Play Time!

Opportunity knocked and I at least cracked the door open a bit to see what the hell it wanted. But first, I'm assuming you want some context. On days when I have things to do after work, I'll usually end up eating dinner alone someplace, preferably someplace where no one will bother me so I can get some writing done while I eat. It is literally one of the few things in life that I look forward to when I've got free time. One of my favorite spots to do this is the Ala Moana Food Court as there's a lot of seating, a variety of foods, and the constant drone of people talking amongst themselves provides some good background noise. And so, with a philly cheesesteak, fries, coke, and my notebook, I took a seat and started eating and writing as I planned. However, instead of having a short story about the first humans (or at least part of it ... honestly, I wasn't going to get it done until the end of the week anyways), well, instead I've got this chance encounter (disclaimer: definitely not exactly how it happened, but very, very close to what I can remember from last night):

"Hi, you're handwriting is so tiny, I can barely read it," she said as she sat down across from me. A woman wearing a purple sweater with a half-finished Starbucks cup and a smile like she was selling something, or she was trying to flirt with me (I'm still really bad at reading people).

Naturally, I responded with a smile (as people respond better to a smile, plus it's my natural response to unfamiliar situations by mimicking the other person), "Someone told me that I have the handwriting of a serial killer."

Seriously, do you approach someone who writes like this?

"Well, that's not something you hear very often, not what I was expecting," she responded. "Is this a journal that you write down your day-to-day feelings in?"

Still smiling, "Nope, just stories, mostly fantasy stuff" I said while taking a bite of my sandwich. Even if it was a diary, what kind of weirdo keeps a diary out in the open? And who needs to write down their feelings in the middle of a crowded mall?

She asks about what I do for a living. Not wanting to explain my job, and not wanting to be part of this questionable conversation anymore (probably more due to my natural mistrust of other people than the feeling that maybe this is some sort of scam) I tell her I'm a telemarketer. "I sell magazines over the phone." People hate telemarketers, maybe this will get her to leave.

She doesn't leave. "Wow, I didn't know people still bought magazines. With everything on their phones why would they need to buy magazines?"


I finish chewing my sandwich, the bread has started to get soggy at the bottom and falling apart. I'm annoyed. Maybe this is how my old co-worker used to feel when guys approached her at the gym when all she wants to do is work out. "Sometimes magazines will offer special access to online stuff if you buy a yearly subscription." Before she can ask, I add, "Not sure which ones though, I just sell the magazines."

"You must get hung up on a lot?"

I shrug my shoulders, "It gives me time to read."

"Do you work on commission then, if you get hung up on a lot?"

Is she a prostitute? That's the only person I could think of that would ask anyone up front how much money they make? "Yeah, though we do get a slight base pay for getting hung up on a lot." I've also just realized that she didn't take the bait when I mentioned I write Fantasy stories. Every other time I've mentioned it to anyone, they at least ask something about what I'm writing. I'm a little suspicious now.

"Oh, have you had any other jobs besides this one?"


"I worked at an auto shop for a while."

"You must've made good money there?"

Back to money, what is going on? "Not really. More like Mechanic apprentice, one of those 'will train' kind of jobs. I mostly just got in the way."

"Well, you must've gone to school."

"Yeah," I say, pointing to the open notebook that I was clearly writing in before she came over, "English degree."

"Right, you write stories. Are you a good at it? They say the only way to make money is by getting published."

"Not really, but thanks for that."


This goes on for a while, her asking questions, me giving short replies, everything seeming to always go back to money. Finally we get to the point -

"Well, the reason I came over here was about a year ago, I met this group of people and they introduced me to this 28 year old woman who managed to make enough money that she is basically retired now. And she took me under her wing and taught me how to become financially free. And I was wondering if you'd like me to introduce you to her. She's got a house in Kahala, you know where the upper class live."

Well, final-fucking-ly, we've gotten to the point of this scam. And not only that, but a vaguely familiar sounding scam, like I've heard it before, but I'm not quite certain. My imagination quickly runs off several scenarios: 1) This is a scam to steal my money/ pyramid scheme shit; 2) This is a scam to lure me into a mugging; 3) This is a scam to lure me into The Sharing and they're going to drop a Yeerk into my brain (highly improbable, but I read a lot of Animorphs as a kid). "No, that's okay. I'm fine for now," I say, hoping I'm polite enough that she'll realize she's made her pitch and will go away now that I've turned down her offer.

