Deception

The dark box beckoned. I held my breath, and cautiously inched my hand deep into the shadowy unknown. I curled my fingers slowly and pulled the unidentified object into the light. Gasp. I held it in my hands like the flag of the enemy. It was Jane Magazine.

**********************************************************

I loved Belmont in July. The day was thick and lazy. The campus was bright and calm. Warmth was always something I could count on. The afternoon lull had sucked me into my term paper for Educational Psychology, and my room was just quiet enough to hear the clocks ticking.

KNOCK KNOCK!

“Oh, Geez!” My shoulders jolted and sent my hands flying high above my computer.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!!

“I-HEAR-YOU!!” I shook my head and leapt out of the $9.99 Target office chair that had held me for the past two hours. File…and...Save.

I dreamily made my way to the door of my Hillside apartment, wondering if it was ok to still be dressed in pajamas. Wouldn’t be the first time, I thought, assuming I would soon be facing an R.A.

“Yes?” I stuck my head around the door and acknowledged an appealing, well-tanned young guy. He grinned.

“Hello!” He said with a mysterious accent. “How are you today?”

I cracked a smile. “I’m fine thank you…How are you?”

“Oh I’m wonderful Dear, just wonderful. What a beautiful day, the sun is out. Mmmm Mmmm!”

“Yep, it’s nice.”

“Yea, Sweetie. Now, tell me dear, where are you from?”

“New Orleans,” I answered proudly.

“Ah! Ok, ok…” He cocked his head and squinted. “Can you guess where I’m from?” he asked.

“Oh gosh,” I said pathetically, hoping to worm my way out of sounding ignorant. He didn’t budge. “Um, ok….Russia?” It was a shot in the dark, but I tried.

“Aw, so close.” He swung his hand out and patted my shoulder. “I’m from Bosnia.”

“Ah…” I nodded like Bosnia was my second guess.

“Listen Sweetie,” he kept calling me Sweetie, except it sounded more like ‘swittie’ with that accent. He leaned in as I stood wedged between the door and the door frame. Something something...he’s a foreign student…something about a competition…word word…scholarship program…something… raising points and magazines. I nodded and maintained eye contact, hoping he didn’t notice my inability to follow.

“May I borrow your table?” he asked, and he gently pushed passed me. He pulled from his pocket a pen and paper and casually sat himself at the kitchen counter. “What’s your name, Babe?”

“Lindsey Wells,” I shot out.

“Address, telephone number, and birthday?”

Again, I answered.

“Alright, for Jane Magazine…that will be $60.”

Wait…CONFUSION!! Was he was joking? Surely he was. I waited for the punch line...

“You can pay with cash, credit card, or check.”

I was not amused. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you were selling magazines.” I began to feel badly that I had wasted his time. “I can’t buy anything today.”

His grin vanished as sneakily as it appeared. “Why not??”

It seemed like an inappropriate question, but I answered it anyway. “Well, I don’t have $60 at the moment. I’m sorry.”

“But I haven’t seen my family in three years!” His stretched his head forward and gripped the table with both hands.

Ok…what? I had no idea. Did he say that already? This was a serious lack of communication. “Look, if I had the money, I would love to give it to—”

“Oh don’t say that!” He lunged off the stool. “If you really cared you would help me.”

I sensed that this was going somewhere bad. I tried to put an end to it. “Hey, I’m a poor college student too and I don’t have $60 just lying around.”

“You can pay with a check.”

“I’m out of checks.”

“Well what about a credit card?”

“No!” I couldn’t believe it. “I’m sorry but I’m not gonna give you my credit card number.”

“Why not?!”

“Because it’s unsafe!”

“Unsafe?!” he bent the word with his expression and shoved his hand into his pocket. “Everyone else gave me money!” He said, spilling a handful of cash and checks on the table. I stayed silent.

“Do you think that I walked around all day in the hot sun just to cheat people out of their money?” He bent to look me in the eye. “I believe in JESUS!”

There is a screaming Bosnian in my kitchen. I thought fast. “Ok, how about this. I will go to an ATM and get you cash.”….ie. Drive away and come back with the police.

“How long would that take you?”

The nerve. I felt my face heat & answered through clenched teeth. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Isn’t there an ATM on campus?”

Danggit. There was no escape. I just wanted him out of my apartment! He left me no choice but to go with him. “Yes…Let’s go.” I snatched my keys, shooed him out the door. We began walking.

The silence was painful and scary. I had to do something. “Sooo…Bosnia.” No response. “Why haven’t you been there in three years?”

He refused to look at me. “I came here for school.”

“Oh that’s cool,” I tried to lighten the hostility.

“I do have to say,” he stopped and turned toward me, “that you Americans are spoiled.”

Choosing to ignore. “And what family do you have in Bosnia?” I kept walking.

“Mom, Dad, a brother and sister. Last time I saw my brother was when I left for the war.”

“You fought?”

“Yes, in Bosnia you are forced to fight in the war when you turn seventeen.” Wow. We arrived at the exit gate of the apartment complex. I pushed the button and pulled the iron bars. Nothing. The gate wouldn’t open.

“How do we get out of here?”

“Well, when the gate doesn’t work, I do this.” In one smooth perfected motion, I fell onto the grass and slid head first beneath the gate. I was on the other side in record time.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he wrinkled his forehead.

“Nope! Do you want your money or not?”

He unenthusiastically bent toward the grass, the whole time producing sounds of exasperation. He eventually wriggled underneath the gate and sprung up, spastically shaking off imaginary bugs. “Is there anything on me?!” he whimpered.

“You’re fine. Come on.”

He was already thanking me when we arrived at the ATM. He handed me a yellow receipt that he had decorated with a smiley face. “Thank you, you don’t know what this means to me” he said, and hugged me. “Go to this website if you have any problems or don’t receive your magazines.”

I nodded and sadly forfeited the money. “You’re welcome.”

*****************************************************

I retraced our steps and arrived back at my apartment. Still in my pajamas, I sat back in my chair and faced the computer. I couldn’t help it. I had to go to the website on my receipt. The clocks ticked as I anticipated the truth…

“Desperate, young magazine peddlers are out there, roaming America in search of the next sucker.
Have you been conned?”

I glared at the screen. This was a new type of deception. I sat in disbelief in my peaceful apartment as the smiley face gleamed and gloated up at me. Sometimes it’s every man for himself. But sometimes you get what you pay for.