Yellow Gold

For years I mowed Hans Spartavedt's lawn. Hans was the oldest living person in our neighborhood, but he called me Bud, and we were pals. I could barely understand what he was saying half of the time because he was from, "The Old Country." He'd point and say, "Bud" followed by some gibberish and I'd trim closer to the hedge, take a bushel basket full of grass clippings to the street, or just walk in circles with no clue. I like to think I helped Hans Spartaverdts have the nicest looking yard in town, even though he didn't have a pot to piss in. Or did he?

One day Hans said, "You good worker, Bud" and started walking back into the garage. I beamed as this was my first paying job and wondered if he was retrieving some valuable item from the Old Country to give to me as a special thank you.

But Hans called back, "I gotta take piss!" and disappeared deeper into his garage. I was sure hoping there was a toilet in there I didn't know about, but Hans had his own plan. "Gotta' find my pissin' boo-ket!" I'd finishing my yard duties and didn't want to see what Hans was going to pull out next either, but I hadn't been paid. So, I waited nervously while he clanked about in the back of the garage. He finally emerged with an aluminum sauce pan, leaned his cane against the car and proceeded to relieve himself right there in the driveway. Maybe this was how they did it in the Old Country, but it was beyond anything me or my friends would do.

I made a mental note of where he tossed the urine into the bush so I could avoid trimming that area next time. After he'd wiped his hand on his shirt, he reached into his pocket for my money. Now it was my turn to be relieved. Not just for getting paid so I could get the hell out of the there, but because Hans didn't have to go to the side door and call to his daughter to come take care of me. My friend Stacy and I, who had taken to calling each other "Bud," had this Penthouse Letters fueled fantasy that one day when there wouldn't be any cash in the house, Hans would offer up his daughter as payment. She looked to us to be about eighty with a mole showing for every year on the planet. To a couple of boys just reaching puberty it was too much for us to handle.

After I tired of my career in lawncare, Stacy managed to slide into the position. But not with the same results. Hans regularly yelled at him and Stacy walked more cicles with the bushel basket than in my entire career. Hans made it clear that he didn't think Stacy was a good worker. I think Stacy just couldn't understand his instructions. Or maybe he just feared that Hans would run out of cash.

-Submitted by a former Penthouse Letters reader who now lives in a condominium with lawn care provided.

The Barber of DeVille

Growing up in the middle of five children, my marketing director father was always coming up with new ways to stretch the family budget. Corn meal mush for breakfast was re-branded as, "breakfast pizza." And white bread with butter and sugar on top was pitched as a delicious alternative to Twinkies. So, it wasn't long before Dad realized he could save big money by cutting our hair himself. While my siblings reluctantly went along with this idea, I was a bit too style conscious, even at a young age. Still, Dad lured me in with the promise of a mohawk if I agreed to come back and let him "butch" me before dark.

As we lined up for that first appointment we soon realized Dad's barbering technique, along with the electric clippers, came from the regular trimming our family dogs, Pupper and Molly. I probably don't need to tell you which end of a long-haired English Cocker needs clipping the most. But we followed him as he grabbed a kitchen chair and an old sheet and set up shop in the backyard. Dad said he'd have better light out there and we could relax. Relax? Even during this pre-texting era, the neighbor kids had spread the word and were gathering to watch and laugh. I knew the real reason we were outside was so Mom wouldn't get upset about us tracking hair onto the living room carpet. But Dad always gave things a marketing spin with added benefits for the target audience. And at home we were the target audience.

I guess it's only natural that I gained some of his marketing insights. So, when my friend Sam announced after school one day that his mom had given him four dollars for a haircut, I sprung into action and sold him on the idea of letting ME be his barber and splitting the profits. How hard could it be? Well, easier if Sam could sit still. Squirming while under the buzz of an electric clippers can be hazardous to your ears. I'd learned this lesson the hard way with Dad. But before Sam could protest the sight of blood, I'd managed to cut perfect "white walls" on either side of his head. This made it look like he'd gotten his money's worth and/or had his ears lowered. So, after putting a ruler on his neck and cutting a perfect straight line above the collar, I handed Sam a bandaid and we were off to enjoy pinball and ice cream on his mom's four dollars.

Thanks to this joint venture, the clippers buzzed every few weeks and we enjoyed our just desserts. It was the perfect scam -- until Sam's mom started to notice a hair shelf thickening about a quarter of an inch above his ears. Knowing that the boy's father was going to the same barber and getting fine results she questioned his new look. And when the style I'd given him grew into something resembling a German Army helmet from World War II, he confessed, my mom was called, and just like that, Hair By Jeffrey was out of business.

It was a bloody shame, too, because I'm sure that with a little more practice I could've learned to layer hair without taking skin with it. Our fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Ross, still probably wonders why Sam wore bandaids on the tops of his ears that year. But Dad and I understood perfectly. And I learned that the service outcome is of critical importance to running a successful small business. While Dad's innovative ways to stretch the family budget eventually afforded him the opportunity to buy his dream car, a gently used 1964 Cadillac DeVille.

- Submitted by a creative marketing executive who cuts his own hair