If this journalism thing doesn’t work out (and it darn well better), I think I’ll switch careers to be a street vendor. Not just any vendor, mind you; I have no interest in hawking knock-off watches or “real leather” belts. But there’s two salesmen on Broadway who catch my attention every time I walk by — the guy selling classic literature and the dude with carpet cleaner.

These two stands fascinate me for different reasons. The carpet cleaner stirs up childhood memories of strolling through the state fair, seeing row after row of badly dressed, over-aggressive, commission-driven hucksters selling everything from slice-‘em, dice-‘em, juice-‘em machines to early versions of dehydrating machines (Take that succulent piece of fruit that’s so tasty and juicy and make it a desiccated husk! That will make it taste even better!) to, indeed, carpet cleaners. But the guy on 112th and Broadway doesn’t have the fancy stand and microphone. It’s just him, a long, filthy rag of a carpet, a bottle of cleaner and a mop. Several days a week — including at least an hour today — he stands there scrubbing the carpet, convincing onlookers that they need Carpet Shine (tm). American capitalism at its best.

The bookseller is at the other end of the spectrum. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him actually try to sell anything: he just lounges around reading, letting people browse the amazing array of Shakespearean plays, Greek philosophy and political tomes he has crowded on a card table. They’re books people sell him or he picks up in actual used bookstores, he said the other day. He was cagey about releasing sales figures, but said he was doing OK (not paying rent on a storefront has to help). He just wants to help people read, he said.

So maybe that’s where I’ll end up in a few years. If I’m lucky, I’ll combine the two vendor motifs and end up selling really, really clean books.