Different Slants

Seeing the World from a New Angle

How Does an Entrepreneur Actually Start Out? (Born that way?)………………by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: gritty Chicago stories,Philosophy,Politics,Social Policy and Justice — Bob at 12:38 pm on Friday, January 13, 2012

© January 13,  2012

I never received an allowance as a child. I always had to earn it myself. So, I was motivated.

At age five, I dragged a red wagon behind me, walking about half a mile to a vacant lot across from a high school where I discovered there were seemingly endless empty pop bottles thrown there by the students which I could collect and deliver to my nearby drugstore for instant cash, at two to five cents per bottle. Many of the bottles were broken and it was risky to go after the good ones, but I felt the reward was worth the risk. Evidently, no other kid did.  I had the bottle harvesting market to myself, in 1955.    Learned, at five years old, that there is money to be made almost everywhere if you are astute and can evaluate the risk, reasonably.

I also taught myself carpentry at age five, being the grandson of an immigrant carpenter, and built a tree house in my backyard.  Later, an actual boat.  I had a large collection of tools and was well versed in using them.  Two years ago, at age fifty-nine, when I reopened my collectible periodical business with no funding whatsoever, I built all 700 running feet of shelving by myself.  It took me seven weeks, always working alone. You never know what skill you learned long ago that will save the day some future time when you have no other options open to you.

At age twelve, in the winter of 1962, I went from door to door asking homeowners to pay me to shovel their snow-covered walks.  It took me three houses to establish the going rate, which I didn’t know when I started out, and that older women were far more likely willing to pay for my services than older men.  I learned that gender really matters when I wanted to sell something.

At age thirteen to fourteen, I was dating a cute girl from down the block whose father, I discovered, worked for Whitman Publishing Company in Wisconsin.  They produced the well known “Red” and “Blue” books which were widely respected by coin collectors to establish the wholesale and retail price of coins.  They also made the blue folding coin collecting boards that actually held the particular coins found in chronological order, with the missing dates printed below each spot to tell the collector what to look for. 

I bought all three items wholesale from my girlfriend’s dad, who was very amused that I thought I could actually run a business while still in seventh grade.  I felt I could sell the books to my classmates when coin collecting was becoming a mania in America because of the newly minted Kennedy half-dollar, after he was assassinated the year before.  Then, gradually, I became a coin dealer myself, to supply my customers with a reason to buy my coin folders and books.  I subscribed to two adult coin newspapers and educated myself about the history of coinage, and what was worth how much, and why.  Also I learned about grading.

As I began supplying more and more students with coins and supplies, my own collection began growing.  When the boys lost interest in collecting, I bought their collections at wholesale prices, sometimes less than that because it was a buyer’s market in grammar school. 

My own collection, logically, skyrocketed in quantity and value.  When I graduated grammar school, I stopped collecting, boxed up my collection and hid it away, to sell for some real emergency in the future.  By educating myself completely about what I was doing, I knew the actual value of what I had and what it was likely to be worth in the future.  I learned the value of targeting my education.  My girlfriend’s father stopped laughing when the money I earned from my sales was spread over his kitchen table.  My success changed his perception of me.  That’s usually the case.  I always had to prove myself to disbelieving people before they would help me.

At the same time, in 1963 at thirteen, I also found a cooperative druggist who illegally agreed to sell me Playboys for fifty cents each. I cut pictures out of each issue and sold them one by one for various prices, depending on both the kid and the picture.  Almost fifty years later, I am the last store in America with a complete collection of 695 issues of Playboy and I sell back issues to collectors almost every day.  However, I no longer cut the pictures out.  The adults don’t like that and you have to adjust to your market’s desires, as it gradually mutates.  I have twenty thousand Playboys.

I left home at fourteen and started a newsstand with a good friend from my grammar school, Richard Munden, after my freshman year in high school.  I built the newsstand myself, because I had no money to buy one.  I used scavenged wood from construction sites.  I had an old bicycle and was mobile so I could find out where those sites were.  The only thing I had to buy were the metal hinges for $2.00.

Twenty years later, in 1985 when my decades-old newsstand business closed in Chicago’s Hyde Park, I sold my teenaged coin collection for enough money to create a mail order poster company to sell international posters, giving birth to what I am still doing today.

Lastly, in the politically turbulent Sixties, specifically 1967, along with that same old friend from grammar school, I bought thousands of protest buttons to sell to my more financially independent classmates at the University of Chicago Laboratory High School, with the school’s blessings because they admired my “entrepreneurial spirit”.  They gave me two weeks to sell my buttons.  My friend in Bowen,however, a Chicago public high school on the old South Side was discovered selling the controversial buttons to his classmate and was suspended from school.  I am still selling buttons, forty-five years later.

The difference in our situation?  I learned earlier that people in authority liked to be asked for permission to do something.  It is a way of their manifesting their power over someone to say yes, from someone who really needs that “yes”.  It also depends on how you ask them for what you want to do.  I showed my respect to their position and gained their approval.  What I learned about dealing with people in authority while in high school served me very well in navigating Chicago’s incredibly corrupt political machine which controlled my newsstand license. 

I learned who to pay off, how much and how to find a local political power to protect me and control how much my payoffs would be.  I learned at sixteen that corruption in local government was absolutely everywhere, and my knowing how to navigate that fact gave me at least some control over my vulnerable business and how to survive within the Chicago power structure.

The lesson?  It doesn’t matter how pure you are in every way.  Look what happened to Jesus Christ.  You have to learn the real life situation before you decide to buy or open a new business and if the risk is worth the reward.  You don’t want to ever be blindsided because you didn’t take the time to find out the invisible political local realities behind the seemingly secure surface.

Criminal corruption is a cold hard fact and should never be discounted in making your plans.

Lastly, organized crime is an invisible world living all around us.  Unlike the movies, you never, ever want to be friends with them or ask for help from them when there are no other legal options.  They help you, and then they own you.  Remember that.  There is no way out of that situation.  There is nothing called friendship in organized crime.  It doesn’t exist.

 

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

My Store Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

My stories Twitter: @ChicagoKatzman

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

 

 

15 Comments »

Comment by Herb Berman

January 13, 2012 @ 1:32 pm

Fascinating, Bob. And inspiring. The entrepreneural spirit, born, in your case, of necessity, is an object lesson for all of us. As you vividly demonstrate, we make our own destiny.

Comment by Bob

January 13, 2012 @ 1:54 pm

Herb, you are a fast reader! Probably helps if you’re a lawyer.

What I wrote was difficult, short as it is, because I see what I’m writing about and what I remember is very harsh. I think the only romance of my personal story is in reading it. but maybe others will see it and it will do someone, somewhere some good.

Bob

Comment by Don Larson

January 13, 2012 @ 2:11 pm

Bob,

You are illuminating the path to truth. Those in the audience should well appreciate the knowledge you are providing them.

I hope they return the favor to you with more business.

Please update your store after the presentation so we know how it went.

Sincerely,

Don

Comment by Bob

January 13, 2012 @ 2:27 pm

Don, great to hear from you!

I am updating it already as I reread it and see what needs to be cut, or expanded. The essay is 1,373 words long. Wrote it all at one time this morning while awaiting customers who never came, ironically. I sure hope people read this one and pass it along. No serious writer wants to have their work face the silence.

So, now I wait and see what happens next.

Stay tuned, Don

Bob

Comment by Dr. Liliana N. Fargo

January 13, 2012 @ 5:00 pm

A great lesson to learn from Bob’s life: True entrepreneurship is not an attitude that you can easily learn in books, but is mainly an attitude that some are born with, and that life is a constant test to our spirits and our determination.

Life is not easy, but it would be boring otherwise.

Comment by Brad Dechter

January 14, 2012 @ 12:59 pm

Bob,
As you know I too am somewhat of an entrepreneur, who was a CPA before he was an entrepreneur. My story is somewhat different (as is everyones) in that I have never really had to deal with crookedness or corruption. The worst was one of my vendors getting one of my Managers laid (The Manager is no longer with us.)
We have been approached, but I walk away because we are large enough now where we can. I hate to think about what you had to/have to go through and am thankful that I never have.
As always be GREAT!
Brad

Comment by Robert M. Katzman

January 14, 2012 @ 1:51 pm

Brad,
I took accounting 101 three times and gave up. It was a lot easier to hire an accountant than do my own books. Can’t be good at everything.

