Hustling for Money as Kids

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen.

Ah, let me take you back to those gritty, golden days in Brooklyn during the late 1960s and into the 1970s—a time when the streets were our playground, our classroom, and yeah, our workplace too. I was just a kid, maybe 10 or 11, growing up in a neighborhood like Flatbush or Bensonhurst, where the air smelled of fresh kinishes from the corner vendors and the rumble of the elevated trains overhead was our constant soundtrack. Money didn’t grow on trees, and allowances? Forget about it—most families were scraping by with blue-collar jobs, inflation biting hard after the ’73 oil crisis, and everyone pitching in. Us kids, we were resourceful little hustlers, always scheming ways to earn a few bucks for candy, comics, or maybe a ticket to the movies at the Loew’s Kings. It wasn’t child labor; it was survival with a side of adventure. We’d turn the city’s waste and mishaps into our treasure, and boy, did it feel empowering. Let me walk you through our top hustles: shining shoes with our homemade kits, scavenging bottles for deposits, bundling newspapers for the junkyard, and the sneaky art of fishing coins from subway grates.

First up, shoe shining—that was the classic entrepreneur gig, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting but with a Brooklyn edge. I’d build my own shine box from scrap wood scavenged from construction sites or old crates behind the bodega. Picture this: a sturdy little wooden box, about the size of a milk crate, with a slanted top for the customer’s foot, compartments inside for brushes, rags, and cans of Kiwi polish in black, brown, and neutral. I’d paint it up nice, maybe with my initials carved in, and sling a strap over my shoulder to carry it around like a pro. Early mornings or after school, I’d set up on busy corners—maybe Fulton Street downtown or along Kings Highway, where businessmen in their polyester suits and wingtips hustled to the subway. “Shine, mister? Only a quarter!” I’d call out, flashing a grin. If they bit, I’d get to work: buffing off the dirt with a horsehair brush, applying the wax in circles, then snapping that rag for the spit-shine finish that made those shoes gleam like new. On a good Saturday, I could pull in a couple of dollars, enough for a slice at Di Fara’s or a comic book from the newsstand. It taught me charm, too—chatting up customers about the Mets or the weather while I worked. But man, the competition was fierce; other kids had their territories, and you’d have to defend yours without starting a fight. In the late ’60s, with the city still buzzing from the World’s Fair hangover, it felt like we were mini-moguls in training.

Then there was bottle collecting—the eco-hustle before recycling was cool. Back then, every soda bottle had a deposit: two cents for the small ones, five for the big glass quarts from Coke, Pepsi, or those local brands like Manhattan Special espresso soda that Brooklyn loved. We’d roam the streets at dawn, eyes peeled for empties tossed in gutters, parks, or behind bars after a wild night. Prospect Park was a goldmine after picnics, or the beaches at Coney Island where tourists left their litter. I’d drag a burlap sack or an old shopping cart—borrowed from grandma’s basement—and fill it up, the clinking glass like music to my ears. Neighborhoods like Bay Ridge or Sheepshead Bay had plenty of spots; you’d hit the alleys behind delis or scan the sidewalks after block parties. Once the sack was heavy, we’d haul it to the corner store or supermarket—A&P or Pathmark—and cash in. “Twenty bottles, mister—that’s forty cents!” The store owners knew us regulars and sometimes tossed in an extra penny for good measure. In the ’70s, with environmental laws kicking in, deposits went up a bit, but so did the competition from adults down on their luck. It was sweaty work, dodging rats in the trash heaps or lugging that weight blocks away, but the payoff? A Yoo-hoo chocolate drink and change for the arcade. Plus, it felt good cleaning up the neighborhood, even if we were just in it for the dough.

Newspapers were another steady earner, turning yesterday’s news into today’s nickels. Folks subscribed to the Daily News or the Post, and stacks piled up in basements or on stoops. We’d go door-to-door: “Got any old papers, ma’am? We’ll take ’em off your hands!” Neighbors were glad to unload; no curbside pickup back then. I’d collect armloads—the Times was thick and heavy, perfect for bulk—then tie them into bundles with twine from the hardware store. The key was the junkyard or recycling center, like those along the Gowanus Canal or in industrial Bushwick, where they’d weigh your haul on a big scale. A penny or two per pound added up quick; a good week’s collection could net fifty cents or more. In the late ’60s, with Vietnam headlines flying off the presses, there was no shortage. We’d team up with buddies, splitting the load on bikes or wagons, racing to beat the rain that’d ruin the paper. Summers were best, no school to interrupt, but winters? Sloshing through snow with ink-stained hands wasn’t fun. Still, it built muscles and math skills—calculating pounds to dollars in your head. And the junkyards were adventures themselves, full of scrap metal towers and grumpy weigh-masters who’d haggle if you sassed them.

Now, the sneakiest hustle? Canvassing the subway grates for dropped coins—pure urban fishing, Brooklyn style. Those metal gratings over the train tunnels, like along Nostrand Avenue or Flatbush, were coin magnets; folks rushing for the D train or the Brighton Line would fumble change from their pockets, and it’d clatter right through the slots. We’d spot the glint of silver down there—nickels, dimes, quarters winking in the dim light from passing trains. The trick? A homemade fishing rod: chew up a wad of Bazooka gum till it’s sticky, press it onto a heavy washer or nut tied to a string, maybe smeared with Vaseline for extra grip. Lower it down carefully, wiggle it over the coin, and yank! If you were lucky, up came a dime, stuck like glue. Along busy stretches like near the Junction or Atlantic Avenue, you could score a buck in an hour on a good day. But it was risky—cops might shoo you away for loitering, or a train’s roar would startle you into dropping your tool. In the ’70s, with fares rising and more folks using tokens, coins were scarcer, but parking meters or sidewalk grates worked too. We’d compete: “I got a quarter!” echoing down the block. It felt like treasure hunting, turning the city’s underbelly into our piggy bank.

Looking back, these hustles weren’t just about the money—they shaped us. In a borough buzzing with change, from the blackout of ’77 to the graffiti-covered trains, we learned independence, grit, and the value of a hard-earned dollar. We’d pool our earnings for egg creams at the candy store or a game of skelly on the sidewalk, feeling like kings of our concrete kingdom. Brooklyn taught us that opportunity was everywhere, if you hustled smart. Those days? Priceless, even if we only made pennies.

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