CONNED

     For about two weeks, after I moved into my house, I was addicted to a “thrift store” on Redwood where I went every day, every day, every day.  Each time I found goodies for my new home at prices I couldn’t resist: 99 cents for an electric timer, $2.98 for 4 chair cushions.  Good stuff.   

     An employee, “M,” helped me nab 4 white metal rocking swivel patio chairs for ten bucks apiece and even offered to deliver them -- for a small fee, which I gladly paid.  He told me he could make or fix anything, so I engaged him to cut, paint and put up the much-needed closet shelves. 

     First, before anything else, I asked him to put together a cabinet from Ikea I'd purchased for my kitchen.  He and his side-kick worked on the cabinet for an hour, scratching their heads, trying first this way, then that, but didn't figure it out enough to finish.  He had to leave, he said, but would return the next day.  I'd given him the wood left over from the garage cabinets and half a gallon of paint.  He said he’d work on them it at his place, and asked for an advance of $100 bucks, which he said would cover all the work.

     He never came back.  For about ten days he returned my calls & texts with sad stories of  personal problems that prevented him from coming back to my house to finish the job.  Then, without explanation, no contact at all.  I went to the store where he worked, one of his colleagues told me he was in the hospital with a serious foot problem.

     I call and text daily but no reply.  His mailbox is full.  It’s hard to believe “M” is conning me for 100 bucks and a pile of planks?  I wonder if he’s lying in a hospital bed, unable to call or communicate, with some horrible problem with his feet.  
     Have I bought a line here?  Have I been had?  Now what should I do?
   
     All that follows I learned much later.  He had a fight with his girlfriend, she threw him out, he refused to leave, she called the police and they took him away.  She said he hit her.  He went to jail.   He came out and went back to work.  I reached him one day, finally, on the phone, and convinced him to bring back my wood and the paint, which he did, to his credit.  That night he called me and said I should pay him more money.  "How much?" I asked, just to see how far this crook would go.  "Fifty bucks," he said.  "Will that be enough?" I asked.  "Yes," he said.  "Thank you," I replied, "The check is in the mail.  Watch for it."
   
     I thought I was smarter than that.