The Oak Ridge Con

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, really, it was. Late ‘03, early ‘04 I was out in Oak Ridge in the middle of the night, doing what I normally do at that time of night—pay my light bill at the last absolute possible second. If I didn’t perform this duty, the good municipalities would be knocking on our door in the morning telling us to give them a check or they’ll turn off the lights. And who needs that. So there I was, 1AM, driving around the empty streets.

As I was putting my check into the envelope, I see a blue car drive up the entrance to the government building. They were slowing—no, now stopping. Huh?

There is only one exit to the complex which leads to the main road. The blue car had stopped and had turned off their lights. As I approached a man got out of his car, a black guy in a dress shirt. He waved me to stop.

It was raining and I certainly didn’t want to roll my window down. But there he was, so I felt obliged.

“Sir, my name is Thomas Zachary,” (I have no idea what name he gave me, so I’ll give something nice and generic.)

“Okay,” I said, shaking his hand and getting wetter by the second.

“I’m a pastor at a church in Sevierville,” he says. Sevierville is over an hour away from Oak Ridge.This should’ve been what’s called a ridiculous clue, but I simply nod. He then proceeds to tell me how he loves the lord and how long he’s been preaching. And all I can think is I’m getting soaked here…

Finally, something nearing a point: “There’s a young woman at a gas station a few miles down the road—she’s in trouble. She’s pregnant and her boyfriend just beat her up again.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, truly sympathetic. I’m such a goof sometimes.

“Yes, and she’s looking for a way out of town. Now I’m—I’m a christian and a giving one—but I don’t have any money to give her for gas. Would you happen to have some money for her to get out of town? Anything at all would be appreciated.”

I think and realize I have about eight dollars in my pocket. I hand it over.

“Thanks, God bless you,” he says. I nod, wish him and the woman well, and go home.

It wasn’t until a few days later when I realized I had been had.

“Dude,” I tell my friend Chris, “I had the strangest encounter…” and I proceed to tell him about this black guy who—

“Is a pastor/preacher guy?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“That guy,” Chris says, shaking his head, “Yeah, I’ve given him money before. Who was it this time? Pregnant or a simple abuse case?”

It dawns on me. I cringe. “Pregnant and abused,” I say.

“Oh, he laid it on thick, didn’t he.”

I nod.

“Don’t worry about it man,” he tells me. “He’s a regular. There’s another woman around town who asks for money outside of Wal-Mart. But she continues to ask you for confirmation that she’s not a loser.” This particular woman had been encountered by my wife who gave her some money at some point or other. And yes, she continued to assure Ericka that she was not, in fact, a loser.

Part of me feels like an idiot and other says that I probably should’ve known better. Cons come in all shapes and sizes. Another part of me wonders why I didn’t catch on—haven’t I watched enough David Mamet movies? I mean, it’s not like I don’t adore Heist and have seen Glengarry about a hundred times.

Oh well. Those who con will keep on conning, and I fulfilled my role as a Mark.

But next time, well, next time I’ll just drive away.

That’ll show em.

And just for the record, just so you know
I did not believe that you could sink so low