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What A Party!: My Life Among Democrats: Presidents, Candidates, Donors, Activists, Alligators and Other Wild Animals Hardcover – Bargain Price, January 23, 2007

4.4 4.4 out of 5 stars 45 ratings

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Hardcover, Bargain Price, January 23, 2007
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About the Author

Terry McAuliffe, former chairman of the Democratic National Committee, legendary fund-raiser, and confidant of Presidents, lives in McLean, Virginia, with his wife, Dorothy, and their five children. Steve Kettmann has written for publications including The New York Times, The New Republic, and Salon.com. The author of One Day at Fenway, Steve cowrote the #1 New York Times bestseller, Juiced, with Jose Canseco.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One
I remember walking home from Bellevue Country Club in Syracuse late one afternoon when I was fourteen years old, and with each step I was more depressed. I had just spent five hours caddying, lugging two heavy golf bags up and down hills for a grand total of eight bucks. I didn’t mind the work. I’ve never minded the work. No, what had me distraught was the math. No matter how I turned it around in my head, it was clear I had already thrown my life away. I was going to have to face the cold, hard truth that I was a failure. What else could I call myself? There I was wasting my time, working for a measly two bucks an hour. I was never going to put any capital together at that rate!

“I’ve got to start my own business,” I announced to myself as I walked the mile home from the golf course.

I was aware there were certain obstacles to starting a business at age fourteen. I could not open my own legal practice just yet, most likely, and I probably couldn’t sell insurance either. I kept asking myself: What would people hire a young kid to do? One answer was house painting, but that just wasn’t me. I’d leave that to other guys my age. Then, as I turned onto Dundee Road toward home, I saw an older guy in front of his house sealing his driveway. He was all sweaty and irritated-looking, but he was stuck out there. The winters in Syracuse are so brutal that everyone has to seal their driveways often by putting down a layer of hot tar emulsion liquid, which is dirty, nasty work.

“You know what?” I said out loud, walking faster now. “They’ll hire a kid to do that. Nobody wants to do it himself and get that hot black tar all over you.”

I didn’t waste any time acting on my idea. I hurried home and typed up a letter announcing my new McAuliffe Driveway Maintenance business to all our neighbors. The next morning I handed those out all over the neighborhood, and by the end of that first day I had six jobs.

“Mom, can we go to Kmart?” I shouted across the house. “I’ve got to buy five-gallon buckets of tar!”

If you’ve never sealed a driveway, let me tell you, there’s not much to it. You take a broom and sweep away any dust or debris, then dump the hot tar onto the driveway and smooth it out with a squeegee. I had a little red wagon to wheel the bucket of tar from job to job. I hired friends to help me and mulled over my biggest problem—tar. It didn’t make sense to keep buying five-gallon containers at Kmart. The next step was Agway, a huge agricultural collective where I could buy fifty-gallon drums of concentrated tar. You had to dilute it, four gallons of water for every gallon of tar, so it went four times as far and you could increase your profit fourfold. The trouble was, those fifty-gallon drums were huge—and heavy. I was going to have to come up with a way to transport them.

“Hi, Uncle Billy,” I said over the phone. “Listen, I need help.”

Billy Byrne, my uncle, ran Byrne Dairy.

“I’ve got to start buying wholesale,” I told him. “This retail is killing me. I need to move a lot more tar around. Do you have any old dairy trucks? Can I buy one?”

Uncle Billy was having a hard time keeping up with all this.

“Well, we’ve got that truck graveyard out there in Cicero,” he said. “We’ll talk about it and see what you want.”

Billy said to call him back later, but I couldn’t wait. My buddy Joey Hartnett drove me up old Highway 11 to Cicero, just north of Syracuse, and we found Uncle Billy’s fleet of more than fifty old Byrne Dairy milk trucks all lined up and rusting with the keys in them. I had come prepared: I had a battery, a can of gas, spark plugs, and quarts of oil. We found a truck we liked and I put in a battery, replaced the spark plugs, added oil, and emptied some gas into its old tank.

“Keep your fingers crossed, Joey,” I said.

I turned the key and the old dairy truck actually started. To this day I can still hear the rumbling of that big old engine and feel the hum of that big steering wheel vibrating in my hands. Man, the excitement was unbelievable. I was in business! This was the start of everything for me. The next morning, when my parents woke up, they saw that old Byrne Dairy milk truck sitting out front in the driveway. They were almost as surprised as my uncle was when I called him later that morning.

