ABSTRACT
It was June of 1965. I was ten (little did I know then that I was destined for a life as a pitchman). For a variety of reasons, including getting shaken down on the way to school each day for my milk money (mobsters in training), I decided it was time for me to begin earning some money. My brother David had already gotten himself a paper route, but I was judged too young. I noticed that a number of boys in the neighborhood would borrow their fathers’ lawnmowers and on Saturdays, for two whole dollars, mow the neighbors’ lawns. I quickly did the math and realized that if I could get three, four, or maybe five customers, I could make a fortune. The problem, of course, was securing a lawnmower. So my first pitch was to my next-door neighbor, Wayne, to convince him what a marvelous idea it would be for the two of us to go into business together. Safe to say, his dad’s lawnmower was secured, and while Wayne stood dutifully by the lawnmower at the foot of the driveway, I presented myself to the various gentlemen around the neighborhood as the answer to their lawn mowing dreams. Every single one sent me packing.
