from paper routes to piracy

a troll's ode to cash

When it comes to money, I was ruined by my paper route.

Sure, some say that they learned the value of money from a paper route.

For me?

I learned to love cash. Not e transferes. Not visa statements but money that doesn’t jingle jingle.

Naw. I love money that folds - or stacks up and gets bulky.

Oh how I love cash.

In my early days in Toronto I paid my rent in brown bills. Eight per month between me and the physician.

It was grand.

(actuall eight hundred, but paying for everything in cash worked out to about a grand a month)

Now?

I’m again working for tips.

Sure my employer pays me a wage.

But really?

All I care about are the paper bills that fatten my wallet at the end of the night.

For some, watching their bank accounts fluctuate provides comfort - salary goes in, bills come out. I can see how this could be soothing - kinda like watching the waves roll in on a moonlit beach night.

But that feels just so passive, so empty to me.

Each time I get a tip it’s an acknowledgement that I’ve done something rad. I’m good at what I do and tend to kill it when it comes to gratuities. When I serve my guests, I’m not serving food. I’m busking. It’s a street performance where my goal is to see how much of their money I can come away with at the end of the night.

No. I’m not being greedy.

Instead?

Working for cash tips is like a video game.

How high can I make that number go up? What average percentage can I take?

It’s instantly gratifying. Counting cash at the end of the night fills me with both adrenaline and dopamine. There are no better drugs in the world.

This is why I’ve found one of my coworkers baffling.

I just like to do a good job and I really don’t care about the tips

Easy for you to say I thought to myself, you’ve got a full government pension. It’s as though the skillful art of extracting tips somehow debases the whole exchange.

If that’s the case?

Then call me Mr. Basemotherfucker!

This may be why I’ve never ever been able to enjoy a real job.

There’s no instant hit of gratification at the end of the day.

At times I feel like Robin Hood. Except instead of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, I ‘steal’ from who ever and give to myself.

I guess that’s not Robin Hood like at all.

And?

There’s something swashbuckling about this kind of hustling. It’s a big game that feels like a sort of piracy.

Samual Cunard was a bit of a pirate. Welllll…

He had a letter of marque from the king that gave him permission to steal ‘Merican booty.

But the king had a string - Go be a pirate but you have to give me half.

Methinks that’s another part of tipping that I love. I don’t keep track of my cash, nor does the guvernment. Costco does.

Samual Cunard though, he partnered with Enos Collins. Between them, they stole so much ‘Merican booty they became some of the wealthiest dudes in the world. The difference between them and a troll like myself dear reader?

They had the forsight to buy a boat, hire a crew and get permission to go and rob people.

And Collins?

Well that motherfucker became so bloody rich that he couldn’t find a bank where he could keep his cash.

Instead?

He founded one.

Collins bank eventually morphed into CIBC - the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.

And they uphold the Enos Collins legacy to this very day.

But instead of cutting down Yankee clippers with cannons, they’re killing us all with tiny transaction fees.

Death by a thousand paper cuts is the new cry of piracy.

Is it foolish to believe that a troll like me could ever reach such lofty heights?

Perhaps.

But then again dear reader, you have no idea what I’ve got stuffed in my mattress.

Remember everybody, cards are convenient but cash is still king.