As the morning light filters through the blinds, practically searing my still-closed eyes, I can't help but cringe. Groaning, I roll over to shut off the alarm, you'd think that after all the meditation yesterday, waking up early would somehow feel... easier. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. I guess you can't change your nature so easily, and saying I'm not a morning person would be putting it lightly. But, like with most things in life, you may not like it, but you still have to do it.
So, as I desperately try to convince myself it isn't Sunday, I somehow force myself to roll out of bed and stumble through the living room and into the kitchen. Priorities—meaning first things first: coffee above all else. No coffee means no talkie, and no talkie isn't going to get any sales. Actually, when I remember what exactly my plans are for today, I can't help but let out another groan. That was definitely Saturday Nathan talking, and Sunday Nathan isn't very happy about it.
But as my beloved kettle hums to life, I pour a spoonful of instant espresso into my mug, followed by a generous splash of sweetened vanilla creamer. Say what you will about the abomination I choose to drink to start my day, coffee snobs of the world. As much as I enjoy a good pour-over made with freshly ground beans, the fact that I'm even standing at this ungodly hour is enough of a feat. Expecting me to go to all that trouble first thing in the morning? That's a hard no.
As I slowly come to terms with the awful reality of being conscious, I sip my coffee and wish I were still back in bed. But eventually, as with all mornings, I return to what passes for normal for me. What did my dad always say in the morning? "Waking you up is almost as hard as juicing a stone"—get it, since our last name is Stone? Groan. He always did love a good pun in the morning.
No time like the present, right? Small change of plans, though. Originally, I was thinking of hitting up a nearby shopping center, but after realizing the foot traffic might not be as good as I'd hoped first thing in the morning—and that I really don't relish the idea of being chased away by security at some point during the day—I decided a better bet would be to start at the local flea market. After all, there are going to be a lot more people in the mood to buy my junk—err, knick-knacks. Certainly more likely than someone walking past me into the supermarket. After all, I'm not exactly selling Girl Scout cookies here. People's "weirdo meters" would probably be off the charts seeing a 32-year-old bearded man sitting at a folding table outside their local supermarket with keychains and digital picture frames.
Despite my reluctance, I can't help but feel a buzz of excitement beneath the haze of fatigue. Today is the day I test my charm magic on real people. No more theory, no more guessing. Just real-world application. I'm about to find out if I can use magic to sway people into buying stuff they don't need. If that's not modern-day wizardry, I don't know what is.
Folding table, check. Spare sheet to drape over it, check. Trinkets from my 3D-printing phase, double check. I smile a little as I toss the keyrings into a box. Who knew hoarding your past phases would come in handy?
The four Android tablets sit on my desk, fully charged and ready to go. They don't look half-bad with the black kickstands glued to the back. As digital picture frames, they've got a kind of charm to them—at least, that's what I keep trying to tell myself. But the real charm is going to be up to me after all.
With my goods ready to go, I awkwardly lug the table and chair downstairs and out to the parking lot to load up my truck. I've always tried to live by one rule above all others: one trip or bust. I'd rather crawl down the stairs like a snail, carrying everything in one go, than make a second trip. Not sure why, to be honest. As I wait for my old truck's engine to warm up, I take the time to find a radio station I like and plug the address into the GPS—well, into my phone that's resting in the cupholder, I mean. I've never been great with directions, so it's pretty much a must for me.
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Traffic was pretty much nonexistent, and after paying two bucks to park and another forty to rent a space, I finally had all of my stuff neatly spread out on the table. Now all I needed was some customers to actually try and sell to. The whole charm magic thing has been in the back of my mind since I thought about it last night. I think the right approach would be to exude a charming aura directly from my core—something to help me give off the vibe of someone you'd want to approach, to appear more likable.
After all, there isn't much to say about the products in question—they're both pretty much self-explanatory. Although I did have the foresight to bring some snacks as well. I had those snack-size bags of chips I like to pack for lunch. It's a bit early right now, but I figured in a few hours, people will start getting a bit peckish, and what better way to lure them in than with some random bags of chips? At twenty bucks for a box of forty-two, I think I could gouge people a bit at two bucks a bag. If I end up selling them all, that'd be a sixty-four dollar profit right there.
As for the keychains, I figured twenty dollars each, along with fifty dollars for the digital picture frames, should be expensive enough that most people wouldn't normally buy them. They're not anything special after all, and they're certainly not worth that much. So, if I can sell enough, I can be pretty confident it's the magic working—and not just my charming smile.
The first hour is... slow, to say the least. Plenty of people pass by, but other than a few curious glances and polite nods, I haven't attracted a single buyer to even talk to me. So far, my charm magic isn't doing much of anything—or at least, not that I can tell. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't frustrated, but it's a learning experience, right? You can't expect to just master something right away. This is all part of the process—at least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Finally, as I'm starting to lose hope, an elderly woman approaches the stall. She catches my attention because she isn't exactly the target demographic for trendy keychains and electronics. But she picks up one of the tablets, squinting at it before asking in a raspy voice, "What's this?"
I clear my throat. "It's a digital picture frame," I say. "You can load it up with photos, and it'll cycle through them. Perfect for showing off family pictures."
She nods slowly, clearly not entirely convinced. Here's where the charm comes in—I focus on her, concentrating on projecting a feeling of warmth and trust. Charm, charm, charm, I repeat in my head, imagining the mana flowing from me to her, subtle and gentle, like a nudge in the right direction.
Suddenly, she smiles. "You know, my daughter might like this," she says. "How much?"
I try not to show my excitement. "Fifty dollars," I reply, keeping my voice steady.
Without hesitation, she nods, pulls out her wallet, and hands me a crisp fifty-dollar bill. I see her off with a big, goofy smile as the excitement of my first sale washes over me. I can't believe it actually worked—that was honest-to-goodness charm magic.
As the morning continues, I experiment with my magic on every person who passes by. Some are more receptive than others, but I start noticing a pattern. When it comes to charming someone, it's not about using a pushy, overbearing force. It's about subtlety—a little nudge here, a gentle pull there. It's as much about drawing them into your smile as it is pushing them away from their disinterest.
It's a back-and-forth—it's cyclical—and I keep coming back to that concept, which makes sense. Like many things in life, mana seems to be about give and take, pros and cons. Push too hard, and you can feel the charm break. You have to walk a fine line, slowly reeling them in while giving them enough slack so that the invisible thread you're using doesn't snap.
By the afternoon, I've sold three tablets, twenty-one bags of chips, seven keychains, and—oddly—a pack of gum. A prospective chip customer I was chatting with happened to lament the fact that he didn't have any gum. Since I had a pack on me, I offered him a stick, and he asked if he could buy the whole pack. A bit strange, but five dollars for an opened, two-dollar pack of gum sounded good to me. He walked off with that, a bag of Funyuns, and a keychain.
That brings my total sales for the day up to $337—not freaking bad at all. Five hours at the flea market, another two preparing the items yesterday, and drive time—let's just call it an eight-hour day. That's already over forty-two dollars an hour!