I won’t respond directly to your other comments except to say this:

Newsstands, those little shacks on the corner that people generally ignore, were–when I became involved in that life in 1965 and met SO many people on the fringes of society over the two decades I existed in Hyde Park–actually portals to every known form of sin, if a person wanted to go that way.

Drugs, sex, guns, hot merchandise, political payoffs, bribery of all kinds, gambling and, um…adultry (which is different than just sex, because no cash traded hands)were on the menu, if one was interested.

This is why I don’t write fiction. People had no idea about the reality of newsstands.

So, what was my own involvement with any of the above, you may ask?.

Y’know, it’s funny,Brad, but so much time has gone by I can’t remember a damn thing…

Bob

Comment by Gargi

January 14, 2012 @ 3:21 pm

Imagine a five-year-old doing that today? (sadly, would likely never make it out of that vacant lot).
But you did and now, as you prepare for your presentation to that Depaul University group, I have a good feeling that that that little 5-year old pulling the red wagon, is gonna cinch yet another deal for you…Good luck, Bob!

Comment by Bob

January 14, 2012 @ 3:37 pm

Gargi!
What I didn’t add for reason’s brevity, was that I also received a quarter for an intact empty 7-Up sixpack carton and $1.00 (can you imagine in 1955???) for a wooden 7-Up box that held four of those cardboard cartons. No other soft drink company paid to recover their packaging. I kept up the bottle scavenging for three years, until I was eight years old and in third grade.

I saved that (by then in 1958) considerable cash in a metal cigar box (still got it, but it’s empty now) and always had a few bucks when I wanted to go to the movies or buy a new squirtgun.

Five years later, when collecting old coins attracted my interest in 1963, I still had about $100 to get me going in the coin business. And, as the story tells above, that eventually led to what I do today in the collectible periodical business, 57 years after I first started to collect old bottles for two cents each.

Bob

Comment by Bruce Matteson

January 16, 2012 @ 4:31 pm

I LOVE THAT IT IS TOO LATE FOR YOU TO BE LUCKY, THAT EVEN IF YOUR PLACE IN CHICAGO INFAMY BECOMES A SKYSCRAPER WITH A BEACON OF LIGHT SEEN AROUND THE WORLD, AS YOU SO RICHLY DESERVE TO BE,IT CAN ONLY BE BUILT ON THE SWEAT OF YOUR BLOOD AND TEARS, AND THE RICH LEGACY THAT IS CHRONICLED IN YOUR BOOKS.I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED YOUR DAYS IN THE SUN ARE COMING, AND IF THIS DE PAUL EVENT HERALDS THEIR ARRIVAL, SO BE IT, BUT AS SUCCESSFUL AS YOU BECOME, IT WAS THE INCREDIBLE RIDE THAT GOT YOU THERE, AND THE BEACON WILL ALWAYS BE YOUR INDOMITABLE SPIRIT! YOUR FRIEND, B.

Comment by Bob

January 16, 2012 @ 5:26 pm

Well, Bruce, I love you, too.

When I do finally find my place in the sun, it will likely be on the edge of the Grand Canyon. I’ll look up, feel the warmth on my face take a lazy step forward…and fall into the canyon.

However, it’ll still be beautiful while I’m on the way down, right?

Gotta look for the bright side of things, however briefly.

Bob

Comment by Rick

January 23, 2012 @ 12:48 am

Bob,

Our stories a similar – and of course, intertwined. I remember mowing lawns with another kid when were so small it took two of us to push the lawnmower.

When I was 4 or 5 my father would drive me to highway cloverleafs. These always seemed to be awash in discarded bottles. We would fill up the back of the car.

After our joint experiences with newspapers and coins, I went on to real estate, construction, auto repair, marine and industrial repair, computer repair, simulation models, and contract engineering. These were often not profitable but my mother taught that failure was better than not trying.

Although I have been successful working for some big corporations, I could never resist having my own business on the side.

Comment by Robert M. Katzman

January 23, 2012 @ 3:18 pm

Ok Rick,
Now you get my cutting-the-grass story. I don’t think I’ve ever written it down:

The summer of ’58, my father told me to mow the lawn at my house on 8616 S. Bennett, front and back, where the fruit trees were. My grandfather, Nathan, planted them. He loved trees and kept as a lemon tree a pet in his house. Not kidding.

