Ode to Saps Everywhere
Leon's brother Sam is staying with us right now, and it seems that whenever he visits, I make a serious error in philanthropic judgment. Last time, I invited a strange man into our home when I was alone.
This time, I was on my lunch break and chatting on the phone with Dirk--the latter making me a perfect target because all I wanted to do was get back to my conversation.
I was standing outside of the restaurant where I planned to buy my lunch, when an overweight African American man in his early fifties approached me. There were wet spots around his eyes, and I didn't know if this was an effect of the sporadic rain or because he was crying. I chose to believe that it was rain, because the thought that he had been crying and had chosen not to wipe away the tears or that he had wet his face in an effort to look emotional was just far too manipulative.
He was missing his front teeth, but everything else about his appearance suggested there was legitimacy to his story: he was well dressed, carrying a map, and polite. He told me that he was a repair man and it was his first day working at a nearby building, which he even named. He said that his truck had been towed and that all of his belongings and money were inside. He needed money to get home.
I chose to believe his story or, at the very least, to give him money so that he would go away. As I explained to Dirk--who, on the other end of the phone, started to panic because he believed I was in trouble or doing something remarkably stupid--my actions can be summed up by a combination of wishing that someone would help me if I were in the same situation and the belief that such a man is far more wounded by my not believing his story than I am wounded by believing it. That is to say, I give a guy $5, $10, or $20 and I might have just been swindled. I lose. But if his story was legitimate and I didn't help him, he is fucked.
This makes me a sucker, of course, and recounting the story to Leon and Sam over dinner only solidified this.
So this man needed money for bus fare, and I decided to help him out. I probably would have given him $10. But the first bill that I pulled out of my purse was a twenty, and he could see immediately that there was quite a bit of cash in my wallet that he might be able to get me to part with. A fool and his money, and all that.
Somehow, I decided to give him the twenty. I'm not sure what he said that upped the ante, but his next move was to see what else he could get out of this poor sap.
"Well, there are four of us," he said, "and I think it costs $8.90 to get home. What is that?" I told him that this was between $35 and $36, and this led to me extracting another twenty dollar bill out of my purse and handing it to the man.
"Then, after we take the bus, it's going to be another $4 apiece," he said. And, by this point, I knew that I had just been fucked, fucked, fucked. Even if the guy's story was legitimate, he needed nothing more than five bucks and every cent beyond that was him taking me for a ride. I apologized politely and told him that this was all I could do. He hugged me and left.
Unfortunately, my common sense was hindered by my desire to be charitable and the fact that I was distracted by a phone call. Sam, Leon, and Dirk all chastised me for this, but I tried to believe that this man would benefit more from the forty bucks than I would.
Of course, what really made the swindle for me was that this man offered to pay me back. He acted so desperate for this money that it would be worth $100 to him in the future, he said. So he asked me to write down my address so he could send me a check--changing his story from "shoot, I make $30 an hour; what do I care?" to "I'll just bill my company."
I told him that it was unnecessary to do this, but still I wrote my contact information on his map in the hopes that he might be true to his word. After doing this, I realized that I was probably setting myself up to be robbed. I mean, a chick that will hand a man $40, no questions asked, must have a pretty sweet house. But maybe when he shows up at our apartment building to burgle our home, he'll feel so guilty that he'll slip the forty dollars under our door.
Either way, I realize that I got Nigerian scammed--in person! I honestly didn't give him money because I thought there would be more money for me down the line, but that was obviously what he was banking on: find a sucker who will give you some money in the hopes of getting more down the line. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I really need to stop being so naïve, but at least I won't be tempted to give a beggar money for a couple of months in the hopes that all will even out.
This time, I was on my lunch break and chatting on the phone with Dirk--the latter making me a perfect target because all I wanted to do was get back to my conversation.
I was standing outside of the restaurant where I planned to buy my lunch, when an overweight African American man in his early fifties approached me. There were wet spots around his eyes, and I didn't know if this was an effect of the sporadic rain or because he was crying. I chose to believe that it was rain, because the thought that he had been crying and had chosen not to wipe away the tears or that he had wet his face in an effort to look emotional was just far too manipulative.
He was missing his front teeth, but everything else about his appearance suggested there was legitimacy to his story: he was well dressed, carrying a map, and polite. He told me that he was a repair man and it was his first day working at a nearby building, which he even named. He said that his truck had been towed and that all of his belongings and money were inside. He needed money to get home.
I chose to believe his story or, at the very least, to give him money so that he would go away. As I explained to Dirk--who, on the other end of the phone, started to panic because he believed I was in trouble or doing something remarkably stupid--my actions can be summed up by a combination of wishing that someone would help me if I were in the same situation and the belief that such a man is far more wounded by my not believing his story than I am wounded by believing it. That is to say, I give a guy $5, $10, or $20 and I might have just been swindled. I lose. But if his story was legitimate and I didn't help him, he is fucked.
This makes me a sucker, of course, and recounting the story to Leon and Sam over dinner only solidified this.
So this man needed money for bus fare, and I decided to help him out. I probably would have given him $10. But the first bill that I pulled out of my purse was a twenty, and he could see immediately that there was quite a bit of cash in my wallet that he might be able to get me to part with. A fool and his money, and all that.
Somehow, I decided to give him the twenty. I'm not sure what he said that upped the ante, but his next move was to see what else he could get out of this poor sap.
"Well, there are four of us," he said, "and I think it costs $8.90 to get home. What is that?" I told him that this was between $35 and $36, and this led to me extracting another twenty dollar bill out of my purse and handing it to the man.
"Then, after we take the bus, it's going to be another $4 apiece," he said. And, by this point, I knew that I had just been fucked, fucked, fucked. Even if the guy's story was legitimate, he needed nothing more than five bucks and every cent beyond that was him taking me for a ride. I apologized politely and told him that this was all I could do. He hugged me and left.
Unfortunately, my common sense was hindered by my desire to be charitable and the fact that I was distracted by a phone call. Sam, Leon, and Dirk all chastised me for this, but I tried to believe that this man would benefit more from the forty bucks than I would.
Of course, what really made the swindle for me was that this man offered to pay me back. He acted so desperate for this money that it would be worth $100 to him in the future, he said. So he asked me to write down my address so he could send me a check--changing his story from "shoot, I make $30 an hour; what do I care?" to "I'll just bill my company."
I told him that it was unnecessary to do this, but still I wrote my contact information on his map in the hopes that he might be true to his word. After doing this, I realized that I was probably setting myself up to be robbed. I mean, a chick that will hand a man $40, no questions asked, must have a pretty sweet house. But maybe when he shows up at our apartment building to burgle our home, he'll feel so guilty that he'll slip the forty dollars under our door.
Either way, I realize that I got Nigerian scammed--in person! I honestly didn't give him money because I thought there would be more money for me down the line, but that was obviously what he was banking on: find a sucker who will give you some money in the hopes of getting more down the line. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I really need to stop being so naïve, but at least I won't be tempted to give a beggar money for a couple of months in the hopes that all will even out.