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'Electronic Ed' and the Christmas-gift fence
scam
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| By: Ted
Mann |
January
30, 2002 |
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I
live in the West Village, on a wealthy stretch of Perry St. with
neighbors like George Soros and Carrie Bradshaw. It's a quaint
locale, but, when HBO isn't commandeering my block for "Sex and the
City," it becomes prime pickings for the homeless. I sit on my
building's stoop, in the Account Executive uniform of khakis and
oxford shirt, when they inevitably strike. After two years, I've
grown ritualistic toward these encounters; exchanging cigarettes for
homeless stories has become my favorite hobby.
When Ed approached me he
wore a sparsely toothed grin, Rumpelstiltskin beard and army-green
windbreaker. I offered him a cigarette and, in turn, he gladly
launched into tales of his forthcoming inheritance and military
boxing career. They were good stories and I felt that my "prison
currency" was well spent.
I give away about a pack a week to
Ed and other itinerants. At the local homeless union, if somebody
runs out of cigarettes, I imagine they tell him to hit up the WASP
on Perry St. Ed however, didn't just come for the smokes; he loved
telling stories. Before long he was on my stoop every night.
Two weeks into our budding friendship, I stumbled on a
literary Web site with photographs and short anecdotes about Ed. It
regarded him as a Village icon: a Vietnam historian and hilarious
Mighty Mouse impersonator. He was called "Electronic Ed" because of
his practice of peddling broken cell phones and palm pilots to
Village stoop-dwellers like me.
I mentioned the photo essay
to Ed during our next exchange. He didn't understand what it meant
to be "posted to a Web site." After my feeble explanation, we got to
the subject of money: "Do you have to pay for this Internet?" he
asked.
"You pay for the telephone connection. But the Web
sites are usually free."
"So can I ask that photographer for
a cut?"
"I guess, but I don't think they pay contributors
anything."
Ed was visibly upset. "You hear all this talk
about the Internet. Well, what good is it?"
"Look on the
bright side," I said. "You're a celebrity now. Consider the Web site
free advertising."
"Advertising for what?"
"How about
those gadgets you're always trying to sell? People will be pounding
on your door in no time."
As I said this I realized that Ed
didn't have a door. He slept on the sidewalk in front of the antique
store near my building. I hastily made an excuse to go inside.
When I found him the following week, I asked how the free
publicity was going. "Lousy," he said. Not a single person had seen
the photo essay. What's more, the editor of the Web site, who took
his picture, confirmed that he couldn't pay Ed royalties.
I
offered him a cigarette in consolation. He took this as an
encouraging sign and asked if I was interested in buying anything.
Before I could answer, he opened his backpack to display his current
inventory: a wooden turtle puzzle, two New-Age music CDs and a
pornographic movie. I wasn't interested in any of the items, but
offered a dollar out of guilt. He insisted I take something in
exchange for the dollar, so I begrudgingly accepted the turtle.
After the transaction I said, "For a guy who deals in electronics,
your selection is pretty gadget-free."
"Yeah, well, most of
the stuff I find is broken. Besides, market for electronics isn't so
good. Everyone's already got a cell phone."
For the past
couple weeks I too had been trying to sell an electronic device with
similar results. The Sony Playstation had been a Christmas gift from
my sister and for two weeks it was my most treasured possession. But
then on New Year's, I decided get rid of all distractions -
including cable and video games - hence the Playstation was buried
in a closet. Then, during spring cleaning, when my roommate demanded
more closet space, the device was finally evicted.
I went to
numerous video-game stores and learned that one can only get store
credit for a Playstation. What exactly do you do with credit to a
game store if you've just sold your game player? Save eBay, where
I'd be lucky to get reimbursed for postage, I couldn't unload the
device. Since Ed and I shared this common discouragement, I offered
him the chance to sell my Playstation.
He was thrilled at
the prospect of selling a device that actually worked. Fittingly it
only took 24 hours to find a buyer. The next day we met outside the
local coffee shop and Ed explained how the deal would work. The
purchaser (whom Ed referred to as the "mark") was willing to spend
up to $50 on the Playstation and $50 on the games. Ed and I would
split the $100. It all seemed very fair.
The next day I
packed the device and its peripherals in a Bloomingdale's bag. It
was then that I suffered my first twinge of hesitation. It suddenly
felt wrong to be fencing my sister's present through the local bum.
It was too late, though, and I shrugged off my doubt and walked the
bag out to Ed. We'd meet in 24 hours to divvy up the
money.
The deal's closing day was gorgeous - mid-80s,
crystal-blue sky - and it would have been perfect, except that Ed
was gone. I waited an hour before setting off to find him on foot. I
roamed the streets of the Village, stopping by his usual haunts: the
laundromat and used clothing store. When I gave up the search in the
evening I was livid - not just because he'd swindled me for $50, but
because I'd wasted a Sunday.
During the following weeks I
went from denial to anger to... well, I never made it to acceptance.
I spent a substantial amount of time planning how I would shake down
Ed when I found him. If no blunt instruments were available, I would
use my feet. Tripping him might be a pansy tactic, but hand-to-hand
combat was out of the question, as Ed was a boxer.
On my way
to a corner store, a month after the Playstation handoff, I was
still fantasizing over our confrontation. I didn't notice a man
approach me from the back. He grabbed me by the shoulder and it took
a cartoon double take for me to realize it was Ed. He'd shaved off
the beard, cut his hair and found new clothes.
"Where you
been, man?" he said
"Wh - Where have YOU been? I hardly
recognize you."
"I been here. Same place as
always."
Bullshit! I wanted to say. But instead I asked,
"Whatever happened to my Playstation?"
Ed didn't respond. He
nervously looked at the families strolling down Perry St. I realized
then that my neighbors might not have sympathy for a preppy kid
beating up an old homeless man. I wondered if they even knew he was
homeless. The $100 had transformed Ed into a new person, clean-cut
and confident. It even appeared that he'd been tanning. I'd never
imagined such a small amount of money could have such a profound
effect.
Ed nervously reached into his pocket and extracted a
pack of Marlboro reds. It was the first time that I'd ever seen him,
or any homeless person, with their own cigarettes. As he lit up, I
asked if I could have one. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and then,
unexpectedly, he laughed.
"Sure. I guess I owe you."
I tentatively took the offering. "We'll consider it a
down-payment on the $50."
He nodded and then ripped the
filter off his cigarette. Before lighting it, he patted me on the
shoulder.
"What have you been up to?" he said. "Do you have
any good stories?"
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| ©The
Villager 2002 |
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