I had already learned that I was allergic to newly cut grass, a situation so unbelievable at a time when allergies were not understood that telling father that was too ridiculous for him to take seriously.

I was also allergic to all the fresh fruit growing in the back yard, but that was never a subject leading to conflict. But discovering one by one exactly what I was unable to eat, or be near, was a nightmare.

Knowing what I knew about newly cut grass, however, gave me good reason to resist my father’s insistant instructions, and resist I did, leading to a loud and threatening argument. He lost his temper and I took off down the block to 87th St and west toward Caldwell School, our school.

As you may possibly remember, although three years later since we hadn’t met yet, I could run like a son-of-a-bitch. My father couldn’t catch me. I was certain of that. In summer 1958 he was 45. That was considered pretty old then. We both kept running.

After three blocks, I began to worry that he might suffer a heart attack because of how far he had run and I was very concerned about him, even at eight years old. I had a real conflict going within me.

Deciding in his favor, but bracing for what would come next, I gradually slowed down. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings that I thought he was too old to chase me. I pretended to be winded and let him catch up, finally stopping about a block from school, and I waited for him.

In a minute, he caught me–or thought he had–and I got walloped right there on the street. Not a good moment.

He dragged me back home where I accepted that I had to mow the lawn. I saw that there was no way out. Either he would suffer, or I would. He watched me pushing the lawnmower. He didn’t want to have me take off again.

But then, after about ten minutes, I began coughing, then wheezing and my face turned red and my eyes and throat filled with tears and saliva, my nosing running uncontrollably and I stopped, unable to see clearly anymore and stood there in the middle of the yard.

My father witnessed all this. Though he was uncomprehending about what was happening before his eyes, coming from working-class immigrants from the tough West Side of Chicago, he had no concept of allergies–except one.

Cats.

Cats, and only cats, did to him what just about everything growing outside did to me. He understood I wasn’t faking. He also became filled with remorse that he forced me to do something that was harming me, and also realizing I hadn’t lied to him. He walked over to me and embraced me, very upset that he had “picked on somebody not his own size” contrary to what he had always told me was the proper way to conduct myself. We didn’t speak and he helped me climb the cement back steps into our kitchen. I was a mess and felt disgusting.

I immediately washed my face with ivory soap and steaming hot water, which I’d earlier learned would make most of my allergic symptoms stop. He sat at the kitchen table and watched me. After a while, I dried my face and my father got a clear view of my swollen, red, bloodshot eyes, and he could hear the hoarse wheezing as I was breathing. I looked terrible.

The incident changed our relationship for the rest of our lives. Forty-two years. He learned the hard way that I wouldn’t lie to him. He could trust me, no matter what.

We sat there, not talking, and then he said he was sorry, and went out the door to finish cutting the grass. I recovered. We never discussed the incident. Our pattern.

And I never told him how he was able to “catch” me. In my view, I felt he had already suffered enough and I didn’t want to add to it. Oh, and he never spanked me again.

So, that’s my story which was recalled by your own experience cutting grass. Hope you liked it. Now it’s in print, as usual, thanks to you.

See you,
Bob

Comment by Gargi

January 31, 2012 @ 4:51 pm

Bob, I can see now where your ‘Rabbit’ story arose from. Well, I soon recognized you yourself had the compassion gene within you, but to have a parent– your parent–your Dad, not only admit error in punishing his child, but then apologize for his actions, and never again physically punish you again, was clear (and rare) proof that your father had It too (the compassion gene).

For, as you said, during that time-period (and up until then), punishment and child ‘hard knocks’, in the guise of “upbringing” was almost a given. For your Dad to show you otherwise– to show you the face of humanity–instead- he clearly revealed too, that he could be trusted as a parent from then on in– by all his above responses (i.e. he paid attention, he took responsibility, he protected–you–thus future-presnet-day Rabbit story…(and a big hop from ‘sonny’ to ‘bunny’ that was born of compassion);~}

Yes. I liked this story and its major realizations; (and I like your Dad now even more)!

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February 13, 2012 @ 2:09 pm

[...] a really well written and interesting story on a different form of entrepreneurship with the title How does an Entrepreneuractually start out?. It doesn’t, as I expected by reading the title, talk about a famous start-up [...]

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