It was my corner. Sure, it wasn’t as busy as others, where the top girls worked.
But I could count on a steady income, and having something I could call mine was important. At 15 and homeless, my job options were limited. All I had were my clothes, my name, and this corner. I took pride in turning it from a slow producer into one rivaling busier intersections.
In 1973, the area was in transition—torn between industry and agriculture. Cotton fields stretched on one side, asphalt on the other, patches of open dirt, and the occasional locally owned business. I worked near a gas station, a familiar landmark in a place that couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be.
Mom divorced Jim about a year ago, as she had done with her three previous husbands. Seven years made Jim her longest marriage, and though I rarely saw him anymore, he would always be Dad to me. That’s how it worked—moms divorced, and dads disappeared.
After she left, social services got involved. They called Jim, but he had remarried—a skeletal alcoholic named Karen, with two kids of her own. When the caseworker asked if they could take us in, Jim said there was no room in their cramped trailer for four more children. They agreed to keep Jimmy, the youngest—his biological son. The rest of us would be placed in separate homes.
It’s a hard thing to accept—that your fate is constantly tossed around by the whims of adults, as if you’re nothing more than a stray piece of trash caught in the wind. Just when you think you’ve landed, another decision comes, and you’re thrown again. I longed for stability. For roots.
So, I made a choice. I would take control. No one else would decide my future but me.
I disappeared.
I moved in with my friend Beth—not officially, just quietly. Her parents were divorced, and she lived with her dad, who spent most nights at his girlfriend’s house. He barely noticed when I was there, and Beth was happy for the company. It worked.
We lived like carefree teenagers, talking and giggling late into the night. Our groceries were meager, but Beth made the best homemade tortillas and refried beans. We still went to school, though I skipped classes sometimes. But I always showed up—because school felt safe. It was the only place that felt like it could be mine. When I wasn’t in class, I was in the library, surrounding myself with books, soaking in knowledge like it was my lifeline.
But I needed money.
Beth insisted I didn’t have to contribute, but I wasn’t comfortable being indebted to anyone. In my experience, generosity often came with strings attached.
I walked to every business within reach, asking for a job. No one wanted to hire a 15-year-old without an ID, address, or experience. Then, I found a classified ad that seemed perfect.
I dialed the number. A deep voice answered.
“I’m calling about the job in The Arizona Republic.”
“Yeah,” the voice replied. “You go to the corner we assign you. We’ll drop off buckets of flowers and some starter change. You sell the flowers for 25 cents each or five for a dollar. At the end of your shift, we’ll collect the remaining flowers, take back the starter change, and pay you 20% of your sales. In cash.”
“What ID do I need?”
“We don’t require ID. Just show up.”
Perfect.
I picked the closest corner—51st Avenue and Camelback—which was within walking distance of Beth’s house and Maryvale High School. It wasn’t their best-selling spot, but I could move to a more profitable corner if I proved myself. There were incentives, too—show up three days in a row, get a bonus. Work 30 days, and I’d get a pay increase to 25% commission.
The next day after school, I walked the two-and-a-half miles to my new workplace.
My stomach churned as I stood waiting on the southwest corner of the gas station. Then, a beat-up, creepy van—the kind you see in every true crime documentary—pulled up. A skinny, dirty, long-haired hippie guy climbed out.
“You Jean?”
I nodded.
He slid the van door open and started unloading buckets of carnations—red, white, pink, some dyed blue, and rainbow. Their sweet scent filled the air.
“Our top girls sell five buckets,” he said. “But this is a slow corner. Let’s start with three.”
He handed me a Ziploc bag filled with starter cash and had me count it. Then he drove off.
I picked up a handful of carnations and wrapped them in a paper towel. These flowers aren’t going to sell themselves.
I lifted them high and started pacing along the street.
It didn’t take long for my first car to stop. I made change, tucked my profit into the bag, and kept moving. Some drivers honked. Many pulled over. Some seemed more interested in talking than buying flowers, but I didn’t mind—conversation made time pass faster. And more often than not, after chatting for a while, they’d buy flowers just to give them to me.
They’d beam, thinking they’d done something sweet.
I’d smile, thank them enthusiastically, and as soon as they drove away, I’d put the flowers back in the bucket and resell them. Pure profit.
At eight o’clock, the van returned. Hippie guy counted the flowers and cash, then started calculating my pay.
That’s when I noticed—he was shorting me.
“That’s not 20%,” I said. “Twenty percent of $100 is $20. You owe me $20.”
He blinked at me, confused. “No one’s ever questioned me before.”
“I’m not questioning you,” I said. I’m just stating the agreement. My cut is 20%, which means you owe me $20.”
He hesitated, then shrugged and handed over the correct amount.
It happened more than once, and I realized – he wasn’t cheating me on purpose. He didn’t know how to calculate percentages. I wondered how many other girls had been shorted simply because they didn’t understand math. Most of them were high school dropouts, kids on the street like me.
I was grateful for my education.
While my classmates grumbled about homework, I understood something they didn’t: knowledge was power. School wasn’t just a requirement—it was a lifeline.
When I earned my first bonus for showing up three days in a row, I had to remind hippie guy again.
He checked his records and looked surprised. “No one’s ever earned this before.”
I didn’t understand—why would anyone leave money on the table just because they didn’t show up?
That was my first lesson in maxing out a comp plan—a skill that would help me earn more than I ever imagined in the years to come.
But what I really learned that day wasn’t about money. It was about me.
At 15, I was an abandoned, homeless girl standing on a street corner. But I was also something more—an entrepreneur, a negotiator, a strategist. I didn’t see it that way then, but looking back, I know now: this was where I started to become the person I am today.
I learned that people will take advantage of you if you let them. Showing up, asking for what you’ve earned, and knowing your worth changes everything. I learned that the world belongs to those bold enough to step forward and own their place in it. And I learned that if you don’t ask, the answer is no.
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was winning.
And I’ve been winning ever since.
