Ways to make money

Last weekend, we went to pick out a kitten. Driving through the subdivision that held the kitten's home; we passed a lemonade stand. I insisted we stop so I could buy some lemonade. The hubby-man thought I was nuts, but he dutifully pulled over so I could trade a quarter for a 10 oz. cup of lukewarm Crystal Light. (bleah)
So why did I do this? Why did I buy, and then drink, something I had no desire for?
Because I remember the pleasure of a handful of change that I earned myself.

My sister and I tried selling lemonade, snow cones, and ice cream. When that didn't earn enough to make it worth the effort, we mowed lawns and worked at the bingo hall in the Church basement. Bingo players are weird. Each person has their own little ritual for playing. They have a "lucky seat" and a "lucky number", and lucky doo-dads that they spread around their cards. Each knick-knack must be touched a certain number of times before the game commences. Everything must be in a certain order, so as to insure a good day. Some players liked to pick out their own bingo cards, but others preferred to have children do it for them. So, one of our jobs was to sit by the bins and pick "lucky" cards. For this service, we would receive a tip. Usually a nickel, sometimes the tip was as large as a quarter. Once gaming commenced, we ran errands for the customers. We would fetch food and drink for the players, so they needn't interrupt their game. This also usually earned a tip.

We would work for 3 hours or so, and come home with a few dollars worth of change. The work really paid off during Girl Scout Cookie time. We sold cookies door-to-door, and we also ordered extra cookies; which we sold before bingo. Mom was our troop leader, and she was really cool about the cookie sales. She would set a goal for the troop -enough to cover an educational field trip- and anything above that goal went into our personal accounts. We could use it to buy badges, new uniforms, or a trip to Girl Scout camp.

My sister and I figured the profit from cookie sales, and ordered the amount we would need to sell in order to go to camp. This meant 200 boxes of cookies. It wasn't too bad, really; because we could count on at least 100 boxes from door-to-door sales. Cookies were $1.75 at the time. Of that amount, 75 cents went to the troop. So 100 boxes equaled $75. And that was enough to get us to camp, since mom's income qualified us for a partial scholarship.

We sold cookies like crazy, until my neighbors ran out of money. President Reagan's "trickle down" theory never trickled into my neighborhood. It was embarrassing to knock on a door and have someone look wistfully at your order sheet and say, "I just can't this year. I'm sorry." My sister and I knocked on door after door, and we were turned away time and again. The people who used to order 10 boxes, began ordering one or two instead. To meet our goals, we ranged far beyond the neighborhood; taking orders as far away as Meremec Park. It was great in theory... but actually delivering 200 boxes of cookies was another matter.

Every day, for 3 solid weeks we hung bags of cookies off the handlebars of our bikes; for delivery to the far flung corners of South St. Louis. When your customer lives a block away, it's no big deal if they're not home. You just deliver on another day. But when you have to bike for 2 miles, balancing bags of cookies on your handlebars; to be greeted by an empty house... it kind of sucks.

Some of our customers were only home at night, and mom wouldn't let us bike at night; so those deliveries had to be made on the weekends. In the end, we were rescued by mom's boyfriend. He spent the last few days of our delivery time driving us to the various houses. Oh, the luxury of a car!

More On Prostitutes

Recently, Channel 2 news "exposed" prostitution in Creve Couer Park. Golly! There are men having sex with other men? In a public park? Here... in St. Louis? *gasp* I never knew!
Get over yourselves, channel 2. Go back to chasing Alderwomen who pee in trash cans. Quit scaring the many citizens who enjoy their parks. Better yet, use those investigative reporters to cover what's being done about the problem. Give us some good news for a change.

One day, C and I skipped school and went to Tower Grove Park. She wanted me to meet some friends of hers. So we went to the park and walked up to a group of guys who were sitting on a bridge. As we were talking, a car pulled up and a young man got out. My friend said, "This is the guy I really wanted you to meet. Isn't he cute?" If I could put little anime hearts all around the word cute, I would. I could certainly see them hanging in the air around her.
He was cute, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. He was tall and well muscled too. I could see why she was crushing on him. And, of course, her crush made him off-limits for me. None of the other guys had any interest in me, so I stared at the trickle of muddy water beneath the bridge while she giggled and posed.
I was starting to think it would have been more exciting to be at school. This staring-at-the-water shit was boring. I started praying for a fish, a frog, even a mosquito to liven the scenery; when something even better happened.
A car came cruising slowly down the road, the driver staring confusedly at me and C as he passed. He turned around and passed us again, then parked about 50 feet away from us. One of the guys said to us, "Hey! You need to go somewhere else. You're scaring away the customers!" Suddenly, the light dawned. These guys were prostitutes. I didn't even know boys could be prostitutes. I thought it was solely women's work, like dishes or childcare. I mentally scoffed at any woman who would buy sex, and then realized that C's "cute guy" hadn't gotten out of a car with a woman; and the parked car didn't hold a woman, either.
Well! That was an eye-opener!

The whole way home, I tried to get my friend to give up her crush. "He's a faggot! You can't date a faggot!" I exclaimed.
She replied, as if this made perfect sense, "He's not a faggot. He just fucks faggots and takes their money."
She thought it was funny; her guy ripping off the gay men. She laughed over how they got "taken"; thinking he was gay, when in reality he wasn't. I totally didn't get it. If he were ripping them off, then he would be beating them up and taking their money, not getting paid for a service he provided... And if he wasn't gay, wasn't he the one getting ripped off? Sex is supposed to be enjoyable. I just couldn't imagine him working at a job he hated, when there were less invasive jobs available. Even at 16, I had a lot to learn about the world.

The next time we skipped school together, we went back to the park. We sat on one side of the bridge and the guys sat on the other side. That way, we could talk without interrupting their flow of business. We became somewhat accepted when we helped pick gravel out of the cute guy's back. He had been car surfing, and gotten a nasty case of road rash, so we cleaned him up. I started carrying Bactine and bandages, after one of the guys had gotten beat up by a customer.

In the neighborhood; if you'd been beat up, your friends would have hunted the bastard down and delivered retribution. These guys just took it as a hazard of the job. They never stood up for each other. It sickened me that they would just shrug off a "fag bashing", nurse their cuts until they were healed, and go back to work. If the beatings weren't too bad, they would be working the next day. They said it brought bigger tips sometimes.

I hung out with the prostitutes long after C had given up her crush, and moved on. The funny thing was, the park was the only safe place for me. Walking down the street, I'd get propositioned left and right; but in the park, they were only interested in the boys.