This First Person article is the experience of Kleo Mitsis, a public servant who lives in Chelsea, Que. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
Do not give money to strangers on the Internet — it’s one of the most basic tenets of personal finance.
I, however, am sometimes an idiot.
Being bad with money probably began when I was a young man. I gallivanted around the world playing at being both teacher and journalist, prioritizing adventure over salary, spending more than I earned, and never worrying about the future.
Eventually, though — mostly through painful consequences — I learned. And so, after going utterly broke not once, but twice, I made a vow: never be stupid with money again.
I moved back to Canada, got a better job, started putting away part of each paycheque and became what economists call a “super saver.” Frugality and self-denial were my guiding principles and, thanks to them, I eventually bought a small house.
With home ownership comes home repairs, the costs of which I try to offset by judicious DIY-ing. Turns out I really like it, too, meaning I’m often scouring online listings for used power tools.
Police detectives on television always talk about a crime requiring both motive and opportunity. But sometimes that’s true of potential victims, too. Especially those who are always looking for a deal and finally have a little bit of disposable income.
So a few months ago when I saw the perfect deal on Facebook Marketplace — a trio of power tools, including a “nearly new” table saw, that were discounted to an almost unimaginable degree — I was beset by a storm of emotions.
Firstly, the urge to save a buck. Secondly, greed. Plus, a little bit of FOMO (fear of missing out). Maybe it was the past 18 straight years of living frugally or maybe I’d just got soft, but I stared at that ad until I was almost drooling.
The tools would be in high demand. I was certain of it.
Hence, my initial text.
“Hi. Am very interested. Can pay cash. Happy to pick up today.”
But Tool Guy was cagey. Other people were interested, he replied, so to guarantee my purchase, I’d have to pony up $150 in advance.
Like an idiot, I sent the e-transfer without a second thought, then drove straight to the nearest ATM to withdraw the remainder in cash.
It was only when I arrived at that evening’s meet-up at a tiny intersection in the middle of nowhere that I began to have my doubts. It was an eerie pitch-black sky, the scene only illuminated only by a single flickering streetlight. No one was around, so I sent a text, but the seller replied he was “running late.” We’d have to reschedule.
No sooner did I get home, however, than my phone buzzed again. Apparently, Tool Guy’s truck had broken down en route. He was, of course, very sorry, but after vowing that he would “never screw anyone,” he wondered if I could advance him another $110.
You know, for the repairs.
That was where I drew the line. Sure, I was willing to drive half an hour down a dirt road — in the dark, by myself, with $350 cash in my pocket — in hopes of meeting a friendly stranger to buy some tools. But no, I wouldn’t help out a guy apparently having a spot of car trouble.
Plenty of stories about scammers end there: radio silence, a lost deposit and the shame of being fooled.
I texted Tool Guy one last time, informing him there would be no further advances, and that if he didn’t return my money, I was notifying the police.
Filing a report was actually pretty easy. I placed a phone call the next morning to the local constabulary and signed an official statement, complete with printouts of our texts and a screenshot of the e-transfer.
But at no point did I really think anything would come of it.
Then, one morning two weeks later, a police officer called.
As it turns out, I wasn’t the only idiot in town. So to the list of financial rules I laid out at the start of this essay, let me add one more: People who want to remain anonymous while they commit crimes probably shouldn’t use their real name and phone number.
CBC Host David Common breaks down how crypto scammers build relationships to earn the trust of their victims, and talks to police about what they’re doing to track stolen money.
By day’s end, my $150 had been returned. No charges were laid, and the file would be marked “closed.”
But before he hung up, the officer had something to add.
“Listen, it’s kind of my job to point out that it’s best if … ” and here he lowered his voice as if imparting some great and universal truth, which in way, he was, “… well, you really shouldn’t give money to strangers on the Internet.”
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