Scaling the Hustle — Petty Theft Gets Bold
The strip plaza was just a five-minute walk from home. A bunch of us kids hung out there—loitering near the storefronts, killing time, testing boundaries. Behind the buildings, out of sight, we’d pass around cheap liquor and puff on stolen cigarettes like we were grown.
I was maybe eleven or twelve. Most of the crew were a couple of years older, already seasoned in mischief. The stores were small—just a checker and a pharmacist running the show. They were busy, distracted. That’s when the stealing started to scale.
At first, it was candy, gum, maybe a soda. But soon we were lifting bigger, pricier things: razor blades, cologne, over-the-counter meds. Whatever we could pocket without getting caught. It wasn’t about need—it was about thrill, status, and proving you had the guts.
” Trouble in the Plaza, Peace in the Pines“
Before I became a real crook, I was just a petty thief. Always in trouble. Never got good grades. School was a blur—except for sports. Baseball in the summer, soccer in the winter. That was my escape. The only place I felt like I belonged.
When I wasn’t hanging around the strip plaza, lifting candy or razors, I was deep in the woods behind our house. Thousands of acres stretched out like a secret kingdom. You could walk forever and never hit a fence. Back then, it was just our playground. We built forts, hunted squirrels, smoked cigarettes, and talked about nothing. No adults. No rules. Just the sound of wind through the trees and the crunch of leaves underfoot.
I didn’t realize how precious that land was until I got older. It was wild, untouched, and ours. A place where you could disappear and feel free—even if the rest of your life was chaos.
“Mischief, Marines, and the House That Raised Us“
I don’t remember exactly what year I did the things I did. The timeline’s fuzzy, but the feeling’s clear—I was always up to something. Trouble had a way of finding me, or maybe I went looking for it. Either way, mischief was my shadow.
But there was a good kid in there too. Somewhere beneath the stolen candy and skipped homework, a boy who meant well—sometimes. We lived good lives, considering how big our family was. Church wasn’t just Sunday—it was all week. I’d sit through sermons, nod along, and then bolt out the school doors looking for action.
Our house was the neighborhood hangout. Both parents worked, so we had the place to ourselves until they got home. That meant freedom, but it also meant responsibility. The house had to be spotless before they walked through the door. If one of us messed up, we all paid. No exceptions.
My dad was a Marine. Not just in title—in spirit, in tone, in how he ran the house. We didn’t grow up in a home. We grew up in a boot camp. Chores were orders. Discipline was law. Respect wasn’t optional. We joked that we were raised in the Marine Corps, but it wasn’t far from the truth.
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