Conning the Jones'

When I started out, this was only supposed to be one gig. In this messed up, keeping up with the Jones', American dream bullshit life you don't always have a choice. Some kids have all the luck; their parents are happy, every damn wish is granted. Their living rooms overflow with boxes of shit they don't even know they don't need under their massive Christmas trees. Everything is planned for them. I mean, shit, they probably had college money put away before they were born.

Me, on the other hand? Not a damn thing. I was lucky if my parents even paid a second's worth of attention to me. They tried, I gotta give it to 'em. They both worked their asses off. But when you're trapped in blue-collar, barely scraping by jobs, no matter how many jobs you've got, you're always drowning. They had five kid's mouths to feed. They both doubled up on jobs; they were working almost all day and night. I didn't give a shit how hard they were working, I was angry. Resentful. The kids I went to school with tortured me without even looking in my direction. Their existence pissed me off. Their new clothes, cars, their nose up in the air all the damn time. They never even acknowledged I existed.

I was sick of it. I didn’t want to stay invisible. So I took matters into my own hands. I was going to get some money, I was going to buy some new clothes. That’s all; I just wanted to feel seen.

I thought up a scheme and wrote it down in this little black notebook I found scrunched in the bottom of my ratty backpack. Some teacher gave it to me last semester, said she thought my writing was good or some shit. I smiled thinking about her face if she knew what it was gonna be used for now.

I scribbled down the plan, I was going to go to the store and pick out clothes. I’d borrow cash from my parent’s drawer. I’d go in, buy the clothes, throw em in my backpack and leave. I’d come back an hour later, grab the same clothes from the shelves, hand the cashier my old receipt, and say I decided to return the clothes. No harm, no foul. I needed the clothes a hell of a lot more than the store needed fifty bucks.

The afternoon went exactly according to plan. It went so good, I replicated the same damn con to two other stores. With a bag full of clothes, I was giddy. I didn’t care that I stole something; I was proud that I had the wits to plan something so genius.

The shitty part is I quickly found out I was addicted to the cons. I couldn’t stop once I tasted it that first time. The pride, the joy, the thrill of getting away with ‘em, shit it was better than anything I’d ever felt. I wasn’t even doing ‘em for the stuff; I was doing it purely to see how far I could go. Plus, the fact kids at school started to notice me, girls started to crush on me… well, that didn’t hurt the cause, either.

I moved on from stealing from stores pretty quickly. I was up a lot of nice shit, but I wanted to see if I could start getting cash. I moved onto people. Like I did my first crime, I would write out every con I planned in that black book. Then, after the con was over, I’d write down how much I got and the sucker who fell for it. It was never a lot, maybe a hundred bucks here or there but mostly, it was pocket change.

I was up to multiple cons a week. I’d learned how to slip a wallet without the mark feeling anything. I’d play the role of a lost kid looking for his mommy. I’d get all teary-eyed, so the poor lady who’d always wanted to be a mom or the one whose kids had left for college would come down and hug me. With their arms around me, comforting me, I’d fish cash out of their clutches.

I learned the mommies at the grocery store didn’t carry much on ‘em. I decided I had to go after some bigger targets. I had plenty of cash tucked back by now, but I just had to know how much I could get. I was addicted.

I started walking busy streets seeking out anyone who looked expensive. Suits, ties, briefcases. People who were in a rush. I’d trip in front of ‘em and get all in their face, saying they tripped me. I’d cause a huge scene. He’d be irritated, annoyed at the crowd, at being stopped, and he’d offer to pay me off - not knowing I’d already taken his watch. Double win.

This worked a few times; I’d go pawn the watch and move to my next target. But, this guy I did this to, this guy really messed shit up. He fell for it all, he even gave me a hundred dollar buy-out to forget the thing. His watch was damn nice, nice enough I considered not pawning it, but I shook the thought off. The money was more important; I was gonna have enough money to give my parents for a piece of shit used car soon.

But this guy, this watch, it messed with all of my plans. When I went to finish out my con, the inspector at the pawn shop looked up at me with confusion.

“Where did you say you got this again, kid?” he questioned.

I responded with some bullshit story about how my dad gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, but how I needed the cash for college so I decided to sell it.

The inspector asked me to give him a second and disappeared into the backroom. I almost ran; something was definitely up, but I decided to wait it out. He appeared back in front and said, “I can do eighteen.”

