Punk-Kid, English-Speaker Seeker & Broker-Boy

-
The following incident occurred on Friday, October 8, 2010 at approximately 11:50 ante meridiem: He said he lived around the corner and down the block.  He said he took care of his grandparents.  As fate would have it, I take care of my grandfather.  He said he was raising money to arrange a trip to London.  There, he would intern for the BBC.  No, not as a presenter, or a reporter, or as a newsreader; no, this Punk-Kid standing on my stoop would be learning behind-the-camera, technical stuff.  “Oh, the BBC,” I said.  I was impressed, I was envious, and it showed.  I rather enjoy that Mike Embley chap on the BBC World News.  True, this Punk-Kid looked more like a run-of-the-mill junkie than a news junkie, but I am often too quick to judge.  ON-THE-SPOT HYPOTHESIS:  Perhaps this Punk-Kid was endeavoring to turn his life around--somehow, he caught a break--and if only he could raise enough money for the trip, he would see his dream through.  END ON-THE-SPOT HYPOTHESIS.  This Punk-Kid obviously picked up on my astonishment.  But then he asked if I worked for the BBC.  I should have shut my door at that very moment.  Do I work for the BBC?  Ah, flattery.  I am rarely the recipient of flattery and as a result this has made me an easy target, a gullible chump, a “Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me” Pierrot.  In the employ of the BBC?  Silly little me?  What a question to ask!  I was flattered all the same.  By dumb luck, this Punk-Kid was pressing all the right buttons, thus, making me putty in his hands.  Note, too, that I easily blush.  Furthermore, I easily sweat.  Indeed, I’ll have a full-out panic attack if you are a pretty young woman and you stare at me for thirty seconds or longer.  “Do you work for the BBC?”  There was nothing to indicate that I might work for the BBC.  He must have expected me to say no because most people would say no.  EXCURSUS:  Years ago, a guy walked up to me and asked, “Do you speak English?”  Now, if we were in Tashkent, where the official language is Uzbek, this query would have relevance; but we were not in the capital of Uzbekistan; we were on the southwest corner of Clark and Belmont in Chicago, Illinois.  Instead of a proper reply, I offered this English-speaker seeker--clearly a native of North America--the briefest of glares.  END EXCURSUS.  After this Punk-Kid asked if I worked for the BBC, he asked if I had ever been to London.  This was probably another trap; another means to gain my confidence.  But I told him “Not yet,” which is the truth.  If, instead, I said that I had, he would have surely elevated me to the position of Expert.  He would have wanted to know where to stay, where to eat, what to see, etc.  But, alas, my feet have never left North American soil.  This Punk-Kid kept calling me by my grandfather’s surname.  He did this, I imagine, because that is the name etched into the dirty brass plate on the front door--that is, unless he had checked somewhere else beforehand--a phonebook, the internet, our mailbox.  Fool that I am, I corrected him--that is, with the correct surname.  I did not, however, disclose my first name.  For that, I believe I deserve at least a smidgeon of credit.  EXCURSUS:  A few years back, another scheming stripling rang the doorbell.  Although this one wore a suit and tie, he was no less illiterate or audacious than the Punk-Kid; for he, too, did not heed the “NO SOLICITING” sign affixed to the “storm” door.  I allowed his formal attire to disarm me, nevertheless.  And because he was fresh-faced and of slight build, I flipped the deadbolt free and pulled the front door open.  He offered his hand.  I shook it.  Everything about him looked clean and polished.  He was even carrying an attaché case.  He said he was some kind of investment advisor; he was new to the area and, ostensibly, somewhat desperate for clients.  He handed me a promotional pamphlet from a brokerage firm with a familiar name.  And where, I asked, was his office located?  As of yet, he did not have one.  ON-THE-SPOT HYPOTHESIS:  Perhaps he is no more than an earnest young man starting out in his chosen field.  And with the prevalence of caller-ID, who, these days, is foolish enough to pick up the phone when a stranger calls?  Indeed, the unproven, independent stockbroker/advisor must take risks and, I suppose, make house calls in order to make a serious go of it.  It is plausible.  And, besides, one does not want to think ill of every assertive stranger one meets.  Take Lou, our next-door neighbor, for example.  Lou is simply gregarious; quite assertive, yes, but quite harmless, nonetheless.  END ON-THE-SPOT HYPOTHESIS.  I accepted the pamphlet and told Broker-Boy that, if we were interested, we would let him know.  God as my witness, I never gave him my name--first or last.  Weeks passed.  Then, one day, the phone rang.  True, it rang during the intervening period, but Lou was typically the one initiating these rings.  This time it was Broker-Boy.  During our initial meeting, I did not provide him with our phone number.  Although our landline does not have caller-ID--because my grandfather is cheap and slow to embrace new technology--the number is enrolled in the National Do Not Call Registry.  Regardless, Broker-Boy addressed me by name--by my first name.  Had he run an internet search?  Had he looked through our mail?  I did not ask.  Broker-Boy wanted to let us know that he had finally found an office for his fledgling little branch of whatever-it-was brokerage firm.  Great.  Atta boy.  But we are still not interested.  Bye-bye, now.  Weeks pass.  Broker-Boy calls my cell.  MY CELL.  I have no idea how he got my cell number.  If I do not know you, and I do not do business with you, you do not have my cell number.  Somewhere, somehow, Broker-Boy must have paid for it.  You will not, through any conventional means, find my cell number online.  How any nefarious organization obtained it, I have no idea.  Perhaps he had contacted all of the major wireless carriers and used some means of social engineering.  Regardless, I told him, again, that if we wanted to toss any of our business his way, I would not hesitate to contact him.  But this time the tone of my voice made it very clear that he should not hold his breath on ever hearing from either my grandfather or me.  Since then, Broker-Boy has left us alone--that is, unless he is operating in collusion with that Punk-Kid.  END EXCURSUS. 

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more