The police officer was tall and official-looking, with a serious expression and a clipboard in his hand. As he got closer, I could see his name tag: Officer Hernandez.
My mouth went dry. What could a police officer possibly want with me? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just selling snacks.
“Are you Kiora?” he asked when he reached my table.
“Yes, sir,” I managed to squeak out.
“I’m Officer Hernandez with the Police Department. I received an anonymous tip about a snack stand operating in the park without the proper permits.”
Anonymous tip? My eyes automatically darted toward the food truck, where Mr. Griggs was serving a family with two kids. As if he could feel me looking, he turned and gave me a big wave, his eyebrows raised and his mouth forming an exaggerated “O” of fake surprise, as if to say, “Gee, I wonder who could have made that anonymous call?”
I knew instantly it was him.
His mock-innocent expression made my stomach turn.
Turning back to the officer, barely above a whisper I said, “I… I didn’t know I needed permits.”
Officer Hernandez’s expression softened slightly. “I can see you’re just a kid trying to make some money. That’s admirable. But the city has rules about vendors in public parks. You need a permit to sell things out in the open like this.”
“But I’m not really a vendor,” I protested. “I’m just… selling snacks to my friends.”
“I understand, but once you’re selling to the general public in a city park, you’re operating as a business. And businesses need permits.”
I looked around desperately. Parents were still buying snow cones from Mr. Griggs. Kids were running around with cotton candy. The tournament was in full swing.
“What about him?” I asked, pointing toward the food truck. “Does he have permits?”
Officer Hernandez glanced over at Griggs’ Grub. “Food trucks are required to have all their permits displayed. Mr. Griggs has been operating in the city for years. He’s got all his paperwork in order.”
Of course he did.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to pack up your stand,” Officer Hernandez said gently. “You can’t sell anything else until you get a proper permit.”
“But… but I’ve been doing this for weeks,” I said, feeling tears starting to form in my eyes. “Nobody ever said anything before.”
“Sometimes it takes a complaint for us to become aware of these situations,” he said. “The good news is that getting permits isn’t impossible. It just takes some paperwork and fees.”
Fees. More money I’d have to spend instead of earning.
I started packing up my snacks with shaking hands. Officer Hernandez waited patiently while I loaded everything back into my coolers.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said as I folded up my table. “You seem like a good kid with a good business idea. Don’t let this discourage you from pursuing it the right way.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without crying.
As I pulled my wagon away from my usual spot, I caught sight of Mr. Griggs again. He was still serving customers, still making jokes, still running his perfectly legal, fully permitted business.
And he was still smiling that cold, calculating smile.
I walked home slowly, my wagon feeling heavier with every step. Not because of the weight of my unsold inventory, but because of the weight of what had just happened.
I’d been shut down. Stopped. Defeated.
And the worst part was I knew exactly who had made that “anonymous” phone call. Anonymous, my foot. It was about as anonymous as a neon sign with his name on it.
My heart sank as I realized that Mr. Griggs hadn’t just outcompeted me.
He’d gotten me shut down completely.