PROMPT RESPONSE
Side Hustles for the Decrepit
I may be old, but I’m slow
This challenge has been initiated by Kristen Stark, and taken up by Krystal Mossbarger; two young whipper-snappers who have yet to learn the meaning of working at a deathly slow pace to earn a quid on the side!
Now before you rush to whatever passes for a dictionary online these days, whipper-snapper is an old-fashioned term for an overconfident, inexperienced youngster. (Smartarse in today’s vernacular).
Disclaimer: I am absolutely, categorically not calling the above-mentioned lovely people any such thing. The writing deities know I rely on these people for reads and claps.
So, what can I teach today’s youth about side hustles whilst helping the older generation with some money-making ideas?
Street Performer:
In my younger days, I emitted a certain something that made strange men in sombreros whisk me away from my husband to twirl, madcap madness-style in a wonderful Mexican melee in the mall. I use the term melee here because what began as an innocent twirl, dunk, release, quickly turned into a pursuit by my man who thought I was being kidnapped by perps wearing large hats, and stylishly flapping capes.
With ham fists and six inches (all round) on the Mariachis, hubby “rescued” me without causing too much fraying of costumes, (and nerves), of the abductors. We did have to make a quick escape to avoid Mall security — carried out with nimble feet and great aplomb, I hasten to add.
While that experience was short-lived, having been brought to a sudden end by my vigilant husband, it gave me an idea for something to boost the coffers of the aged Australian pensioner, (insert trumpet fanfare).
Street performing by retired burlesque dancers!
Before you completely disregard this idea, remember that an increasingly large proportion of Aussie’s population is over sixty. This means that there are a whole lot of old codgers out there willing to throw some of their pension into a hat, in order to see some long-limbed dancers kicking up their legs, regardless of their age.
Now, I’m not long-limbed, nor am I a dancer, but I didn’t let that deter me. I decided to put together, and manage, a troupe of the best, aged kickers I could find. If they could still do it in time to music, all the better.
Because I was afraid some of my performers might pass on before we got to live performance, I decided to dispense with practise, opting for a baptism of fire.
With the terms fully explained — my cut would be twenty-five percent of the total hat; theirs an equal share of the remainder — I piled my dancers into a borrowed aged-care van. It even had a wheelchair ramp in the back, which was handy, because both Mavis and Doris could only stand for short intervals.
In hindsight, it would have been ideal, had we practised before the event. Leaving the line-up to the old girls was a big mistake, as it turned out.
The square in the mall was teeming with four anxious male onlookers. Two were leaning on canes, whilst the other two were propping each other up on a shoppers’ bench. I recognised them as being from the same aged care home as the ladies and wondered why we hadn’t organised the street performance to be undertaken in their gardens.
When I mentioned it to Doris, she explained the home didn’t want to be liable for any injuries that might occur. I saw the sense in this and decided to up my take to fifty percent the next time we performed.
As the ladies were lining up, one of the old fellows hobbled on his cane to thrust a hat roughly into my hands.
“Just in case you earn anything,” he grumbled. “Fifty percent of the hat will be ours, you know — them tarts work for us.”
I looked at the old man in complete disbelief. “You mean …?”
“Yep,” the man nodded slowly. “Been going strong for years. Good money in running a group of sheilas up and down the corridors of the home after dark, if you know what I mean.”
“Good money?” I exploded, wondering what was in it for me.
“Play your cards right with this, and we might cut you in.” He shuffled back to join his mate.
The ladies were in place, five dancers in back, with Mavis and Doris seated in their chairs at the front.
“Ready, girls?” I enquired, spotting a group of older gentlemen walking fast-paced toward our little turn-out. “Looks like word got around.”
With surprising agility, the other cane dependent fellow met the newcomers head-on.
“Money upfront, before the show!” he demanded.
I was amazed at how quickly money could pass through arthritic hands, but not so amazed when I saw it being shoved deep into the pockets of the old pimp.
“Why the hat?” I murmured, completely out-manoeuvred.
He shrugged wizened shoulders. “In case there’re some tips — come on, lass, get on with it!” He pointed to my small, beaten-up public-address system.
I knew when I was out-foxed. With a pathetic, “Ladies and gentleman, please welcome our Burlesque Boomers from Bramble Care.” I pressed the button.
The amazing tones of Slow Walk by Sil Austin provided a perfect dance background for my aged, but enthusiastic movers.
In a barely recognizable attempt at coordinated choreography, the back row of ladies raised arms to try and grab hold of the shoulders next to them. Some missed their mark and stumbled a little, righting themselves in time to avoid nasty spills.
The two girls in front rocked their wheelchairs to the music.
Suddenly, Mary in the back row counted off, “One, two, three, four.” Then threw her right leg high into the air.
Not wanting to be outdone, everyone followed suit.
I have never seen a more outrageous selection of greying bloomers in my entire life! Even the wheelchair-bound ladies laid down an impression of a can-can kick, each raising both legs to a cacophony of dancing squeals. As they threw their limbs sky-high, their chairs rolled back in response to the activity.
The ladies in the back row were being cheered on by the googling eyes of the aged crowd, gathering ever closer.
“Again,” screamed Mary, beside herself with pain from the manoeuvres, and joy from the attention.
“Again” was beyond the two ladies in front, who were completely stuffed from their first attempt, but the girls in the back were giving it their all.
Five grunts were accompanied by five right legs flying highish, admittedly quite well coordinated. Five burlesque-styled screams were issued by the back row, accompanied by two screams of agony from the front row.
Betsy and Barb had delivered two solid kicks to the backs of the heads of Mavis and Doris. Doris slumped forward, and Mavis peed in her chair.
That was it! The show was over. Surprisingly, the elderly group of onlookers did not demand their money back. I guessed there were slim chances in their lives for a brief look at greying bloomers.
I picked up the empty hat to wave at departing backs. “Tip, anyone?”
The hat’s owner ambled over. “Better get that sorry lot back to the home. We’ll ride along with you.”
“What about my cut?” I asked with diminished hope.
The aged pimp reached into his pocket and dug out a fifty. “Sure. Nice doing business with yah. If you come up with any other ideas, give us a call, we’ll go in together, help each other out.”
I shrugged, doubting my ability to come up with anything new.
Looking over at my aged troupe, I saw the chorus line rallying around the wheelchairs. Doris seemed to have recovered. The other ladies were trying to disguise the wet mess on Mavis’s lap, swishing the yellow puddle off her footboard with tissues.
And that’s when I got my best idea ever!
An incontinence pad pick-up and delivery service to aged care homes! I could deliver the new and dispense with the old. A business name flowed off my tongue as I announced the idea to Parker the pimp’
“What do you say?” I gushed. “ Ur-ine Ur-out! It’s a sure-fire winner.
Parker looked thoughtful for a second, then ran the idea past his grotty group of pimpers.
Without much consideration, they all agreed to an equal share of the profits with the suggestion they provide a mobility scooter for my forays to and from aged care facilities, if I did all the work.
Ur-ine Ur-out is a raging success.
I like delivering the new product, but I’m not so keen on the takeaway and disposal. Fortunately, there are a lot of commercial skip bins outside supermarkets on my route. Makes my job a whole lot easier.
Footnote: The pimp pack are now cutting me ten percent on the night-time action at Bramble Care — tops the pension off nicely!
These side hustles are great. Thanks heaps, you youngsters, for prompting me into action!
Here’s a link to Krystal Mossbarger and The Slow Hustle
Read Kristen Stark’s side hustle prompt:
