Title Page

Dedication

TO THE NEW YORK CITY SUBWAY SYSTEM AND ALL THE BREAKUPS I’VE EAVESDROPPED ON WHILE RIDING.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by Ben Philippe

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Copyright

About the Publisher

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.