Memoirs of a Neighborhood Hustler
I started hustling about the age of twelve or thirteen. There was money in the neighborhood of my middle class midwestern city. A young person with an entrepreneurial spirit could fill their pockets with tax free cash. Me, I had my mind on my money.
What to do on summer vacation between 7th and 8th grade? I appropriated my Dad’s lawn mower and started knocking on doors. That’s what kids do, mooch their parent’s stuff. I pushed our family Briggs & Stratton (founded in 1908) mower around the block, knocked on doors and soon had a few clients. I think I got like 5 bucks for a medium size lawn. 5 bucks was not bad in the 70s when the minimum wage was $2.28 an hour. I’m estimating, but it was around $2.28 an hour. A cute red-haired girl from around the way came along on a few jobs to hang out and bring cold drinks. She liked me but must have also been bored. 12-year-old boys are mostly clueless about girls.
Rumor was that a guy in the neighborhood lost all his toes on one foot in a mower accident. He had two older brothers and his folks ran the neighborhood newspaper distribution franchise. The parents had thick German accents, their name was Weinerschnitzel and there was some gossip about why they were in the U.S. Every afternoon a truck pulled up to their garage and unloaded bundles of newspapers. The neighborhood paperboys and girls packed up how many copies they needed and set out delivering on foot or bike. I delivered papers for a while but found it to be a terrible hustle. The carrier, me, was also responsible for collecting subscription money. Customers were supposed to leave payment in an envelope at the door. When they didn’t I had to knock on the door and ask for payment. Dealing with mean older teenagers, vicious dogs and getting mugged a couple of times for my bag of dimes and quarters sucked. The carrier was responsible for paying the distributor for the newspapers no matter if subscribers paid up or not. “Vee need za money!” Frau Wienerschnitzel demanded. To hell with that.
Shoveling snow was a lucrative hustle. After a snowstorm, grab the household snow-shovel and get to hustling. This was a chore people, especially older folks, didn’t want to do themselves. I think the going rate was 5 or 10 bucks depending on the size of the steps, walks and driveway. Sometimes a cheap bastard would come out and nitpick. “You missed a spot!” I’d pair up with a buddy and we’d each take a side of the street, earn some money and then split up the proceeds. This arrangement worked out when your friend was honest. I’m pretty sure one pal underreported and came out with a bigger cut. This guy, let’s call him by his actual name Ted, was a low-level bad hat. Ted used our shoveling gigs to case houses and return later to steal shit. Which led to another hustle, petty thief accomplice.
In those days pop bottles were returnable for a dime apiece. The scam was sneak into an unlocked garage and steal empty bottles and then haul ‘em up to DayView Party Supply and redeem the merch for a few bucks. We’d usually spend the money on chips and candy like Nile-aters. I thought that’s what this candy was called until I figured out they were really Now and Laters. Eat some now, save some for later.
This criminal activity happened at night and I was usually a lookout on these ventures. Once a homeowner surprised the gang and fired a handgun in the air. We ran like hell, laughing all the way. The crime spree continued and sadly, escalated.
We stole a few bikes. Why? For the parts, like a car thief chop shop. I’ve no recollection who our fence was or if I got any money out of this. We stole some nice English three speeds from a family who had just moved into the neighborhood only to later find out that they belonged to some comely sisters. Did I feel shame when I met one of the girls at a cookout and she told about her new bike getting ripped off? Not sure. Like any crook I didn’t want to get caught and we never did. But, I did feel bad about it and that was the end of my life of crime.
Baby-sitting was another good hustle. We had friends on our block with young kids. One family was right next door and on the parent’s date night we’d watch TV and I’d heat up TV dinners and serve them, yes, on TV dinner folding tables. Tin foil platters with chicken nuggets or wienies and beans, tater tots and soggy veg that the kids never ate. There’d be a cup of butterscotch pudding on the side which was not heated.
Once, this family hired me to don an Easter Bunny suit, pass out chocolate eggs and cavort around at a kid party as a non-threatening plushy.
Another time I took care of the two young children, one in nappies, of a municipal judge. One of them was a year old and as I attempted to change his dirty diaper, the child rolled off the changing table a couple feet to the floor. Would. Not. Stop, Wailing. Dangling the tot by his ankle and repeatedly plunging his head into the toilet did not help. Neither did dragging him down the stairs and bouncing his tiny skull on the stairs. I’m just kidding about that part but I did consider infanticide before calling my mom for help.
By taking initiative I always had money when I was a kid. My own kid is now working as a black-market gardener and has no intention of declaring a red cent. Here’s to the value of work and a lesson learned in 999 words.