Jake Carter stood at the intersection just off the main road near the building supply store, holding his makeshift cardboard sign. Its blocky, black letters read: "Starting over. Trying to get back on my feet. Need money or… 5 gal bucket, Trash bags, Garden shovel, Metal dog pooper scooper, Dog treats, Water." He held it high, shifting his weight from foot to foot as cars sped past. Most drivers didn’t even glance his way.
He had already grown accustomed to the range of reactions. Some people averted their eyes, unwilling to acknowledge him. Others laughed openly, pointing him out to their passengers. A few generous souls handed him crumpled bills or loose change. One man in a beat-up truck tossed a pooper scooper out the window, laughing as if it were a brilliant joke. Jake wasn’t sure why it was funny, but he had one less tool to purchase.
When he figured he’d scraped together enough cash, he folded his sign and started down the hill toward the building supply store. The lot smelled strongly of kiln dried lumber and dust, a comforting mix. He entered, his shoulders set with purpose, and grabbed the remaining items from his list—a sturdy plastic bucket, a box of heavy-duty trash bags, a garden shovel, and a bag of dog treats.
Geared up and ready, Jake wandered down the nearby street, staying just off the main road. The late afternoon sun was warm against his deeply tanned skin, and his boots scuffed against the cracked pavement as he scanned the neighborhood. His first stop was a small, run-down house with a fenced yard and a large dog pacing inside.
The house had seen better days. The siding sagged, showing signs of weather damage. The faded 12-inch Masonite panels—once popular decades ago—were now impossible to replace. Jake set his bucket of supplies down and approached the door, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he knocked firmly.
The dog barked loudly, its deep voice echoing through the neighborhood. Jake waited, stepping back a bit to show he wasn’t a threat. No one answered. After a moment, he shrugged to himself, picked up his gear, and moved on to the next house.
***
Jake stopped at the next house, a modest single-story home with a well-kept lawn and a medium sized dog yapping behind the screen door. He set his bucket down and knocked. A moment later, an older woman answered, peering at him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“Hi. My name’s Jake Carter,” he began, his voice steady and polite. “I’m offering dog poop clean-up for $50 a yard today. Would you be interested?”
The woman blinked, her gaze lingering on him a bit too long before her expression tightened. “No,” she said curtly, shoving her dog out of the way and shutting the door before he could say another word.
Jake stood there for a moment, exhaling slowly. He was used to rejection, but it never got easier. He picked up his supplies and glanced around the street, his eyes landing on the next intersection. There, a hill stretched upward, lined with houses that grew progressively larger and more impressive the higher they climbed. He knew from experience that wealthy people valued their time and often paid for convenience. If he was going to find a client today, it would be up there. With a determined shrug, Jake adjusted the bucket in his hand and started toward the hill, his boots crunching against the gravel as he prepared to try again.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
***
Nicolette pulled a worn folding chair from her car’s trunk and flopped into it with a sigh that carried the weight of the day. The campground was quieter than she had anticipated. The sky was dimming to deep gray, and the cool evening air was settling in. Around her, tiny campfires flickered like isolated islands of light, but most people had already disappeared into their campers or tents. It wasn’t the lively scene she’d imagined—maybe because it was a weekday, or perhaps the constant hum of highway traffic just beyond the trees killed the mood.
She pulled a small tin of sausages from her bag, frowning as she pried it open. The contents were uninspiring at best: sad little chunks of processed meat glistening in their own oily brine. A proper meal would require a fire or at least a camp stove, but she had neither. Her gaze drifted toward the next campsite where a man, scruffy and broad-shouldered, crouched over a small pot balanced on a makeshift burner.
The guy wasn’t living much better than her. His setup consisted of a single sleeping bag spread out on the gravel, a gray plastic tote, and a battered five-gallon bucket. He stirred what looked like a packet of instant noodles, steam rising from the pot. Still, it was hard not to envy him for at least having something warm to eat.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the man looked up, his eyes catching hers. Nicolette offered a half-smile and gave him a casual upward nod. “You travel light,” she remarked, gesturing vaguely toward his modest belongings.
The man chuckled, his laugh quiet but not unkind. “It’s everything I own,” he said, his tone straightforward.
“Your girlfriend kick you out?” Nicolette asked, half-joking but curious, her tone light enough to keep things casual.
Jake gave a dry, slightly bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Ex-wife,” he replied, the bitterness clear, but not aimed at her. He glanced at her car. “What about you?”
Nicolette let out a small laugh, shaking the tin of sausages in her hand. “Girlfriend kicked me out,” she admitted with a smirk, as if trying to soften the sting of the truth with humor.
Jake smiled faintly, and for a moment, they shared a quiet chuckle over the common ground. The conversation drifted into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of the highway and the occasional crackle of a distant campfire. Jake focused on his steaming noodles, stirring them with slow, deliberate movements, while Nicolette chewed on her disappointing sausages, the flavors as dull as her mood.
Nicolette hesitated for a moment before asking, “Were you the guy on the street corner this morning? Cardboard sign, list of supplies?”
Jake looked up from his noodles, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he nodded. “Yeah, that was me.”
She chuckled softly, leaning back in her chair. “So, how many days of begging does it take to afford the $30 campground fee?”
Jake laughed, the sound lighter this time. “Only took a couple of hours. People were more generous than I’d thought they’d be.”
Nicolette shook her head, grinning. “I might have to start begging too. I can’t even afford the campground all the way to payday. So you’re still one up on me.”
Jake tilted his head, considering her for a moment. “We could split a spot,” he offered casually. “Technically, we’d be further away from each other than we are now. These spaces are rather long and narrow.”
She raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t kill the person directly next to me. It’s too obvious.” He replied with a smirk.
Nicolette laughed, leaning forward slightly. “Nicolette Aliea. Nikki for short. Nix for fun.”
Jake raised his water bottle in a mock toast. “Jake Carter.”
She raised her bottle as well. “To our tiny business deal,” Nicolette said, grinning.
“And saving a combined thirty bucks,” Jake added with a grin of his own.