open road. Each time a smelly diesel truck passes me, a cloud of dust and grit blooms toward my face, and I squint to see my way forward.

It’s not easy being a ten-year-old run-away.

My backpack is heavy with all my worldly possessions; Barbie and Ken, a stack of loose-leaf paper, three pencils of varying sizes, my prized Mr. Sketch markers (the watermelon one is my favourite), a sleeve of unsalted soda crackers and, of course, Turbo, my beloved teddy bear.

Turbo sits sentry atop my shoulder, actually. I’ve managed to fasten him on by using one of Mom’s old belts and looping it through the shoulder straps of my pack. He holds his position there — looking out for land pirates and other suspicious characters I might encounter in this rural wasteland.

The reason I’ve decided to leave the comfort of home is no longer important. Was it because life became too weary with the everyday monotony of school, homework and bus rides? Or perhaps it was because Father purchased some stupid movie about a man shrinking his children on accident rather than the much-anticipated Batman at the movie rental store.

It doesn’t matter anymore. The decision was final, and I am now on my own.

I set forth into this great wide world alone, determined to make my own way.

I stop to replenish my appetite. Cycling is hard work, and I must keep my energy up. Hunkering down on the approach to some neighbour’s field, I glance back and see the place from which I came.

I can see why they say not to look back; it only rummages up unwanted memories.

So, instead, I pull out my sleeve of stale crackers, wishing I had the forethought to grab the jar of peanut butter as well before leaving on this journey.

Turbo refuses the morsel of crumb I offer him, gallantly explaining that I must eat it all because the journey ahead is long and daunting.

As I nibble away, I decide to use this small lunch break to work on my money maker.

This, I think, pulling out a handful of loose sheets, is what will get me to the big city unscathed.

I’m not entirely sure what big city, but I know one is out there somewhere. And these drawings are my one-way ticket to freedom.

There before me, drawn in perfect uniform, are tiny aliens of varying sizes.

Turbo the bear gasps in awe.

In some of the drawings, there is just one alien, fat and round. An utterly circular body, with four sticks jutting out at odd angles for legs. The body also doubles as the beast’s head, and two long antennae stretch far and wide across the paper.

I call him Coochie, and he is my pet alien.

In other drawings, Coochie is tiny, and there are many Coochies scrambling across the paper. Some have buck teeth and a striped skirt on. Some are wearing boots or a jaunty hat. There is a lot of variety when it comes to my Coochie aliens.

The plan to become a travelling Coochie saleswoman was not new. I talked about it with friends and family for weeks before I finally set out.

“Hey, Teach,” I exclaimed not too long ago to my teacher at school, “Have you seen Coochie yet?”

“Excuse me?” She replied in a surprised tone.

I looked at her quizzically and pulled out one of my pieces of artwork.

“Coochie. Have I shown you him yet? I will sell these pictures to all my friends and neighbours and earn the money to blow this popsicle stand.” I like saying things like “blow this popsicle stand” because those are the cool kinds of sayings that the bad guys in movies like Batman say.

Or at least I think that’s what they say. I wouldn’t know because Father didn’t buy Batman from the movie rental place the other day.

Teacher chuckled, shook her head and said, “Good luck with that, Linds.”

Actually, come to think of it, most people don’t take me seriously when I tell them I’m selling Coochie to get outta this joint. They always seem a bit worried right off the start, but when I explain it, they’re all like, “Phewf, oh okay. You have fun with that kid.”

I’ll show them. I’ll show them all that Coochie can get me anywhere in this world!

I stuff the drawings back in my bag and carry on. I won’t have the sun for much longer and have miles to make.

That’s when I notice the first house. It gleams in the dappled sunshine — a sparkling gem amidst the chaos of this wacky world.

Turbo nudges me forward, encouraging me to make this first sale.

I ring the bell.

“Hi, Mrs. Johansen. Would you be interested in purchasing a picture of Coochie to support my drawing?”

It is best not to tell the adults I am planning on blowing this popsicle stand because the adults always stick together on such things.

Mrs. Johansen looks, as predicted, taken aback until I flip the paper I’m holding around to face her. Relief melts her concern away, and she smiles. “Of course, dear, yes, I’d love to. How much for a drawing?”

“Fifty bucks,” I say confidently.

“Um, why don’t you come inside for a glass of juice? You look thirsty.”

“Sorry, no time, Mrs. J, I have Coochies to sell!”

“Okay, well, here’s my advice to you. As an entrepreneur myself, I suggest you lower your price just a tad until you gain some credibility in the community. Then once everyone is talking about your, er, lovely drawings then you can start asking for more.”

Hmmmm, interesting tactic, I think.

Mrs. Johansen buys three drawings for 50 cents a piece, and I can’t help but get the feeling I just got robbed.

But I guess that’s the life of a travelling saleswoman.

I get on my bike and start peddling back to the house.

“Well, Turbs, today we didn’t blow the popsicle stand, but that’s okay. We got our Coochie out there, and, like Mom always says, tomorrow’s a new day.”

Turbo agrees, and then suggests we give that kid shrinking movie another go.