A Street Walker’s Guide to Wealth 

It’s true that all that glisters is not gold, but the streets in the Twin Cities present the brave walker with multiple opportunities to strike it rich. I am not talking about nefarious activities in the middle of the night. But I am asking the reader to lower her eyes and take a good look in the gutter.

First of all, do realize there are pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars, 5-spots, sawbucks, and 20’s all out there for the taking. Yes, generations of traffic have trod, have trod on cash that is seared and bleared with trade and grime and salt. And yes, it’s filthy lucre. But O what joy for those who seek it with an open pocket.

You wish to take up the profession? Walk the streets, not the sidewalk. I did find a nickel once on the sidewalk and a 20 dollar bill on a front lawn, but such instances are few and far between. And yes, it is much safer on the sidewalk. Hoofing it on the street means facing head-on speeding cars and cell phones, always being on high alert, especially in the slippery season. But this is where the treasure lies. Money descends like manna out of car doors and coat pockets, hunkers down until the next worthy seeker casts a sympathetic eye in its direction. And in wintertime, it’s especially easy to disguise one’s less than honorable intentions. “Yes, indeed, I am walking out here on the pavement. No, I am not up on the sidewalk. No, this is not a country road. Hey, you are in a car. Hey, I am not. But has any one shoveled this block? Look, look what they’ve forced me to.”

Want to hit a good lode in your prospecting? Identify the streets with the most flotsam and jetsam. Look for crushed water bottles, bus passes, tickets Street moneyto Vikings games, plastic bags, cigarette butts, eyes of newts, toes of toads. And keep your eyes on the road. Yes, myopia does have distinct disadvantages. Birds may sing full throttle, the first red buds of spring may push their hearts out of maple trees, and the Pope may be passing in his popemobile, but the things of this world are not for you. Keep your eyes on the prize.

Jars of loot collected by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous

Jars of loot collected by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous

Still even the flotsam-and-jetsam streets have limits. It’s not like going out with your rod and reel and depending on bluegills and walleyes to return to the same old spot day after day and leap into your net. No, this is hard work, and spots do get fished out. I know which streets are paved with gold, but I give them a week or so to recover before I hit them again. And when I see other street walkers in the same lanes, I know it’s going to be slim pickins and turn the corner.

When’s the best time? Early in the morning on a weekend right after the piles of snow have begun to melt in earnest. What has been hidden for generations will be made clear. With weekend revelers safely tucked in bed, the old hawk-eye can go prowling. One Christmas morning, there it was, a five-dollar bill. On a Sunday morning, a Susan B. Anthony dollar smiled up at me from the gutter by Trinity Lutheran. On the sly, I did throw Susan and a bunch of dimes into the next door neighbor’s yard. The kids there got metal detectors for Christmas, and I try to feed their growing habit as much as I can. So does their lovely grandfather who seeds their dad’s vegetable garden with coins when the boys are at school. You never saw kids get so excited about digging and weeding as they hunt for gold doubloons. Yes, I am corrupting the young. But I am going to need some backup for my habit when I hit my really golden years. And I’m too embarrassed to be seen with a metal detector even though many a clucking friend has threatened to give me one for Christmas.

O I forgot the joys of money laundering. Nothing beats bestowing necessary TLC on your salvage. These coins and dollar bills have been through massive heck—chipped, bruised, stained, corroded, run amok by the trials of neglect and daily life. Pennies especially suffer abuse. What joy it is to soak them in vinegar and watch them flame out, return to luster as I scotch-pad them back to youthful vigor, lay them out to dry in the sun. Phyllis Diller and her multiple face lifts would shout glory alleluia.

Yes, this can become an addictive behavior, I’m aware of that, but remember there was that fiver right by the MotorMart pumps as I filled my tank last week, and last year I took a tax-free 37 bucks to the bank to feed the thirsty coin machine, the cop on duty watching me as my loot spun off to a better place.

<