I was annoyed. I’d waited here, gone through all this shit, for eighteen dollars? Maybe I’d just keep the piece of shit since I thought it looked nice.

“For eighteen, I’d rather just keep it. Thanks anyways-,” I grabbed the watch and turned to leave.

The inspector rebutted, “Okay fine, twenty grand. But that’s as high as I’ll go.”

I was damn lucky my back was turned because my face would have given my bullshit story away. I had flipped some watches for a couple hundred bucks, but nothing like this.

“Deal,” I told the inspector. I walked out with the cash and a swarm of emotions. I was in disbelief that I happened to find that kind of watch. I felt overwhelmed, I had actually gotten enough money for a car for my parents. Hell, not even a piece of shit one.

But for the first time, I felt guilty. I don’t know why, the guy probably had yachts and daddy’s money and wouldn’t even miss it. But I felt like shit. I opened up my little black notebook and scanned the details about the guy I’d written down: black suit, lanky dude. Nothing too memorable. I wrote down the time and the street it happened on.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor sucker. I wanted to get it out of my head, to know that he was a rich kid his whole life and that he sucked that silver spoon clean. I decided to return to that street again, to see if I could find him.

Well, I found him. And I followed him up to a giant mortgage company building. I could almost cry I was so happy; he probably didn’t even realize his watch was gone he was so rich. I caught him in conversation, some lady calling him out, “Mikey Dire, is that you?”

I didn’t give a shit to keep watching the guy. I scribbled his name down in the notebook and paraded back to school. When I got there, there was an hour before lunch was over. Too excited to eat, I went to the library to check my social media on the computers.

When I pulled up the computer, I couldn’t help myself but type “Mikey Dire” into the search engine. The title of the first article and his picture popped up and immediately I felt sick.

As I read through the sickeningly sweet, inspiring story about how he came from nothing, paid his way through college by working at a farm, and built from the ground up, I lost all excitement. This dude had it just as bad as I did, but he actually did the damned thing. I stole it.

I closed my eyes tightly but the room continued to spin. I opened them up and flipped through the dozens of pages filled out in my black book. Hundreds of people I had scammed without even a thought of who they were.

I returned to the mortgage building, asked the front desk where Mikey Dire’s office was, and took the longest elevator ride up to the top floor. When the doors opened, I saw him immediately.

He didn’t recognize me right away. I came in, sat down, and told him exactly what happened. I told him I stole from him, I pawned the watch, and then about how I found him online. I told him how his story reminded me of mine, at least up until the part where I started stealing. I put the twenty-thousand on the table and waited for his anger.

Mr. Dire said nothing for a few moments. He looked at me as if he was examining me head to toe. Maybe he was memorizing in case I took off so he could tell the police.

“Well,” he finally started, “Thank you for coming here. That took guts.”

He continued to say he remembered what it was like feeling lost. He remembered feeling embarrassed, angry, and bitter to the people who had money from day one. He even said he understood why I did it, which even caught me off guard.

“The important thing,” he continued, “is that you actually felt guilty about this. You learned a lesson; assuming everyone else comes from gold is the same judgemental, presumptiveness you hate being done to you.”

I nodded along. I knew I had fucked up. My head dipped as I started to wonder what would happen; would he call the cops? Was my life over before it even started?

“But you know what,” Mr. Dire continued, “I’m not going to call the cops. I’m not even calling your parents. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to punish yourself enough. Just promise me you’re done with this whole conning business.”

I emphatically shook my head yes and thanked Mr. Dire sincerely. I was about to leave when he called back, “Wait.”

He smiled, “When I was your age, I focused so much on money. I had to work hard, I never got to focus on school, friends, anything. I would have done anything for a little peace of mind.” He looked down and pressed the money in my direction, “Take it. At this point, it really doesn’t mean a lot to me. But I hope it’ll mean a lot - and do a lot - for you.”

I was baffled. Confused. I had stolen from this man and he had the generosity to give it back to the thief? I thanked him a countless number of times and he walked me out.

After that, I never thought about conning again. I hoped one day I’d run into all the people I conned before and could somehow make it up to them. I’d flip through my black book whenever I saw someone who looked familiar. I was indebted to the world and hoped to make it a better place.