The One Time You Want To End Up With Blue Balls

When I was a young teenager, my family and I went on a trip to Martha’s Vineyard along with a bunch of other relatives — and when I say a bunch, I mean all our aunts and uncles along with their thirty-plus kids. On the first day, I got a terrible case of sun poisoning, which kept me inside for most of the vacation. But I could wander about with family once the sun went down.

During one of these nights, I was feeling a bit tired from my extreme sunburn, so we started to walk to the hotel from dinner earlier than everyone else. On our way, we stopped at a street vendor to look at the souvenirs and other knickknacks. My eye caught on a set of Baoding balls, also known as Chinese meditation balls. They have a set of chimes in them, and as you roll them around in your hand, they softly chime in two different notes. These had beautiful enamel inlays. I couldn’t resist using the money I had saved up all year long for this trip on a pair in an azure blue with black and white yin-yang symbols.

The seller was very charming. He talked to my mother and me about our trip and other things as he bagged up a pair from behind the cart in a nice padded box and exchanged it for my cash. He reminded me to be careful as they are rather delicate and to not play with them as we walked home in case I dropped one or both.

Of course, I couldn’t resist taking a look at them as we walked home. About a block away, I opened the box as my mother watched to make sure I was careful. My heart dropped. The enamel decorations on the balls were chipped and falling off in places. This was impossible. I was absolutely careful, and I hadn’t dropped them, swung them around in the bag, or jostled them in the least. My mother, on the other hand, got a dark look on her face, closed the box, put it back in the bag, and turned us around to go back to the vendor.

Mom: “Excuse me, but you gave my daughter a broken set.”

Vendor: “Let me take a look.”

The vendor took the box, opened them, and spoke without hesitation.

Vendor: “These look like they were dropped. I cannot give you a refund. I did warn you that they are very delicate.”

Mom: “She hasn’t dropped them. I was with her the entire time between you selling her these and our return.”

Vendor: “Lots of parents say that after their kid has dropped these. You understand, I’m running a small business all by myself and can’t afford to pay for your kid’s clumsiness.”

Mom: “Either give my daughter’s money back or give her a new set.”

At this point, my extended family had begun to catch up with us, and all thirty or so of my cousins were starting to crowd around the street vendor’s cart. Most were oblivious to our conversation, but my aunts and uncles definitely recognized the look on their elder sister’s face as she faced down the vendor.

Vendor: “I’m sorry, but I cannot be responsible for broken items, especially if your daughter took them out of the box and dropped them on the cement.”

I was getting fed up with the guy implying I was a complete blundering klutz.

Me: “If I had dropped them, there would be missing pieces of enamel. It’s all there. You just gave me broken balls.”

Due to my forcefulness and unfortunate choice of words, a fair number of my cousins started laughing at what they had just overheard. Some of my aunts and uncles, now aware that this vendor was trying to cheat a young girl out of her money, started to usher their kids away from the stand. 

The vendor started to realize that this entire group of potential sales knew each other.

Vendor: “Fine. Let me look for another set in the same colors.”

After checking in front of him that the new set he gave me was intact, we continued on home. I did have to sit through numerous jokes from my cousins about my “broken blue balls” for the rest of the trip.