The Hobo-millionaire

“I told you, I’m already invested…six-hundred dollars' worth, yes, but also...it seems like we are looking for similar things from life…you could stay here, if you need to.”

I don’t make eye contact but feel his intense eyes searching for mine, waiting to lock on. It makes me blush. I am folding his laundry, a small load, because he had just done laundry at the shelter.

“I have to go back to Montreal and pay my roommates the money I owe them. That's my first priority. I hate owing people money.” He looked sheepish, now, after talk of the ‘investment’ - a six-hundred dollar loan, my new sofa for a night after the shelter was too awful - then my bed for another. Not to mention all the worry and all the care.

Dave had fallen on hard times.

He had to come to Toronto from Montreal to finally settle a dispute over inheritance with his ex-wife. He was set to get a large sum of money and his ex wanted her chunk. Dave had told me she wasn’t going to get a thing, and despite knowing it herself, she was determined to delay his receipt of the money out of the purest, simple spite.

Dave’s brother had received his share two years prior, minus the setbacks, delays, and reschedules that come with ex-wives. I asked why his brother couldn’t put him up. It seems that he didn’t like Dave’s ex in the first place, and vowed not to interfere or support him through the messiness she was causing him. Dave blamed his own ‘joyful nature’ for blinding him to how the beautiful redhead had worked her way into he and his brother's relationship, like a sliver. . ‘Your kind burns hot with fury - never pit yourself against a Ginger’ he said, smiling, foreshadowing his future gaslighting of me. My hair is more of a strawberry blonde, anyways.

The brothers became estranged over the strain of one-upping and told-you-so-ing of their financial positions, their interactions dwindled, contact dissolved. When I asked if there was a chance of reconciliations, Dave said: ‘My family, the family I had, is dead - mother, father and brother. Dead to me.’

Dave stopped taking landscaping contracts. He called himself a landscaper in his online dating profile. Court was supposed to be settled months back, supposedly. The ex had a lawyer that specialized in delay.

Dave had fallen on hard times while waiting for what he believed to be 1.6 million dollars. He seemed almost angry at himself for telling me the exact figure, like he thought it was a mistake after he said it. Another thing, in retrospect, that should have been a crimson flag on the field.

I met Dave like most of the dates I’ve had since my divorce. We started messaging on Tinder. Initially, I was looking for a spot of fun, and he had a beard, but the more we talked, I could tell he was my kind of person. He was smart and charismatic and used a style of diction and grammar that didn’t make me shudder like so many of my previous ‘matches’. The stories he had; they were all the best. He called me beautiful and thought I was fun, funny and smart. He

didn’t let me get away with the self-deprecating things I joke around about to hide my insecurities.

He was upfront about his “temporary financial glitch”. He had some acquaintances in Toronto, but no one he would put out by crashing with them indefinitely. His brother’s windfall had shown him that empathy can become a liability. Dave wasn’t in a position to date - had just wanted someone to talk to. He was lonely and I was the perfect chat buddy. Most people don’t like talking too long before meeting someone for a date. I enjoy good conversation - written or otherwise - and the little flutter of excitement I get when that chime goes off to tell me I received a new message.

You need to know what you're looking for in a person you choose to spend your time with: that is one of the lessons of having a failed marriage.

I wish I could say I knew he was using me.

I wish his grand stories and readily available excuses for almost everything were apparent and full of holes, but things were always reasonably rational. When my own soft stalking online revealed nothing about him, I told him and he warned me to be careful. ‘Tred lightly’. If I was crazy like her, he would be gone.

No, don’t go, I thought, inwardly, and not for the last time.

On the evening I was folding his laundry, and offering to let him stay more than the two nights we agreed upon, he was preparing to leave early the next morning. He was taking the clothes and stuffing them into his backpack. He would have to wake up early to get downtown for the meeting with the lawyers. His cheque, minus lawyer fees, would be ready for disbursement at last. There was nervous excitement in the air that mostly breathed anticipation. I would finally have my confirmation: good guy down on his luck or con artist. Neither of us noticed when the small box, wrapped in brown paper and tapped along the edges, fell out of the top pouch of his backpack. It must have silently landed on the sock which it rode just far enough under my bed, near the leg, to remain out of sight for six very long weeks.

