| One's born but one dies |
The thing that struck
me most about him was his acute discomfort.
He approached the door of the newspaper
office timidly, walked in and stood on the threshold
as if uncertain
about the kinds of creatures he would face inside.
He wore regular work clothes. There was
nothing extraordinarily distinguishing about him. He just
looked nervous and
uncomfortable.
He’d never done anything like this in
his life, he told me as he timidly neared my desk.
He didn’t even know how to go about it
… but if I would just bear with him, maybe he could
get his story out.
He was just so embarrassed.
He was a driver for the Arnold Baking Company, he said. His truck had
broken down up the highway,
filled with
his day’s delivery of breadstuffs. He’d gladly give our office staff a few
loaves of our
favorite bread if
only someone could lend him eight dollars to catch a bus back to his company to
get a substitute
truck.
Oh, this was just so embarrassing.
Seeing what might have been a slightly skeptical look on my face, he
produced a wad of credit
and identification
cards. One in particular, an Arnold I.D. card, had his picture on it. He was
who he said he
was. And he really did need help.
He just stood there looking woebegone while I pondered whether or not to
help my fellow man in
distress and
seemed overjoyed when I pulled out my wallet, scrounged out the eight bucks and
handed it to him.
He was so grateful.
After all, this had been so embarrassing. He scurried out the
door, promising English muffins as
a thank you
when he returned before our office closed at five.
I never saw him again.
In fact, when I called the Arnold Baking Company the next day to inquire
about their poor drive
with all the truck
trouble, I found that they never heard of him.
Indeed, someone from Arnold’s called back to
warn me that this same an had pulled the same
scam on someone in
a nearby community … the same story … the same ID cards … the
same eight bucks.
Everyone ribbed me about being too trusting.
I got kind advice from the local police clerk
when I reported the flim-flam so others could be alerted
to the
perpetrator’s method.
But no one taught me as valuable a lesson as the
con artist himself.
And, thanks to him, someday, some person who is really
in need will find a deaf ear when he or
she approaches me
for help. At least when it comes to money, anyway.
That’s really very sad.
We were brought up to believe in the virtue of helping
one’s neighbor. One of the greatest
commandments given
by the Almighty involves the way we should treat our fellow man.
Just try it.
After the incident, I pondered what it was about the whole thing that
really stuck in my craw. Was it
the money? Or was
it the lie? … the deceit? … the con?
Had the guy come into the office, poured out his
heart about being out of work, with sick kids and
nowhere else
to turn, I probably would have given him the money to help out. At least day
before
yesterday I
might have.
It was the lie … the deliberate resort to fraud to weasel me out of
money that is as important to me
as to him
that really angers me.
It’s probably true that there’s a sucker born every minute.
But yesterday, one sucker died.
And a wiser, more cynical person emerged.
There’s the pity of it all.