I have always had a grudging admiration for a confidence man. That is a crook who weaves an elaborate story and delivers it with innovative skill like an actor doing improvisation.
So, on a sunny Saturday, Andromache and I were making slow but steady progress up Bleecker Street to our bench in the park opposite that calorific tourist ritual site, the Magnolia bake shop, when we were stopped by a smiling man who asked repeatedly, “do you know who I am – do you know who I am?”
We returned his smiles and felt just a twinge of guilt at not being able to identify someone who seemed so convinced he knew us.
“Who is the nicest black woman you know,” he offered and offered again and again as we gave him blank stares.
“C’mon she used to work with you. What was the last company you worked for?”
“The United States Council for International Business,” I found myself saying and he quickly followed up, “Yeah, The United States Council for International Business. Who was the nicest black lady you worked with?” More blank stares as I reviewed all the faces in that organization and realized no one fit the description.
Then he came up with a new question. “Where do you live?” and when we offered “Charles Street,” he quickly returned, “too bad I didn’t know that.” He then offered, “I just got married,” which immediately elicited congratulations from my spouse. Our new friend said, “And they gave me a car but I drove it down here and I ran out of gas. I had no money so I offered the gas station my ring and my wallet but they would not let me take any gas so could you help me out?”
Oh wow the pay off! Afterwards, I thought how hard this guy worked to get 20 bucks. How quick he was to flit from verbal gimmick to gimmick and how soiled I felt at almost being taken.
He had selected us because we were visibly old and hence, in his mind, ripe for deception.
