Everybody’s looking for a deal.
I was trying to explain the concept of ‘Craigslist’ to my mother. She nodded, but I’m almost certain she didn’t truly understand.
“So, what’s the difference between that and this ‘eBay’ I hear about?”
I tried to explain to her that in most cases, a Craigslist transaction has more of a local flavor. “Of the things I’ve sold on Craigslist,” I droned, “I’m not sure I’ve ever shipped anything. We just meet somewhere, or they come over.”
She shook her head. “You mean, people come over to your house? Isn’t that dangerous?”
As I attempted to extrapolate the process as I understood it, I admit that it has been fairly dangerous.
A number of people have come over to our house, which, if you over-think it, I suppose, can easily be fodder for a episode of Criminal Minds. I sold a motorcycle-stand to a guy once during this past summer. He got out of his car, ignored my extended hand, thrust a wad of bills into my other, and proceeded to walk right over to where the jack lay prostrate inside my garage. He walked around it, stood there for a second, grabbed the handle, and rolled it over to his car, never so much as uttering a word. By the time I counted the exact amount in my hand, he was gone.
I bought a used computer-monitor for my mother last year, from a woman who could very well have been a model. We agreed to meet in a grocery parking-lot in Wadsworth. It was several days before Christmas, and the lot was packed. The clock on my phone announced the agreed-upon time, and sure enough a white Escalade sauntered slowly by me. It suddenly screeched to a stop, and then it pulled along side my car.
A blond woman wearing sunglasses, on one of the most overcast days of the year, hit the button on her power-windows.
“Computer monitor?” She was drop-dead gorgeous. And more-than-noticeably drunk.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” I stammered. She thrust her gear-shift into ‘park’. “It’s in the back.”
We both had to get out on the other side of our cars because she had pulled so close to mine. We walked to the back of her Escalade. She lit a cigarette. Yep, it looked like a monitor. “Will you take $50.00?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, that’s fine. I just want it out of my house. I’m getting rid of all my fucking ex-husband’s shit. Don’t see why the asshole doesn’t sell it himself.”
Yikes. The Christmas spirit was out in full-force.
But as I recounted these tales to my mother, I did sense that these were two of the more agreeable transactions. I’ve encountered a number of less-than-honorable folks. ‘Scheisters‘ my father used to call them. Buyers who say one thing in an email and another when you finally meet. Like the guy who drove up from New Philadelphia to supposedly buy the dining-room table we had for sale, who freaked me out while standing next to him inside the self-storage facility.
He pulled it out of the packing-blanket, staring at it, up-close, like someone with a jeweler’s eyeglass would. He rubbed his hand over the edge of the table. Over and over and over again. I thought for a moment that I had a rare table on my hands, perhaps something that was originally on the Titanic voyage. Or maybe inside the sitting room at Mount Vernon.
“You’re never gonna get $600.00 for that,” he finally said, standing back with a smirk. He folded his arms the way Fr. Scharff used to do, right before he bashed you on the head with a Paschal candle. Or at least the way I envisioned he would do it. His remark amused me. I mean, it’s a used dining-room table. Actually, I was amused and a bit confused, since I was almost certain that we’d already consummated a deal. At least through email and pictures.
“But…that’s what you already agreed to pay for it.”
He shook his head. “I don’t like the construction underneath,” he growled. “Pretty lame, actually.”
I nodded. “Well, I think the 8 photos that I supplied more than explained its condition and what exactly it is. So, if you don’t want it, that’s fine.” I moved towards the door. But he didn’t.
“No way, man. You’ll never get $600.00 for that.” He continued to stand there with his arms crossed. Now my heart was pounding a little bit. The humidity hung inside the storage-shed like a cloak. And there was nobody next door at Handel’s Ice Cream. On a July evening. Can you imagine? It was, indeed, a Criminal Minds episode in the making.
Finally, he turned around and started to get into his car. Then he stopped. “You take $300.00?” I started to stammer, but he interrupted me, waved me off, and started the engine. “That’s alright, no problem.” He put the car in ‘drive’ and then glared at me, searing his gaze into my brain-stem. If this were an episode of The Sopranos, I’d be in the East River by now. “Long way to drive up from New Philly for that.” I needed several beers once I arrived back home.
This week, it’s been an iMac. We’re downsizing, and I can use the money for other studio-gear. The low-ball offers have been coming fast and furious. One guy wanted to trade for a stereo. One wanted to trade for a rare, full-blooded dog. One simply wanted to know exactly where I lived so that he could “you know, make sure you weren’t gonna rip me off”. And another offered $400.00 plus a an X-Box system with a “about a thousand dollars in video games. Stolen video games”. And a whole bunch of emails with no names, phone numbers, or location-data. Simply, “Is the iMac still available?” And never a return-email.
Everybody’s looking for a deal.
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