She doesn't go away. Instead she stays to continue to try to sell me on this idea that her prophet can change my life. What this also gives me is an opportunity I have few and far between, the chance to talk without consequence: 1) I don't care who she is; 2) she has no connection to the rest of my life; but, most of all, 3) she can leave whenever she wants, she sat next to me after all, I've no responsibility as a host to make her feel comfortable, this isn't the bus or the train where she can't run away. I'll admit, more than likely a lot of my replies were more nonsensical than witty retorts as I tend to argue the same way I play FPS games: I'm definitely not the sniper, more like the guy that decides to just fill the air with bullets and hope some of them find a target. But I do like to think I got at least a couple good one-liners in there:


Her (H): "Well, she is teaching me about gaining financial freedom to achieve your full potential. Wouldn't you like to live up to your full potential?"
Me (M): She's still trying to get you into The Sharing. Don't go with her. And don't mention Yeerks or she'll know and they'll get you. "I'm okay with striving to be in the middle 2/3 of people."
H: "If you were to achieve your full potential, think of all the good you could do."
M: "Or the terrible things."
H: "You can't do bad things if you're seeking your full potential."
M: I struggle not to blurt out the names Adolf Hitler, Dylan Roof, or Stephen Paddock. "Well, you never know," I say instead.
H: "So you're okay with not trying on the off chance you might hurt someone?"
M: I'm telling you, don't mention Hitler, it's going to take this conversation someplace you don't want it to go, yet. You might scare her away. "It's working so far."
H: "Don't your parents want you to achieve your full potential?"
M: "Don't know, I've never asked."
H: "What do you mean, I'm sure they do."
M: "Like I said, I never asked. Maybe they're happy with having me around to do chores and stuff."

H: "Are you really okay with just being average?"
M: "Yeah, you should try it sometime."
H: She turns slightly, staring off to the side. "No, now that I'm on this path, I can't be average."
M: "Sure you can. It's so easy to go back."
H: "Maybe we could get you a badge, "Average" and you could wear it."
M: "Yeah, a big, red A" really hoping she got the "The Scarlett Letter" reference, though probably not.
H: "Well maybe you're okay with being part of the 98% of other people."
M: "99%"
H: "Well I'm not going to be average."
M: say it, say, "No, you're just going to run a scam on the average people." Say it! No, don't do it or you'll scare her away. I say nothing as I would probably just repeat the "you could try" line. Instead I wait for her to take another angle with her pitch.

H: "You know, I used to be like you, living for the weekend, just to watch a bunch of movies, living vicariously through their lives"
M: "Yeah, now is actually a great time for television, there's so many good shows."
H: "Are you really okay with that, TV is a drug, making you into a zombie."
M: "There's some really good zombie shows on TV too."

H: "You don't want to be that person who wakes up 30, 40, 50 years in the future with just regrets."
M: "You never know, maybe I'll be dead before then."
H: she stares at me, mouth agape as if she's never heard any talk about dying like that.
M: "Seems better than living with all that regret."
H: "But if you do live that long?"
M: "Well, the trick is to just not think about those regrets."
H: "So you're just going to lie to yourself for the rest of your life?"
M: "Now you've got it."
H: "Well, unless you do something about your situation, it's not going to change overnight."
M: "Unless I win the lottery. Oh, except we don't have a lottery here. So I'd have to move to the mainland to win."
H: "You have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than winning the lottery."
M: "So the dead thing is looking more and more like the better option."
H: "That's not what I meant."

Eventually, as all things do, she got fed up and moved along

H: "You know, I can't tell if anything you've been saying is real or not. Is Alan even your real name?"
M: "That's the fun with words. It's what I have a degree in, remember."
H: "Well, words are just words unless you have action behind them."
M: "Yeah, that's why I said this is fun, it's just words."


And then she was gone. I finished up my now cold fries and tried to write more on the story I was originally working on, but couldn't, I was still on a rush from this last conversation, trying to replay it in my head as best as I could, to hold onto it. It isn't often I get a chance to play with words in a setting where I don't give a fuck.
As I drove home, my thoughts went in the opposite direction: Shit, what if she was on the level, what if she really was following a prophet, what if I just turned down Jesus? What if I was a dick to one of Jesus' new apostles? Then I started thinking about Yeerks again and it scared me back to reality. I really wanted to ask if the group she was with was "The Sharing" where they take you in, gain your trust, then put a mind-controlling brain slug in your head. But the first rule when dealing with Body Snatchers is you don't mention Body Snatchers, you know, just in case one of the Body Snatchers overhears and then they can get you.

Also, I told my family this story when I got home and both my sisters also mentioned that they were approached by someone at the mall who gave basically the same story, and apparently I was there at one of those times (though I don't really remember talking to the person). So, I'm not sure if my instincts were right on this one, or just my need to finally be an asshole to a complete stranger got the better of me. Anyways, I'm working on that other story so hopefully sometime next week ... who am I kidding, you don't care, like I said, I'm not that good a writer anyway, but it's still fun with words. And that's how I spent the second day of the New Year.