One
The first hustle, if you want to call it that, is also the simplest: Smiling.
Now, please don’t be one of those douche-nozzles that go around telling women to smile more or anything, but as far as the daily life of a seventeen-year-old Black guy of above-average height goes in this city, I learned a long time ago that smiling goes a very long way.
Not smirking, not grinning. An earnest Smile.
In a place like New York where everyone—8,550,405 people as of 2019 and rising with every breath—is shoving their way through the masses (see: unwashed and running late), Fight Face at the ready, the combination of Eye Contact + Smile is like pointing a flashlight into someone’s eyes. You can almost see their retinas dilate sometimes.
Case in point.
“Hi, Henri!” Mrs. Ponech smiles back as she opens the door and adjusts to the megawatts awaiting her on her doorstep. “Goodness!” she exclaims. “Look at you two, both so happy. It must have been a good walk!”
“Yeah, Pogo and I have our own routine,” I say as I remove the nylon harness in two quick unbuckles. “Riverside Park is our domain, ain’t that right, Pogs?”
Pogo is a nine-year-old mutt terrier with some pretty advanced tooth decay that occasionally requires some free-of-charge brushing. He is now ignoring me entirely, too preoccupied with wagging up a storm at the overwhelming sight of the owner he saw just half an hour ago. Terriers are an “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” breed when it comes to their thrice-weekly walkers.
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Ponech!”
“Wait, wait one second.” She disappears into the railroad hallway of her apartment and comes back a moment later, now cradling Pogo, and hands me a neatly folded little green square.
“You don’t have to do this, ma’am. Like I said—”
“I know the app says they tip you guys, but we all know that’s BS.” She smirks conspiratorially, nodding to my Uptown Updogs T-shirt as if this transaction places us both firmly on the outside of rampant capitalism. Tip your dog walker: stick it to corporate America.
“Well, thank you very much, ma’am. I’ll see you on Saturday, Pogs.”
In the case of Mrs. Ponech, every five Smiles or so get me an envelope with three crisp twenty-dollar bills. I will happily take it.
My half-trade is dog walker to the twenty-five-block radius that stretches from 96th and Broadway to 121st and Broadway and, horizontally, from Riverside Drive to Morningside Drive. That rectangle delineates the Uptown Updogs official zone of service. It’s all I can manage with my senior year schedule. Last year, even with the SATs, I could easily clear between twenty to thirty hours per week—give or take a mug of Dad’s sludge coffee. (Haitian beans, ground by hand in his old-timey coffee machine that echoes around the entire apartment when he gets up at four a.m. It’s a concoction that could send a horse out of cardiac arrest.)
Senior year, however, comes with too many balls to juggle.
Between attending FATE Academy, staying on top of the ridiculous amount of homework typical of FATE, the mandatory extracurriculars, and helping Dad with his superintendent duties around the building, I’ve had to narrow my clients to our neighborhood and go the extra mile to make sure they get nothing short of the best service possible. I really can’t afford to lose on the income. No with college around the corner.
That’s where the second hustle comes in: a brand. In our case, a branded website and matching T-shirts. See, I’m not just another dog walker: I am a dog walker of UptownUpdogs.world.com. The walkers of Uptown Updogs can easily be spotted around the Upper West Side by their lime-green T-shirts with deep blue cursive writing on the front and back.
I step outside and turn left onto West End Avenue, tightening my scarf. New York City is still hungover from the holidays and slowly getting the legs of its new calendar year under itself. On every other street, you’ll find stacked in front of brownstones Christmas trees still green with bits of silver tinsel glimmering between their branches. They’re right at home next to the poorly folded boxes from brand-new electronics and the recycling bins swelled with boxes from toys and colorful wrapping paper that has served its purpose of being torn apart by happy hands. All the joys from the holidays are now a set of household chores to get through as quickly as you can or put off as long as possible. It was a snowless New Year, preceded by a snowless Christmas, and a mostly snowless December. The big snowstorm little kids were waiting for this year so they could swarm Central Park and make fashionable snowmen never came. This whole winter might end up being a matter of bare trees with occasional trash bags at their branches, cloudy afternoons, and the chilled breaths of those of us who wake up early enough.
“No dogs for you today, H?”
Gigi, one of the late-afternoon dog walkers of the 110th dog run, greets me as we both find ourselves standing at a streetlight and trading Smiles of recognition before falling into synced steps. Some people get competitive, but I don’t mind Gigi. She’s cool. She’s wearing her City College sweatshirt underneath her open winter coat. Most dog walkers in this area are college students or what I like to call Aspirers. (People who moved here to pursue comedy, writing, theater, TV, and need to make ends meet every month until they make it big or move back home.)
“I already dropped them off. I’m just going home to change and then headed back to school.”
“School? It’s almost six!”
“FATE has strict extracurricular requirements,” I bemoan. “Class doesn’t actually end when the four p.m. bell rings. The computer labs and art facilities are open until, like, eleven. It’s dystopian.”
“Jeez,” Gigi says, not even bothering to hide her disgust. “No wonder all those little bundles of privilege go on to rule the world. Present company not included.”
Oh, make no mistake: I fully plan to rule the world, Gigianne. The Haltiwanger dynasty is a House on the rise.
“Is that a new T-shirt?” she asks, pointing.
“Maybe?” I shrug. “I, um, I have a box of them. They don’t pay us well, but they keep us well stocked in swag.”
She suspiciously narrows her eyes but keeps focused on her own set of leashes. Gigi likes to triple-book her dogs, which is too dangerous for me. The Berjaouis would have a heart attack turning a corner to find Buddy entangled with other dogs.
“God, I have to get my toe through those Uptown Updogs doors,” Gigi continues as we keep walking toward the Wyatt, my apartment building. “My best clients got priced out of the neighborhood, and I’m not going to freaking Queens. Did you tell them about me?” Gigi presses, and I start to feel bad. It’s not the first time she’s asked me.
“I did,” I lie. “The boss isn’t hiring at the moment. Says the pile of prospects is yay high.”
“Yeah, the website says they’re full. You lucked out.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you when I can,” I say, turning toward the Wyatt’s lobby. “I promise!”
Sorry, Gigi. There’s no central Uptown Updogs office. The entirety of Uptown Updogs exists on my laptop.
You see, for all the Mrs. Poneches of the world, people still love the safety of a faceless corporation, as opposed to a random kid on Craigslist—especially when it comes to their dogs. And I say this as a former random kid from Craigslist who could barely rub three dogs together.