A Completely Legit Transaction
A couple weeks ago I decided to take the plunge and buy A Big TV. I had a few extra bucks, so I started trolling Craigslist for a reasonably priced flatscreen, with a few necessary numbers attatched that I don't fully understand. I found one, wrote the guy, and exchanged a few emails about how I'd go about picking it up. It was my sister's last day of having the car down here in the City, and I was determined to use it for something before she brought it back up state, and I was without wheels again.
The seller, Tariq, told me to call him after I got off from work to hammer out the details. When I did, I should have known something was up. "So, I think you may have responded to the wrong ad for the wrong TV. The used one that you asked for wasn't for sale by us, it was someone else." I was a little mystified by this, but as I didn't have a computer in front of me, I had no way to verify this. I thanked him for his time, but he interrupted me, "No, I have another TV for you. 46" Sharp LCD. Very good, and new, not used."
A new TV is better then a used one, right? He told me I'd just have to get out to the warehouse to pick it up. When I said I might be a little later then the warehouse's stated time, he thought about it for a while, and told me, "You need to meet up with my man Mohommed. He'll put the TV in the back of his van, and you can meet him, pay him, and get it directly from him. Now, just so you know, Mohammed is no gentleman, like you and I."
OK, what? I had no idea what he meant. But what the hell, discount TV, right? I go and draw out a fist full of twenties from the ATM, and get in the car with my sister. She made me drive there, and its been since 2007 that I've had my own car, so the highways of Queens were something of an adventure, but we got to the exit safe and sound. We must have made a wrong turn, cause we ended up in some very high numbered streets that weren't right. I mean, 260th St? We call Mohammed, who offers to come and meet us where we are.
When he shows up, he seems like a normal blue collar guy. Jumpsuit, shitty minivan, oddly Hispanic features and accent for a dude named Mohommed, but who am I to judge? He tells us we need to go somewhere more private for the transaction, as we don't want to police to notice. Not that this isn't strictly legal, of course. But you know, police are trouble, and this isn't the best neighborhood "for me," and we need to get off the street. His house, maybe?
Now I am thinking about the wad of money in my pocket, which my sister counted on the way over, and I suddenly get cold feet. More private where the police won't notice our completely legit transaction, also means where they won't notice my ass getting mugged. And as Tariq told me, Mohammed is no gentleman. I opt for the Mobil station on the corner to do the totally above board deed.
I pull in (no camera pointed towards this part of the lot, is there?), he pulls in behind (why am I blocked in?), opens the back of his stripped minivan (not an official delivery van from the warehouse?) and we move the impressive looking box (what is really in this box?) over into the back of my sister's VW. As we do so, he reminds me that what that what we are doing is of course, completely legal. Its just a matter of goods shifting hands you know? From one person to the next, thinsg get confusing sometimes but, repetitively, it is all 100% legal. Then he tells me we can't change money out on the street, and to get into his car.
I reach into my pocket, as he tells me, "Go ahead and send in the registration, this thing has a full warranty, no problem." I hand him the money, as I do so hoping my sister counted right and that I wasn't about to be stabbed for shorting Mohammed. He goes through it, apparently happy with the huge wad of twenties. He assures me, "Sure, I can give you a receipt, I just don't have one with me. But no problem. We've had the same number for years, we're not going anywhere. Its not like I'm selling my own stuff here. Give us a call." I ask him for directions back to the highway. He tells me, finishing up with, "And then you get on the highway, heading west, and you are Scott free."
Wait. Aren't criminals the only one who get away Scott free? We follow him to the highway, he waves us on. We have the prescence of mind to get his license plate before we leave. Cause clearly our keen investigative minds are on top of the situation where I paid a guy from Craigslist in an unmarked van a big old wad cash for a TV box with no receipt. A box that may well be filled with bricks, for all I know. I didn't want to insult Mohammed by checking.
In the end, the box was filled with delicious flat TV goodness, and it works fine. I haven't called for a receipt. My friend who comes from a good Italian family has convinced me that I don't want to send in warranty card. I think he's probably got the right idea.
The seller, Tariq, told me to call him after I got off from work to hammer out the details. When I did, I should have known something was up. "So, I think you may have responded to the wrong ad for the wrong TV. The used one that you asked for wasn't for sale by us, it was someone else." I was a little mystified by this, but as I didn't have a computer in front of me, I had no way to verify this. I thanked him for his time, but he interrupted me, "No, I have another TV for you. 46" Sharp LCD. Very good, and new, not used."
A new TV is better then a used one, right? He told me I'd just have to get out to the warehouse to pick it up. When I said I might be a little later then the warehouse's stated time, he thought about it for a while, and told me, "You need to meet up with my man Mohommed. He'll put the TV in the back of his van, and you can meet him, pay him, and get it directly from him. Now, just so you know, Mohammed is no gentleman, like you and I."
OK, what? I had no idea what he meant. But what the hell, discount TV, right? I go and draw out a fist full of twenties from the ATM, and get in the car with my sister. She made me drive there, and its been since 2007 that I've had my own car, so the highways of Queens were something of an adventure, but we got to the exit safe and sound. We must have made a wrong turn, cause we ended up in some very high numbered streets that weren't right. I mean, 260th St? We call Mohammed, who offers to come and meet us where we are.
When he shows up, he seems like a normal blue collar guy. Jumpsuit, shitty minivan, oddly Hispanic features and accent for a dude named Mohommed, but who am I to judge? He tells us we need to go somewhere more private for the transaction, as we don't want to police to notice. Not that this isn't strictly legal, of course. But you know, police are trouble, and this isn't the best neighborhood "for me," and we need to get off the street. His house, maybe?
Now I am thinking about the wad of money in my pocket, which my sister counted on the way over, and I suddenly get cold feet. More private where the police won't notice our completely legit transaction, also means where they won't notice my ass getting mugged. And as Tariq told me, Mohammed is no gentleman. I opt for the Mobil station on the corner to do the totally above board deed.
I pull in (no camera pointed towards this part of the lot, is there?), he pulls in behind (why am I blocked in?), opens the back of his stripped minivan (not an official delivery van from the warehouse?) and we move the impressive looking box (what is really in this box?) over into the back of my sister's VW. As we do so, he reminds me that what that what we are doing is of course, completely legal. Its just a matter of goods shifting hands you know? From one person to the next, thinsg get confusing sometimes but, repetitively, it is all 100% legal. Then he tells me we can't change money out on the street, and to get into his car.
I reach into my pocket, as he tells me, "Go ahead and send in the registration, this thing has a full warranty, no problem." I hand him the money, as I do so hoping my sister counted right and that I wasn't about to be stabbed for shorting Mohammed. He goes through it, apparently happy with the huge wad of twenties. He assures me, "Sure, I can give you a receipt, I just don't have one with me. But no problem. We've had the same number for years, we're not going anywhere. Its not like I'm selling my own stuff here. Give us a call." I ask him for directions back to the highway. He tells me, finishing up with, "And then you get on the highway, heading west, and you are Scott free."
Wait. Aren't criminals the only one who get away Scott free? We follow him to the highway, he waves us on. We have the prescence of mind to get his license plate before we leave. Cause clearly our keen investigative minds are on top of the situation where I paid a guy from Craigslist in an unmarked van a big old wad cash for a TV box with no receipt. A box that may well be filled with bricks, for all I know. I didn't want to insult Mohammed by checking.
In the end, the box was filled with delicious flat TV goodness, and it works fine. I haven't called for a receipt. My friend who comes from a good Italian family has convinced me that I don't want to send in warranty card. I think he's probably got the right idea.