I was in the kitchen folding laundry when I heard this deep engine purr outside. Not the usual rattle of the Civic he’s been borrowing from me. I peeked through the window and almost dropped a towel.
Bright red BMW. Fresh wax. Custom rims. Plates still temporary.
And out steps my son—Levon—like he’s in a music video. Aviators on, hoodie half-zipped, acting cool as hell. He tosses me a grin and goes, “What do you think?”
I’m thinking a million things, but all I say is, “Where did you get that car?”
He shrugs. “It’s mine.”
Mine? This kid’s been working at McDonald’s for eight months, barely clearing $500 a week. He’s been talking about saving up for a used Corolla. A Corolla, not a car that probably costs more than my mortgage.
So I press him harder. He gets defensive. Says he “knows a guy” who helped him “get a deal.” I ask if it’s a loan, lease, anything—and he just keeps dodging, changing the subject, suddenly very interested in what’s in the fridge.
I sat him down. Told him I wasn’t mad—yet—but I needed the truth. Was he in trouble? Was someone giving him things they shouldn’t? He swore it wasn’t like that. Said he’s “just hustling smarter now.”
But here’s the part that really got me: when I asked if this “hustle” was legal… he didn’t answer right away. He looked down. Picked at a string on his sleeve. Then said, “You always told me not to waste opportunities.”
I haven’t slept much since.
The next day, I did something I’m not proud of—I followed him.
He left around 11 a.m., said he was going to “handle something before his shift.” I waited ten minutes, then got in my car and tailed him. He didn’t go to McDonald’s. Instead, he drove out toward this industrial complex on the edge of town. Warehouse-style buildings, beat-up fences, no signage.
I parked down the street and watched.
He walked inside one of the buildings, stayed about 45 minutes, then came back out with a backpack. Tossed it in the backseat and peeled off.
I felt sick. All kinds of scenarios ran through my head—drugs, stolen goods, underground gambling, who knows. I couldn’t take it anymore. That night, I confronted him again.
“No more half-answers, Levon. I followed you today.”
His face dropped. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And I saw the building. You wanna explain what kind of ‘opportunity’ you’re taking out there?”
He sat on the couch, quiet for a while. Then he let out a long breath.
“It’s not illegal. But I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d look at me different.”
“Try me.”
So he did.
Turns out, Levon had been flipping sneakers. Limited releases. Collector editions. Apparently, there’s a whole online world where people line up for exclusive drops, buy them retail, and resell for two, three, even ten times the price. He started small—used his McDonald’s checks to buy one or two pairs at a time, selling them locally and online. But then he partnered with this guy named Khamari, who ran a bulk resell business out of that warehouse.
Khamari would front Levon five to ten pairs a week, Levon would post and sell them, take a cut, and reinvest. He’d been doing this for almost six months behind my back.
“That’s how I paid off the Civic repairs, too,” he added.
I sat there stunned. Not because of the hustle—hell, I respected the drive—but because he felt like he had to hide it from me.
All I saw was the BMW and thought you were dealing or something worse,” I said. “Why keep it secret?”
He looked ashamed, then mumbled, “Because every time I try something different, people think it’s dumb. Everyone just sees McDonald’s and assumes that’s all I am.”
That hit me harder than I expected.
We ended up talking for hours. He showed me his sales dashboard, the apps he used, even a few clients who pay thousands for rare shoes. He’d saved up a decent chunk—enough for a down payment on the BMW and still have emergency savings.