The gaslighting about how I was a crazy and angry redhead was put to work that next day after he supposedly got his money. We had made an agreement that our relationship wouldn't get physical until after he paid me back the loan - he said he appreciated it so much he was going to double it for me. I sent him a text saying that I couldn’t wait to clear up the money thing so we could ‘be together for real’. He asked me what we had been doing up until now - why had he been confiding in me and spending time with me if it wasn’t real? I was surprised by his tone. Things were different, slightly hostile. I asked him if he was trying to pick a fight with me and he said he didn’t need the added stress of having to deal with me on what should be the best day ever. He changed his mind about celebrating with me that night. By the time I saw that message and tried to call he said he had already bought his train ticket to Montreal. ‘What about my money!? - I need it to pay my rent.’ I reminded him. ‘I’ll send it, ' he said, but it was a lie.

I was still reeling from being so obviously romance-scammed, trying not to be too embarrassed around my friends who knew. “I’ll consider it a donation - for the needy,” I told them while struggling to make up for the financial and emotional blow. I had let a hobo into my home and heart to steal from me and move on with no regard.

It was about a week before I heard from him again. He asked me if I had ‘cooled off’ or if I was still ‘redhead raging’. It wasn't a good idea for me to talk to him again, but I thought there was an outside chance I could get my money back. I also wanted to know for certain how full of it this guy was. Turns out he came sniffing around once he finally noticed the missing parcel and suspected I had it.

We both wanted something from each other. He was being too sugary sweet and made me wonder how I hadn’t seen it before. He suggested he come into town, we could pick up where we left off. I can’t see him without first being paid back, I told him. He said he understood. There were so many reasons and excuses as to why the money never found its way into my hands, including but not limited to; unforeseen banking holds, FedEx errors, inverting the numbers of my mailing address: all tactics his ex had utilized, in one maneuver or another. Six weeks of it.

Then the parcel cleared things up. Then it all made sense. He wasn’t trying to get me back. He was trying to get this mysterious box back - but he couldn’t afford the $600 it was going to cost him to do it.

I found it on a cleaning-bender. I hit it with my Swiffer hard enough to send it rolling out from under the bed in a torrent of dust bunnies and a rouge sock. An unfamiliar object in my bedroom. Very carefully wrapped in brown paper with the seams sealed in tape, it had no writing or markings. Plain. I opened it after only a moment's hesitation.

Within the box was another box. This one was dark purple with a satin sheen to it. And inside this was a shiny copper ring box, bell-shaped, gleaming warmth, with the profile of Queen Victoria stamped on the bottom. Beautiful itself, I was not disappointed by the ring held within. A large oval-cut, light-purple jewel set on a golden band. It was vintage, if not legitimately antique. Both the box and ring were exceptionally beautiful. Simple and elegant - just my style.

They must hold more sentimental than monetary value for a man to choose to scam and con his way through life, rather than pawn an old ring, it seemed. I was referred to a trusted jeweler by my parents who had me drop off my find for valuation. The jeweler called me later that afternoon to come back in. He had cleaned everything and both the ring and box gleamed in the flattering light of the jewelry store.

“The ring is nothing special - amethyst - I will say it’s cut very nicely. The band is 14K gold. There is beauty here, in its simplicity. Not very valuable but you could get lucky in a private sale. Someone who likes both amethyst and antique jewelry.”

“Oh,” I had said, slightly disappointed, but also noting I would be making back my hobo-millionaire losses and then some.

“But the box -” the man says, smiling so broadly his forehead wrinkled deeply, “This is something very special.” he flips it over so we are looking at the queen's head in profile. “Do you know what a die obverse means?” he asks.

“No,” I admit.

“This ring box was one of hundreds made to celebrate twenty-five years in business for Birks. They are approaching 140 years in business now so this is collectors-item-old. And flawless - except for the flaw that makes it even more rare and valuable. The queen's head has been double stamped - you can see where it is off a little.”

“It makes it more valuable?” I want to confirm.

“Oh yes. I asked around - this item could sell for well over $10k at auction.”

***

“The only thing I care about is the ring,” Dave said, calling me after he received my text message.

“Clearly” I reply, no longer stung by his disregard for me. “Despite how hard you make using the postal system look, I think I can manage it. I assume you have a shady p.o. box somewhere?”

“You’ll really send it?”

“Yes. I’m not like you. I’m keeping the cute ring box though, as a fine for wasting my time.”

“Yeah, whatever, just my grandma's ring…”

“Text me the address, get it right because then I’m blocking all forms of communication. Never come near me or try to talk to me again.” I said, ending the call.

True to my word, I sent the ring. The ring box netted me $17,500 after being involved in a bidding war at a collectors auction. Thus, I claimed one victory over the con of the hobo-millionaire.