I Brought My Horn. And Another Bag.

There was a guy at our local discount grocery store in Evanston named Koz. He worked all the time—always behind the counter, always watching everything. I don’t remember there ever being another employee. It was just Koz. For some reason, my brother, my friends, and I decided he was the guy we were going to bother on a regular basis. Not in a bad way—he just happened to be there, and we were junior high kids with too much time and no plan.

One time my friend Chris and I went in with paper bags over our heads like some knockoff version of the The Unknown Comic . I had my dad’s cassette recorder in his briefcase, with a microphone taped to the underside, and we started “interviewing” Koz and his customers like we were doing something important. I don’t remember anything anyone said, but I do remember Koz yelling, “Dat you cut out all dis bullshit, my friends,” which, honestly, felt like very fair feedback. Looking back, I think he kind of liked us. Or at least tolerated us. Hard to tell the difference.

We bought everything from him over the years—candy, pop, whatever we could afford. And every time you were standing there checking out, right behind him were those magazines. They just sat there like they knew exactly what they were doing. You’d be buying a Snickers, trying to look straight ahead like a normal person, while your brain was doing everything it could not to look… and then just barely looking over enough to get a quick glimpse. Which, of course, meant you were absolutely getting a sneak peek.

One summer evening, I was bored enough and had been taunted long enough that I decided I was going to buy one. Koz and I were basically pals at this point—he would understand. I walked around the store pretending to shop for what felt like an hour, though it was probably three minutes. Waiting for people to leave. Trying to look casual, which, if you’ve ever seen a junior high kid try to look casual, is not convincing. When the last person finally walked out—and I was completely sweating because Koz did not believe in air conditioning—I went up to the counter and quietly said, “Playboy.”

Koz looked at me like I had just asked for something he didn’t sell. Then he followed my eyes, paused for a second, and figured it out. No speech. No reaction. He just grabbed one, folded it, put it in a small paper bag, and slid it across the counter like we were involved in something much bigger than this actually was. Right as another customer walked in, he said the price like nothing unusual was happening. I handed him the money, grabbed the bag, and ran out trying to look like this was completely normal for me. It was not.

Over time I bought a few more and hid them in my dresser. In my mind, it was a flawless system. You had to pull the drawer all the way out, (There was no bottom)

and they were sitting underneath on the rug. Now that I say it out loud, that was probably the first place anyone would look for a stash of anything.

At some point later, the jazz band trip came up. I don’t remember the competition or what we played, but I do remember thinking this might be the perfect time to do something with what I had. That thought didn’t come all at once. It kind of crept in slowly, like a bad idea that starts to feel like a good one the longer you sit with it.

So I packed a second bag.

My mom—who was a very smart woman—asked why I needed it. I told her it was for extra sheet music. She looked at me for a second and said “okay,” which, looking back, was either complete trust… or she knew exactly what was going on and decided she didn’t want to get involved. I’ve never asked.

At some point during the competition, we ended up back in a hotel room with a bunch of guys. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but something shifted. I stopped being the kid who had these things and became the guy who was about to sell them. I opened the bag and said double what I paid.

No reasoning. No discussion. Just threw the number out there like I had done this before.

What happened next took maybe five minutes. Everything was gone. No one hesitated, no one negotiated, and no one said the price was too high. They just bought and immediately got very interested in “reading.” Meanwhile, I’m standing there with my heart pounding thinking, did that really just happen?

Just like that, I had more money in my pocket than I had ever had. And for about ten seconds, I felt like an absolute genius.

Then immediately I felt like I was about to get caught. I was convinced there was going to be a knock on the door—by a chaperone, a parent, or worse, someone from the jazz band who would decide this was the moment to be honest. I kept waiting for it. Nothing happened. Not a word.

On the bus ride home, it was like the whole thing never happened. No jokes, no stories, no “remember that.” Just silence. At the time, it felt strange. Now it makes sense. Nobody said anything because everyone had the exact same problem if they did.

I didn’t forget it. Not because of what I sold, but because of how it worked. There was no pitch, no explaining, no convincing. I just had something guys already wanted, and for a few minutes, I was the one who had it. That was the entire play, even if I didn’t know enough to call it that.

I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking about business or margins or anything close to it. But for about five minutes, I was the guy. The guy with the inventory, the guy setting the price, the guy everyone came to without hesitation.

And then it was over. No follow-up. No repeat performance. No grand idea to do it again. I packed up what was left—which was nothing—and got back on the bus like everyone else.

Somewhere in there, without realizing it, I saw something I’ve noticed over and over again since: when something is already wanted, you don’t have to push it. You just have to recognize it… and not hesitate when it’s sitting right in front of you.

Back then, I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t overthink it. I just showed up with a second bag… and walked away thinking I might have gotten away with something—and, for a minute, like I knew exactly what I was doing.

About Greenland Sharks

Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.

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