Sell the face

I used to sell things that lasted eight seconds.

I did it for eight years.

Fireworks. Buenos Aires. A company called Dragón. Stands in shopping centres and Carrefour supermarkets, going up against Jupiter and Cienfuegos, the two names everyone in Argentina knew.

Every December the same thing. A truck full of things that can kill you, a stand that has to be perfect, permits, insurance, and two weeks where nobody sleeps. Then one night, one match, and it's gone. Smoke. Applause. Sweep up.

It took me years to understand what we were actually selling.

It wasn't gunpowder. Anyone can buy gunpowder. We did. Boxes of it.

It was the face of a kid with his mouth open.

The stands taught me that. Nobody walked up asking for calibres. They walked up with a date. A birthday. A wedding. New Year's Eve. They were buying the moment everyone looks up.

Ten years later I sell software. Different truck. Same lesson.

Nobody buys the powder. They buy the face.

Sell the face.