“I found a truck I liked,” I said.

“We’ll talk about it, Terry,” he said. “Why don’t you come down next week?”

“Uncle Billy, you don’t understand,” I told him. “I have the truck here at the house.”

He was speechless. It had never dawned on him that I would head out to the lot on my own. There were liability issues, title issues—all kinds of things to think about. I just blew through all that. Uncle Billy was taken aback, but I think he respected that I was a young hustler. I got the title and license plates and we found some old brown house paint to slap on the truck. We put lettering on there, too, so anyone who saw us coming would know we were mcauliffe driveway maintenance.

Eventually I decided driveways were not enough.

“Excuse me, I’m here to see Mr. Higgins,” I told the secretary at the Syracuse Savings Bank.

Tom Higgins was the president of the bank, and his parking lots were in bad shape.

“I’m sorry, Mr. . . . ?” the secretary asked me, trying not to laugh. “Do you have an appointment?”

I was sixteen years old, a skinny kid wearing one of my older brother’s hand-me-down dress shirts with a big, ridiculous tie.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I need to see him. This is very important. This is life or death for his business.”

I was so serious, the secretary finally did laugh—and then she ushered me in to see the bank president.

“Mr. Higgins, let me tell you something,” I said, not wasting any time. “You’re a prominent businessman in this city. I want to show you what your business looks like.”

He was ready to shoo me out of there in nothing flat, but I’d brought one of those cheesy photo albums with me and I think I’d piqued his curiosity. I’d prepared a nice portfolio of the potholes, cracks, and ruts in his parking lots.

“This reflects on your company, sir,” I told Mr. Higgins as he flipped through the pictures.

Then he got to the second half and saw all the shots of smooth, dark, picture-perfect parking lots.

“This is what’s happening with other banks,” I told Mr. Higgins. “They are better looking. Your competitors are gaining a competitive edge against you.”

I got the job. We repaved all the Syracuse Savings Bank parking lots. Then I went after fire stations and we started repaving them, too. The business just kept growing. Our phone at home rang at all hours, with people wanting their driveways sealed.

“McAuliffe Driveway Maintenance,” my mother would say every time she answered our phone, like she was in an office.

One time my mother, Millie, was riding along with me in the passenger’s seat when the rotted floor of the truck gave out and all four legs of her chair poked through and scraped the road as we drove along. You should have seen the look on Millie’s face as she bounced up and down driving along the highway! Another time the old clutch gave out coming up a steep hill and I hit the brake, which sent the rear doors of the truck flying open. A freshly loaded fifty-gallon drum bounced out the back and accelerated downhill fast, flinging superthick black tar all over the place.

“I’ve got a big crisis,” I told my dad from the first pay phone I could find.

He heard me out, and then surprised me.

“Terry, it’s your business,” he said. “You get all the profits. That means you deal with any issues that come up. Like this.”

I couldn’t believe how much thick, gooey tar was oozing down the hill. I put down cones to block off traffic, whipped out my trusty squeegee and spent a couple hours smoothing out the tar across the street and getting as much of the excess into the sewer as I could. It was miserable work, but every time I drove past that street I could smile to myself at how good it looked and get a reminder that when you start your own business, you have to clean up your own messes. No one else can do that for you.

My sister-in-law Patty, Tommy’s wife, still laughs at the first impression I made on her. I took some of the money I made with McAuliffe Driveway Maintenance and invested in a snowblower and started my winter business. I would get up at four o’clock in the morning during the darkest, coldest days of winter and blow snow off driveways and sidewalks. I’d usually get paid with single dollar bills, which I’d jam into my pockets, and by the time I got home they would be a wet, crumpled mess. I would have been embarrassed to show up at my new bank, Syracuse Savings, to deposit money looking that bad. So instead I ironed each and every bill, spraying on a little starch for good measure. By the time I was done, those bills looked like they had just been wheeled out of the U.S. Treasury’s Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The first time Patty met me, I was in the middle of ironing a big load of dollar bills and she just burst out laughing.

I always loved selling. The year I turned twelve I got a...

Product details

  • ASIN ‏ : ‎ B001CJS60O
  • Publisher ‏ : ‎ Thomas Dunne Books; First Edition (January 23, 2007)
  • Language ‏ : ‎ English
  • Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 416 pages
  • Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 1.7 pounds
  • Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 6.13 x 1.38 x 9.25 inches
  • Customer Reviews:
    4.4 4.4 out of 5 stars 45 ratings

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