Learning #5: Optimism can cost ya

I'm a person who overall tends to look on the bright side of things, and tries to believe that most people out there are fundamentally good. Really, I try.

And yet I'm also a person who's a bit jaded by people overall, and having lived with a career con artist my bullshit detector is actually fairly good. Yes, I am a high-level thinker who may not notice minute detail; yes, because I like people in general I'm easier to engage in conversation than some; yes, I am easily distracted by shiny objects. But I'm a storyteller myself and I like listening to other people's stories, so if you're making up some elaborate lie you'd best cross your i's and dot your t's because if there's a hole in your story I'll notice it.

And yet, more often than not I just don't call people on their bullshit. It's almost a big cosmic gamble to me - if I let them go on thinking I believe them, what will happen?

And such was the case on a nice mid-morning Sunday, when I was having brunch and some random guy rung the doorbell.

Living in a "transitional" neighborhood in Oakland means that most people that show up on my porch uninvited aren't people I want on my front porch*. On the plus side, having a pack o' pit bulls means that a group of barking dogs running to the door is the norm when the doorbell rings (well, Pandora barks - she's the mix; thanks, Lab genes), so I pretty much figure that anyone standing there who isn't supposed to be there may as well notice the K9 posse (and the "Bad Dogs!" sign on the mailbox) waiting to greet them.

So: a guy rings the door. He's a mid-40-ish guy with gold... um, rims?... on his front teeth, exceptionally shellacked longish hair (unwittingly invoking the Soul Glo song in my internal monologue - see? shiny objects) and a cheap suit. He's spinning a tale about being a pastor who's locked out of his van down around the corner, and the van has a flat tire, and he owns Everett & Jones and if I help him out he'll give me a free dinner, and he just bought the apartment building around the corner and thought he was taking a day off but now he's stranded...

I thought the guy needed a phone or a ride. Instead he says he needs $8.13 for 2 cans of Fix-a-Flat. He promises he'll "bring it right back." He then gestures to himself and says "I'm not a bum, you know? Do I look like a bum?"

What I'm thinking is: Yes, actually you do kind of look like a bum. But you look more like a seedy hack of a huckster going to great lengths (and interrupting a leisurely, home-cooked Sunday brunch that I've just served) to take advantage of the better side of human nature and, in doing so, violating both my personal space and sense of community, all in the effort to scam a grand total of $8 from me.

In the first place, this story just makes no sense whatsoever. If you need 2 cans of anything to fix a flat, you need a new tire. Not to mention the fact that Fix-a-Flat isn't going to get you back into your van. If you're actually locked out of your car and you have a flat tire, what you need is a phone.

I first tell the guy (who looks appropriately wary of the dogs) that I don't have any cash. And then, for reasons I'm still exploring internally, I tell him to hang on and that I'll see what I have.

Now, I know from the get-go that this guy is lying. The story is too elaborate, it doesn't make sense, and I even think about asking him "What church?" or "Gimme a sermon!" or "What's your name? I'm going to call Everett and Jones**, and yet for some reason I just can't bring myself to call him on his bullshit. I almost hate myself for knowing so immediately that he's full of shit; what happened to the wondrous suspension of disbelief that allowed us to put teeth under our pillows and write letters to Santa?

(Answer: guys like this)

Sometimes I almost feel sorry for people when they're such crappy liars, and then I get frustrated that they're not trying harder to be good at it because now they're putting me in the awkward position of calling them on it. And then I start to wonder about what's really going on and why are they going to such lengths to lie so badly about something so stupid, and in this case I start figuring that this guy's life is probably just way worse than mine and that maybe, just maybe, there's the teeniest, tiniest chance that this $8.13 will come back to me. Like, maybe he'll take it and then start feeling really guilty about it, and bring it back later with a note or something. Or maybe he really is a pastor, and he thinks that this isn't enough because people are so jaded, and so he makes up the restaurant part because he thinks that I'll only give him money with a quid pro quo.

While I'm thinking all these things, I recognize that I'm trying to justify my actions by convincing myself that I believe him. But I'm still collecting quarters. Remember, I'm an optimist.

So I raid my change dish, fully resigning myself to the fact that the next time I'm in downtown Oakland dealing with their Gestapo-like newly-extended parking hours and fees and need a quarter I'll be cursing this guy for stealing all my quarters.

Or maybe, just maybe he's just borrowing them... (Not!)

So: I give the guy 4 $1 bills and $4.13 in change, and as I'm putting it into his hand I notice that his hand is worn and cracked and rough as sandpaper. These are simply not the hands of a pastor/restaurant mogul/new landlord. They are in fact much more like the hands of a bum than the hands of a regular pulpit resident,*** but I hand the money to him anyway. Bye bye, 4 hours & 3 minutes of parking in downtown Oakland. You may be missed (but probably not - the machines take cards).

He leaves, and the pessimist in me decides that his wild story was an elaborate scheme to case the house. But the cynic-optimist in me recognizes that having the opportunity to showcase a pack of pit bulls to a seedy shyster so devoid of ethics or morals that he'd invoke God as a reason to give him money (and who may have equally shady friends in the neighborhood) may actually be $8.13 well-spent.

I immediately call Everett and Jones to determine whether or not Dorothy Everett is related to a pastor/apartment owner who drives a van which may or may not now have a flat tire (answer: no), and then I call my insurance company to raise my insurance limits high enough to replace all my personal effects just in case he was actually casing the house.

And no, he did not come back with my $8.13. But I like to think that he feels really, really bad about it. And that he won't do it again.

And that, folks, is optimism. Well, sort of.




*A friend came over one day to find that we'd accidentally left the front window slightly open (not something to be doing in any part of Oakland, really), and there was a guy on our front porch with a half-pack of hot dogs from Grocery Outlet standing in front of it. This leads to so many questions: did he go to Grocery Outlet for hot dogs specifically because he noticed that my front window was open? If so, was the plan to steal my crap after braving the dogs by offering them hot dogs, or was he simply planning to break in and have a midday weenie roast in the ginormous kitchen? And what happened to the other half of the hot dogs? Had the actual dogs already enjoyed some? Had he eaten them on the way to my house? So many unanswered questions...

**I've in fact been to Everett and Jones, read their story on the menu, have the BBQ sauce in my 'fridge with the story on it, and therefore know that this is a woman-owned business that was started in the 70's by Dorothy Everett.

***disregarding Jesus, of course, since he was a carpenter and all