Sculley’s Mark

After you have finished reading this brief story, you might think that I invented Robert Sculley, but I didn’t. I am even using his real name, although, after so many years, I may have misspelled it.

Robert was a born entrepreneur. If there were a way to make a nickel (a lot of money for us youngsters), Sculley would think of it.

One story in particular sticks in my mind. Robert came to me one day with one of his great ideas. We would pick bulrushes in a swampy area near our house and sell them from door to door for decoration. I mean, who wouldn’t want a few beautiful bulrushes to decorate a favorite vase?  I had to agree. After all, bulrushes are a thing of beauty. And the sales pitch? Don’t you worry. Sculley could sell ice cubes to Inuits in winter. He was that type of Canadian. 

Armed with rubber boots and knives, we set out on foot to the swamp and cut us a bunch of bullrushes. It wasn’t easy, but hey, the cost of goods hadn’t set us back a penny.

Then, we arranged them in bunches and set out to sell them. Sculley lived in the apartment buildings across the street and that seemed the best place to start (I must say that although these were far from high class apartments, the people there were mostly very nice, especially on Hallowe’en). In those days there were no locked entrances to the main staircase of each apartment block. We would climb right up to the apartment doors. Sculley would ring the buzzer, and I would be two steps behind him on the landing, bulrushes in arms. “Let me do the talking,” said Sculley. But talk as he did, and he did, no one was buying. We spent an entire afternoon carrying around the bulrushes from one building to another. No interest, no sales, no income.

At this stage, most ordinary people would give up. But Sculley was anything but ordinary. He came back the very next day. “I know what the problem is”, he said.

“Bulrushes are fine plants and all, but they are just not all that decorative in their natural state. We need to paint them black and gold. They will be beautiful. We’ll sell them for a dime.”

This is the stage in the life of an entrepreneur when pre-seed investment is needed. I don’t remember who paid for the gold and black paint, but it was probably me.

We were kids and hadn’t done our research. We bought house paint and opened a can (the black) on our driveway in front. We dipped our first bulrush into the black viscous liquid. We pulled it out.

The bulrush dripped. And dripped. And dripped. No less problematic, it had sucked up a quarter of the paint in the can.

This is the stage in which the entrepreneurs are committed. There is no turning back now. Investment has been made. Development is underway. The problem must be solved.

We lay the black bulrush on the driveway. It burbled and bled. It was not beautiful. And it was not drying. Our precious paint was staining the driveway. Luckily it was black asphalt.

“I have an idea” said Robert Sculley. We’ll dry it the same way you dry clothes in a drier. We’ll whip it around and around and the excess paint will fly off till it’s dry.” And without awaiting confirmation on my part (the junior partner), he grabbed the bulrush and with great physical energy (which he had) started whipping it round and round.

Until it flew off in the sky.

It landed on the facade of the apartment building across the street. It left a huge black mark on the yellow bricks. Sculley scampered over and grabbed the evidence, I closed the paint can and we hid. For days.

Mr. Tessier, the superintendent of all the buildings might have been a quiet, loving person in social circles. But he was an ogre when it came to children defiling the kingdom over which he presided. We were petrified with fear what he might do to us.

Outside the family, I have never told this story until now. Even after I left Canada and moved across the seas, I still lived in mortal fear. Would Mr. Tessier ever find the perpetrators? Would he call the police (he once did, but that is another story).

Because you see, the hideous black splotch remained on the façade of the building. We called it “Sculley’s mark”.

And fifty-five years later, we still do.