Being scammed on the Mass Pike
Ten ways to look at being scammed at the Charlton rest stop on the Mass Pike:
His story was true.
He really was retired Navy who just happened to have moved to the town my wife has lived in for more than 20 years. He really had lost his wallet on a boat trip off New London, Connecticut, that day, and all he had left was a forlorn $50 dollar bill. His car really had broken down and was being towed. He really did need just $43 more for bus tickets home — he even had a ride to the station already — for him and his wife and daughter. His son really was going to study engineering at Bowdoin in the fall. He really would give us a ride on his boat. His name really was Dave O’Malley.
I was distracted and disoriented.
We were on the way to visit family I hadn’t seen in six months. I was coming back to the car wanting to tell my wife something and thought at first that the man outside her window was someone she knew.
I was on to him.
I used to be a reporter. I asked him questions about the town he lived in. I felt certain I’d surprised him when I said we lived there too.
I am suffering the effects of pandemic isolation.
Nothing in my life is unpredictable. I have been living in the Maine countryside for almost a year, working from home and not seeing anyone regularly except my wife and the grocery store clerk. I have forgotten how to interact casually with humans, especially ones I don’t know in situations I do not anticipate.
It was good street theater and he was entertaining.
We talked about it the rest of the weekend. I’m getting a blog post out of it. I can afford it.
I am an optimist who wants to believe in the best in people.
I’m tired of being suspicious and ungenerous and on high alert. Can’t I just trust people?
I am a people-pleaser who finds it difficult to say no.
I am a woman of a certain age who has been indoctrinated to be polite to men. What’s more, I’m aware of this. I feel confident I’m not the type to dissemble in the presence of a nice-enough guy with what, if you squint hard enough, could be a plausible story.
You actually can take the city out of the girl.
I have been away from New York City for so long that I’ve shed the vigilant skepticism, the trust-your-instincts mindset I had honed over 20 years of living there.
I forgot we were a team.
We could have rolled up the window and discussed this privately. We could have driven away. I forgot that I could pause. I forgot I had choices. I forgot I wasn’t alone.
I was scammed.
Most likely he saw the town dump sticker on the back window. He was in full control of the conversation. He set the pace — urgent but not pushy — and the tone — embarrassed and needy. He knew just enough to drop the name of a neighborhood and a nearby island my wife had been to. He didn’t know any restaurants because he’d just moved there three months ago from Mackinac Island. He knew when to stop talking.
He really was a consummate professional con artist and I really was an easy mark.
