From Oweing to Collecting
So remember—I owed the bookie $4,000. At the time, that number felt impossible. Like staring up at a mountain with no gear, no map, and no clue how to climb it. I was hustling, sure, but four grand was serious money. I thought I was done.
But instead of breaking my legs or chasing me down, he gave me a job.
Just like that, the debt dissolved into a business adventure. He saw something in me—maybe the hustle, maybe the loyalty, maybe just the fact that I didn’t flinch. That $4,000 turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me back then. It bought me a seat at the table. It bought me a future.
That bookie and I stayed friends for the rest of his life. He was one of the best guys I’d ever known. We hung out, we partied, we worked side by side. He didn’t just give me a job—he gave me a blueprint. He made me into the person I am today.
I won’t use any names in this story. Not mine, not his, not anyone’s. Even though most of these people are gone, they’ve got families still walking around. And I owe them that respect. What we did wasn’t legal, but it was loyal. And loyalty runs deep.
That debt didn’t bury me—it built me. I got to get even. I got to become a real criminal. Not just some kid stealing razors from the pharmacy. I was in the game now. And I liked the lifestyle.
It wasn’t just about money. It was pristine. The life of a gangster: private rooms in restaurants. Respect. I was living a life most people only saw in movies. And the best part? It was never boring. Always an adventure. Every single day.
One day I’d be collecting from a guy who owed five grand. The next, I’d be dropping off envelopes, making calls, setting up bets. I was moving through bars, backrooms, basements—always in motion, always in control. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was thriving.
And the people around me? They knew. They saw the shift. I wasn’t just the kid anymore. I was the collector. The closer. The guy who got things done.
From Oweing to Collecting (continued)
That $4,000 debt? It would turn into a couple hundred thousand dollars. Not overnight, but fast enough to feel like magic. The weed business exploded. By the time the supplier came to collect, we couldn’t just hand over a duffel bag—we had to rent a hotel room. That’s how much cash was moving. We’d stack it, count it, organize it. Tens of thousands in bundles, laid out like bricks on the bedspread.
Out of $100,000, I’d walk away with $19,000. And let me be clear—I wasn’t mad about it. Nineteen grand back then was like $76,000 today. For what? For making a few calls, moving a few pounds, and keeping my mouth shut. That was good money. Real good money.
Truth is, I was kind of lazy. I didn’t like breaking down the bales into one-pound bags. Too much work, too many people to deal with. Most of the time, I could move the whole load to one guy. That was ideal—one drop, one pickup, no drama. The fewer hands involved, the cleaner the deal.
Eventually, I gave up on weed. It was bulky, messy, and slow. I went back to coke. By now, I was starting to like it. Not just the high—but the perks. With coke came the girls.
Girls. I found out I liked me some girls. Lots of girls.
Coke had a different energy. It was fast, flashy, seductive. The bars were louder, the nights longer, and the women—well, they were everywhere. Coke made you feel like a king. And when you had it, people wanted to be near you. Especially the girls.
I wasn’t chasing love. I was chasing attention. Fun. Adventure. Every night was a new story. A new face. A new thrill. I had cash in my pocket, coke in my hand, and a reputation that opened doors. I wasn’t just in the game—I was starting to run it.
And the best part? I still had that bookie in my corner. Still had the older guys with the vowel-ending names. Still had the respect. I was the kid who’d made good. The collector. The closer. The guy who could be trusted.
Every day was a ride. Every deal was a step deeper. And I liked it.
“From Oweing to Collecting”
It’s been four or five years of nothing, but the life people dream about—if they’re dreaming crooked. I’m hanging around gangsters, drug dealers, and bar owners almost every day. The nights are loud, the money’s fast, and the stories are wild. But I’m starting to think bigger. I need a business. Something with a front. Something that looks clean, even if it isn’t.
Then one day, I end up whipping a guy’s ass right in front of a union official. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone—it just happened. But next thing I know, I’ve got a union card with a local in Missouri. Back then, those cards were gold. Hard to get. You couldn’t just walk in and apply. You had to be vouched for. Or in my case, throw a punch in the right place at the right time.
The deal was simple: if there’s a problem, I fight for these guys. I say, “Hell yeah.” And just like that, I’m a union member.
I needed a job for cover, but let’s be honest—I didn’t want to work. I’d show up here and there, put in a week when I had to, but mostly I was coasting. It was summer, and I was playing ball a few nights a week. Softball under the lights, beers after the game, girls in the stands. Life was good.
Luckily, my union gig was as an oiler with the hoisting engineers. And back then? Oilers got paid just to show up. My job was to hide all day. Stay out of the way. Collect a check. Not too bad, hey?
Then something interesting happens. One of the bars sponsoring our softball team starts talking about selling. That catches my ear. Owning a bar? That’s a whole new level. A place to hang out, run business, and make legit money while still keeping my hands in the game.
It’s the perfect storm—union card for cover, bar ownership for clout, and the streets still feeding me deals. I’m not just hustling anymore. I’m building an empire.
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