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An LMU business student named Eddie goes down to Mexico for the Spring Break of his life. Eddie blows all of his money in the first few days of his trip. He goes to the beach. He makes out with lots of girls. He meets Carson Daly. Awesome.
But on the last evening, he wakes up at 5 p.m., still hungover, and decides to lay low. He walks down the phony tourist-town street and finds a small hole-in-the-wall microbrewery that's overflowing with vacationers in their forties. (Yes, there are microbreweries in Mexico and Corona is not on tap there.)
In spite of the pitiful American beer seeping out of his pores, Eddie the business student says, “This is the greatest beer I've ever had in my life,” to the Mexican behind the counter. The Mexican man smiles and explains in broken English the elaborate process that he goes through to create the outstanding lager – but it only takes him about a day to make a batch, which is enough to keep the bar for a weekend.
“This is incredible beer. Why don't you keep making more and leave the bar open all week? You should try that next week.” Eddie asks him.
“Maybe, señor,” the Mexican says.
“Really? You're going to let all that talent go to waste?”
“It's no waste,” the Mexican responds. He explains that leaving the bar open on the weekends is enough to support him and his family since tourists pounce on the place so heavily in those few days.
“What do you do with the rest of your time?” the Lion responds.
“I love beer, so I brew for a day. I live by the beach and spend the days with my beautiful wife and children. We sleep in and stay out late with my friends. Sometimes I open the bar – just for my friends and I – and we have a few drinks, and sing and play guitar and card games. It's a great life,” says the Mexican.
“What's your name?” Eddie asks, extending his hand for a shake.
“Pablo.”
“I'm Eddie. Listen – I'm about to graduate from college. If you just pump out the brew for an extra day each week, you can stay open one more night per week. Then, you can use the extra cash to buy some more equipment. You can hire someone to help you – one of your friends from town.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don't know. You could do that in just a month or two.”
“Then what?” asks Pablo.
“You can do whatever you want. You could run the better equipment all week and distribute to a few of the local bars. Or, you could distribute all over Mexico – you can be the biggest craft brew in the country. You'll be in all the bars in all the tourist towns. Then you can open more breweries and start to distribute in America. You know what the number two export from Mexico to America is? It's beer. You can get a chunk of that business.”
“What next?”
“Well, assuming that all went really well, you can just keep growing. Who knows? You could really make it, Pablo. You could sell beer all over the continent. Your beer is really great. I'd buy your beer. You just have to think a little bigger. You could just keep opening up more breweries and hiring more workers and making deals with more distributors. Pretty soon, you've got yourself a real company and you're making millions.”
“Then what?”
“Then, you can move by the beach and spend the days with your family. You can sleep in and stay out late with friends, have a few drinks, and sing and play guitar and card games...”
Pablo wipes down the bar and picks up Eddie's empty pint glass.
“Nice to meet you, señor.”
I’m certainly not wise enough to have crafted this on my own. It’s my adaptation of an age-old parable whose author has been lost. I originally found it in Tim Ferriss’s book, The 4-Hour Work Week. I hate to get all wise on y’all, but you have to admit, it’s pretty solid.
This is the opinion of Chris Lesinski, a senior film production major from Cleveland, OH. Please send comments to clesinski@theloyolan.com
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