I've been a hustler all my life. In high
school I was the richest kid in my class and if I wasn't sleeping, going
to school or running, I was working. After a photo appeared on the
front page of our newspaper with me holding a BIG check for a grand
champion steer I became the bank for any kid wanting to borrow lunch
money at extortionate rates. But I was a fair loan shark, everyone paid
the same 20 percent per month, including my mother.
I lived in the self-proclaimed "citrus
capital of the world" and one of my many jobs was running my own smudge
crew. I went "on call" when it looked like it might get down to 28
degrees, which meant I even got paid for sleeping. If I got the call
we'd light smudge pots all night and fill them the next day. I also had
my own team of valet parkers for weddings, anniversaries and such. I got
the jobs because my mom was the seamstress for all the rich folks in
town and my team was composed of fellow cross country runners. This was
important because the size of your tip was based on how fast you
retrieved a car. Dawdle and you might get a dime, but if you were fast,
and huffed and puffed a little for effect, the sky was the limit.
The party-goers whose cars we parked
belonged to one of three sub-species of agriculturalists. The citrus
growers drove big black Cadillacs that had the turning radius of an
aircraft carrier. Surprisingly, these weren't the best tippers. The
avocado growers were. They drove brightly-colored Pontiacs and
Oldsmobiles and could always be counted on for fifty cents.
Then there were the folks you tried to
avoid because they gave you excuses instead of cash. "I'm sorry I don't
have any change." I'm ashamed to say the cattlemen fell into this
category. They drove pickups and the forerunner to the SUV, the
International TravelAll. Besides not getting a tip, no young man wanted
to be caught dead behind the wheel of those seriously uncool "sports
futility vehicles." They were made by a tractor company, for gosh sakes!
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