Middle-aged 'adventures' in a college town

While firmly entrenched in The Bible Belt, the house I bought this past spring as a fixer-upper is two blocks from a football stadium, where the holy trinity is not what you learned in Sunday School.

It is, rather, God, the South and college football.

It’s a small house, bordering a lake, an investment I figured would pay off, especially given the afterglow of college football’s promised land still rests upon this corner of Upstate South Carolina.

There are entrepreneurial opportunities ripe for the picking. Namely, I have ample parking spaces, those that go for $70 to out-of-town alumni, awash in school pride, willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of leaving their SUVs at my house to nurse Michelob Ultras with friends from 20 years and 20 pounds earlier.

Then, there’s the nice side hustle of getting up early, popping some popcorn and putting a handful in small bags for $1 apiece. And wouldn’t you like a can of Coke with that for another buck? Of course you would. It’s the first weekend of September, and already I’ve sold enough parking spots, along with renting out my entire house on AirBnB, for big games to pay my mortgage until January.

I did not, however, account for those who make up the bulk of the resident population around here. From late August until May, this town of 8,000 people triples its population, inundated with students whose existence was not even considered when I first stepped foot on a college campus more than 20 years ago.

A few hours before kickoff, and my driveway is full. I’ve nearly sold out of the small bags of popcorn and cans of Coca Cola I’ve had resting in a cooler at my feet. It’s a nice afternoon, cool and sunny, hinting at autumn to come, and I’m content on my porch, nursing a beer and reading a novel.

“Hey, man. You have any popcorn left?” The kid - young man - is wearing a striped polo shirt, and pressed khaki shorts. He wears boat shoes, but does not appear to have just come off the lake.

“Sure. A bag or two. How many do you want?”

“Just one.”

“OK, that’ll be a dollar.”

He pulls out his phone. “What’s your Venmo?”

“My what?”

“Your Venmo. You take Venmo, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what Venmo is. I’m 41 years-old, man. So, no, I don’t take Venmo. Or PayPal or anothing else. Not for $1.”

He looks confused, standing there with his friends, all tan and happy and ready to face the world in the next four years. Maybe he’ll be an accountant, or a lawyer someday. He’ll drive a Chevy Tahoe, and pay $70 to a complete stranger for a parking spot just so he can see his alma mater play a football game some random Saturday in September, when he and the two companions with him today will be scattered like the wind, living in places like Chicago or Dearborn. They’ll text and say, "Hey let’s get the families together and go see the Tigers this weekend.“

But today they are young, and broke, and asking a graying, paunchy stranger if he takes Venmo for a $1 bag of stale popcorn.

“Here, man. Just take it. No charge.”

The three friends walk away, enjoying the sunshine and cool breeze.