Monday, 04 September 2006

• Currently Reading Middlesex: A Novel By Jeffrey Eugenides see related

  The Slippery Grip of the Conman and Other Tales of Mobbery

  The potential con artist called Friday night.  She was the one referenced previously who resembled a harmless 40-something and had approached me at HEB.  She had wanted to get me some part-time job where she worked then, and being polite and easily sold, she gave me her number, and upon her request for mine, I obliged.
  
  Friday night: she calls.  She wants to schedule a meeting, or an "interview", to see if I meet the "qualifications."
  
  Timeout: You recruited me in a grocery store isle while I was picking my favorite kind of prunes, and now you worry about qualifications.
  
  Being the easily suckered sucker I am, I agreed to meet with her.  Her first available appointment was Sunday Night at like 7:30 pm.  Alas, I had to decline as I went on vacation with my father that weekend.
  Okay, Monday at 8:45 pm.  I reverted to spineless mode, and said sure.
  
  Meeting place Schlotzky's...
  
  Timeout: You recruited me in a grocery store and now want to check my qualifications... in a sandwich shop.
  
  Nevertheless it's agree upon.  Monday at 8:45.
  
  Afterwards, I regaled this new series of events to my parents, who both used some combination of "scam" "pyramid scheme" "cult" or "con-job" to describe the situation at hand.
  
  We dissected the past conversations between me and this guilty-til-proven-innocent conwoman regarding this "part-time job", looking for the sardines that were responsible for the scenario's fishy smell.
  
  Exhibit 1: Never mentioned a company by name; she always referred to it as some broad term like "we serve central texas on *random internet lingo and other tomfoolery*".   1 point for conman
  
  Exhibit 2:Upon requesting information, the best she could supply was a notepad with her number scribbled on it, and she asked for mine.  While most real businessmen would have businesscards, even most good conmen would, so this one goes down as: 1 point for mediocre conman
  
  Exhibit 3: Even in the phone call, she never mentioned a company name, but only said she needed to see if I was qualified to be part of their "expanding project."  Oh, like the way a pyramid scheme expands? 2 points for conman
  
  Exhibit 4: Googling her name found that she donated alot of money toward an anti-abortion society.  But nothing pertaining to any sort of venture that would offer engineering students part-time jobs.  1 point of conman who makes up for guilt by giving to anti-abortion organizations.
  
  Exhibit 5: Schlotzky's at 8:45 at night.  I don't know what kind of business is held at this time and location, but probably one run by a .... 1 point for conman.
  
  With my parents' advice, I decided to call and cancel.  This was tough, conmen con because they are good at conning.  I didn't want to get roped back into a phone conversation with her that would end with me giving her my life savings, firstborn child, and my very soul. 
  
  So, to be safe, I wrote a script.  When she answered, I would rattle off the script stating my reasons, say goodbye, and hangup before she could get a word in edgewise.  Brilliant.
  
  My script stated all truths.  That I had been gone this weekend on vacation, and I still had some homework to lookover.  And after talking with my parents, we agreed that I didn't need a part-time job and should concentrate soley on the 16 hours I'm currently taking. 
  All truths.
  
  And Hell, I just worked 8 straight months for 40 hours and at a fine wage.  Any wage they offered me would be an insult, and frankly, I do need the extra time.
  
  *ring*
  *ring*
  *ring*
  
  Voicemail! Perfect, the end of the tunnel.  I read my script, gave my condolences, and said goodbye.
  
  Fearing the callback, I put my phone on silent. And alas, after checking a few minutes later, she did indeed try to call.  No voicemail though.  If I get a voicemail, I'll delete it without listening.  I gave my reasons and I consider this con-mark relationship to be over.
  
  Maybe I was passing up a chance at a multi-million dollar future?
  
  That'd be regretful but unlikely. 
  
  I don't think most billionaires autobiographies start out with random HEB run-in's, late night interviews at Schlotzsky's, and then a straight path to easy street.
  
  But an autobiography about a guy who got conned out of all his money might start that way.
  
  And I'm Not That Guy... this time anyway.
  
  Addendum: In the standard and to-be-expected "God would never let me be successful. He'd kill me first. He'd never let me be happy" style, my bike got a flat tire.

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