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Jonny Hustle

At fourteen, I spent the summer with my older brother Chris, doing demolition down in Washington, DC. Up at dawn, lunch pail in my hand, bus ride to the job, sweating my nuts off in that Virginia heat. He paid me prevailing wage, but I never saw the stack. He held it back for “later,” gave me an allowance, called it that. He knew exactly what I had, he liked it that way. But I had a plan and a key. During breaks I scouted the stores for things of value and hid them in rooms… all part of my plan. At lunch I used the Yellow Pages and found buyers, my plan was coming together. After the foreman clocked out, I circled back, quietly opened the gate and sold whatever I could. Display cases. Panic bars. Lock sets. Fire extinguishers. Bathroom partitions, exit signs, anything not bolted twice. Cash only. No paper trail. Bills folded deep into socks, stuffed in pockets, hidden in a bag of spare clothes. Fourteen years old running a side hustle inside a dying mall. And nobody knew. Yeah, call me Jonny Hustle, I wear it like a badge of honor. Retail liquidation at a contractor’s price, everything and anything, I don’t think twice. Cash in my sock, grin held tight, shadow operator in broad daylight. My brother’s got no clue what he might find, mall’s already dead, I’m just being kind, recycling fixtures one deal at a time. Later that summer we headed down to Rehoboth Beach. Cars were my thing. Too young to drive, so go-karts were the next best thing. I slipped out early one morning and walked straight to the track. It wasn’t cheap. Everybody knew that. Chris walked past me that morning. Saw me on the track. Came back before lunch. Still there. After lunch. Still there. Late afternoon. Still there. Every pass the same picture, engine screaming, me grinning like nothing in the world could touch me. He didn’t say a word. But he knew what my allowance was. And this didn’t jive. I had some explaining to do. I came back for dinner and he met me at the door. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t smile either. “Sit down.” The house got real quiet. “What the hell’s going on?” “You been riding all day.” “I know what money you’ve got.” “So how are you paying for it?” I was busted and I knew it. I played dumb. “Get up. Empty your pockets.” A wad of bills in my hand. They hit the table heavier than they should’ve. He blinked twice, mouth wide open. “That’s all of it?” “You sit there,” he said. He walked upstairs, came back down with my bag. Set it on the table. Unzipped it slow. Clothes out. Shook them once. More cash fell. He looked at me different now. “Where the hell did you get all this?” “I know it couldn’t be legal.” “What have you done?” I got busted. I knew I would. Jonny Hustle couldn’t help but grin as I filled my brother in. Back door cracked after five. Yellow Pages buyers lined up. Fixtures stacked in empty rooms. Cash deals, no paper trail. Selling off a dying mall one piece at a time. He just stared at me. Half furious. Half stunned. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to beat me or hire me. Then it hit. “You could’ve cost me my job.” But Jonny Hustle hadn’t thought that through. “No harm, no foul” was my motto. But this wasn’t about the mall. This was about loyalty. He shook his head slow. “You ran a store… inside my job?” I shrugged. “So… can I keep it?” He let out one short laugh. “No.” Scooped up the cash. “Next time,” he said, “try using that brain legally.” And just like that, Jonny Hustle was broke. Yeah, call me Jonny Hustle, I wear it like a badge of honor. Retail liquidation at a contractor’s price, everything and anything, I don’t think twice. Cash in my sock, grin held tight, shadow operator in broad daylight. My brother’s got no clue what he might find, mall’s already dead, I’m just being kind, recycling fixtures one deal at a time. But I learned something that day. Speed costs. Loyalty matters. And if you’re gonna hustle— don’t get caught.