Chapter 5: Hustle and Heartbreak

I paced anxiously.

Every car that passed made me jump. My sneakers scuffed the sidewalk, sweat cooling on my neck as I tried to think. I needed a miracle, or at least a few bucks.

Turning my head, I saw an old man collecting cans.

He wore a faded Cubs cap and pushed a squeaky shopping cart, head down, humming to himself. He looked tired, but he moved with a kind of stubborn determination.

Without thinking, I rushed to another trash can and started digging for bottles, cans, and cardboard, not caring how dirty it was.

The smell hit me first—old soda, rotten food, sticky plastic. I shoved my pride down and grabbed what I could, hands blackening with grime. I kept my head down, praying none of the kids from school would see me elbow-deep in garbage.

[Hey, picking up trash—how long will it take to save up for a bus ticket? By the time you have enough, your mom’s body will be cold!]

[You’d be better off panhandling. That might be faster!]

I gritted my teeth at the comments, but kept working. Let them talk. I’d rather earn it than beg.

Begging is just asking for handouts. Picking up trash is earning with my own hands.

That old man can barely move but still doesn’t beg. I have hands and feet—what am I afraid of?

If he could keep going, so could I. My dignity was all I had left, and I was hanging on by a thread.

Two weeks—even if I don’t eat or drink, I have to scrape together the travel money in a week!

My stomach grumbled, but I ignored it. The sooner I made enough, the sooner Mom could get help.

The next day, after class, I went from one neighborhood dumpster to another, rummaging through trash cans.

My backpack stunk like old milk, but I didn’t care. Every bottle was a step closer to Chicago. I kept my head down, praying nobody from school would see me.

If a security guard chased me off, I ran.

Some guys threatened to call the cops, so I sprinted, bottles clinking in my arms, lungs burning. I’d circle around and try again later.

If a local thug threatened me, I bowed and apologized, then left quick.

One big kid—shaved head, tattooed knuckles—blocked my way, sneering. I mumbled “Sorry, sir,” backed off, and ducked into an alley until he was gone.

Busy until dusk, I sat by the curb, wiped my sweat, and dragged a big bag of plastic bottles to the recycling center to exchange for money.

The sun was going down, painting the sky orange and purple. My hands were raw, but I felt a sliver of hope as I pulled my load toward the flickering neon sign that read: CASH FOR CANS.

But unexpectedly, a well-dressed old man suddenly grabbed my bag.

He wore a suit jacket and shiny shoes—looked like he belonged at a bank, not on this block. His eyes were sharp behind his glasses.

“Don’t want these anymore? If not, give them to me.”

He sounded polite, but there was something off in his smile.

I quickly shouted,

“I want to sell them! Why are you stealing my stuff?!”

My voice cracked. I clung to the bag, refusing to let go.

The old man yanked hard. “At your age, you should be in school, not picking up trash. Should be at home, not out here chasing cans. Cubs could use that hustle.”

His grip was iron, biceps bulging under the jacket. I tried to pull back, but he overpowered me. My heart raced—I couldn’t lose this, not after all my work.

He was strong. I couldn’t win. He pulled me off balance, and the sack slipped from my hands.

My knees scraped the concrete as I stumbled, watching helplessly as he snatched up my bottles.

I could only watch as he threw the bottles I’d collected into his rusty pickup and drove away.

The truck rattled off down the block, bottles clinking in the bed. I felt like I’d just been mugged by someone’s grandpa.

I didn’t cry when my dad beat me, or when I patched up my mom’s wounds.

But now, all my frustration turned to tears streaming down my face.

Hot, angry tears fell, blurring my vision. I buried my head in my arms, the whole world suddenly too heavy.

“I picked those up myself! What does homework have to do with you? Stealing from a kid—shameless!”

My voice was raw, echoing down the empty street. A few people glanced over, then looked away, pretending not to notice.

A grandma saw me sobbing and asked what happened.

She was short and round, wearing a flowery dress and pushing a grocery cart. Her eyes were kind, and she crouched down beside me, her hands gentle.

I pointed at the old man leaving, saying he stole my bottles.

She patted my back, her fingers warm through my dirty shirt. “Honey, that old fool’s been trouble since ’62. Here—take this. Buy yourself something hot to eat, okay?”

Grandma wiped my dirty face with her handkerchief, then handed me a $10 bill.

She pressed the bill into my palm, her voice soft as a lullaby. "Go on, sweetie. You earned this."

I didn’t take it.

My pride flared, but my stomach twisted. She pressed the money closer, her eyes shining with something like regret.

Grandma said that old man was her husband. He’s terminally ill, only has a few days left, and just wanted to do something bad to get scolded one last time.

She explained in a low voice, her lips trembling, that her husband had always been a rascal, even now at the end. She asked me to forgive him—he didn’t mean real harm.

She told me not to worry, to forgive him, and to take the money as if she’d bought the bottles.

Her words were gentle, almost pleading. I felt my anger drain away, leaving only sadness.

I lowered my eyes, the way kids do when they’ve learned not to talk back, took the $10, and happily went home.

I wiped my face, managed a smile, and thanked her. The bill felt heavy in my hand—a small kindness in a world that rarely offered any.