back in my early 20's i had this boyfriend who was a real hustler. he didn't have a real job, he just made money doing various things here and there. for example one day we were walking along in the east village and he saw a vacuum cleaner in the trash and he plugged it in to a lamppost outlet (who knew you could do that? he did) and it worked and he carried it to a fortune teller's storefront business and sold it to the woman there for $40.
I watched from the street through the store front picture window as the heavy set Romanian woman shook her head no and he bent down and plugged in the machine and started vacuuming. They said a few things to each other and she left the room. game over. or so I thought. and she came back with her purse and pulled out two twenties. It was sold and i was sold too. I loved that this person existed. he became a role model for me- proof that you could be a grown up and not have a shitty job, but instead a fantastic life of magical adventures. my idea was supported by the fact that because he did not have a job he stayed up all night watching old movies on tv. when he would tell me about them the next day i would feel envy. I wanted that same freedom.
I was wrong on so many points, but I was moving in the right direction. My parents were blue collar working class and did not have careers they loved. their dream for me to become a receptionist so that I would have health coverage did not sound appealing to me. It sounded like a death sentence. The shitty jobs I had in high school and college did not make my heart sing, but made me crazy to find a way out. I thought this guy held the key, knew the secret. At worst, he was at least a living example of someone who did it different. that was good enough. tbc.....