Getting Taken

A guy selling magazines caught me out in my yard.

He was, clearly, part of a magazine crew – which, as this New York Times article reports, are bad outfits, particularly to the young people who work for them.

My guy was very much like this guy (who these people brilliantly managed to film). (How were they so quick with the camera?)

My guy also talked at triple speed. He also was black and spewed stereotypes: that he likes fried chicken, that he drinks Kool-Aid (I didn’t even know that was one), that he grew up in “the hood.”

What’s up with that? I guess it’s meant to make me, the white “Jones” (as we marks are called), so uncomfortable that I will give him money.

 

This guy told me so much in a few minutes, all of it, I’m assuming, lies. He told me he grew up in Chicago (he even named the neighborhood, which I didn’t quite catch). He told me he now lived in Utah, flashing a driver’s license at me. He said he was going to college (didn’t quite catch the name of that either), where he was majoring in “public speaking.” He told me he had, at age 20, a three-year-old daughter.

I gave him money.

Why?

Short answer: I’m an idiot.

Longer answer: It’s Christmas, I’ve been giving people gifts and money for weeks. I felt bad for him, even as he was playing me for a fool. I didn’t want a confrontation; I wanted him gone.

At least I knew not to buy anything from him. I gave him money, which he seamlessly said he wasn’t taking – couldn’t take –  for himself, that it would go for magazines for “needy children.” (Again, I didn’t catch the particulars.)

Makes me feel crappy.