“Be good—or at least be good at what you’re doing, even if it’s not good.” These are some of my favorite words of wisdom, words that have been passed down from generation to generation of the Weed family. Most of the time I’m pretty good at being “good,” but then again, when the decision to be good or not to be good comes along, I can rock bad pretty well, too. The biggest difference, however, is that when I’m bad, I’m not out to get anybody in trouble or hurt. I certainly don’t feel like I’m owed anything from anybody, or that I need to take anything from anybody simply because I can.
But not everybody feels that way.
There are actually people out there who don’t mind taking what doesn’t belong to them—scam artists. I’ve been cursed with quite a few lately, and although I can’t say that I didn’t see it coming once, I was blown ridiculously off course twice.
Twice? Apparently some people live only by a partial rule: Be good at being bad. I fold my arms across my chest and frown right now, knowing that I’m not the only one who has fallen victim to scam artists, especially when it comes down to dealing with my car. There are a few things you just don’t screw around with unless you want to face the wrath of an angry Weed, and my car is one of them.
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Long story short: Choose your mechanic wisely.
My first tip toe into the world of being scammed was just a simple barter scenario, a simple you-do-this-and-you-can-have-that scenario. Easy enough—but no, that’s not how it worked at all. I found myself without “that,” and “this” never got done.
My car was left up on jack stands, and my wheels were gone.
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The Shark sat in the air, waiting patiently for some attention, but it kept getting put off, until finally I came home one day and found that my dad had started tearing it apart like a buzzard with a carcass on the side of the road. I understand that two parted-out E24s in the back yard isn’t exactly great landscaping, but at the same time, they weren’t hurting anybody. They were just sitting there, one without wheels, and one with two bent wheels.
Even after trying to come to a peaceful accord and understanding over the matter, I found that my number had been blocked by the mechanic. Meanwhile, those same wheels were being offered for sale to other Club members. I was fleeced, but I did get a set of jack stands out of the whole fiasco. All I wanted was to have my wheels back and to put us back where we were in the beginning. No dice, no wheels. Did I mention that they were really nice BBS wheels? Did I mention that the bent wheels are really nice Racing Dynamic five-spokes?
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The second tiptoe into the world of people screwing me over was a simple engine rebuild—I say simple like it’s no big deal—on a work truck. I knew this individual from years back, and of course when you see a pouty face and somebody who needs to make a buck, it’s hard to say no. He came over and took the engine apart. Then, after I chased him around town for what seemed like three days, he finally showed up to work again, angry because he actually had to work, and started doing a hasty job. I wasn’t going to hover; I had things to do, and of course you should be able to trust your mechanic when you’re not watching him like a hawk.
I was gone for not more than an hour when I got a phone call from my roommate. Apparently the mechanic had “gone for parts” and come back with a twelve-pack of beer—and the police following him into the driveway. I whirred my way across town just in time to see him being placed into the back of the police car. The policeman politely told me that he was going to be away for a while. Then he chuckled and asked if I had paid up front. My frown answered that question, and the truck that needed to have its engine rebuilt was left in worse condition than before it was taken apart. I guess you could say that this wasn’t an intentional scam on my mechanic’s part, but it did make things more complicated. There wasn’t any rhyme in his reason, and there certainly wasn’t any way I was going to ask him to explain himself or what seemed like the chaotic way he took the thing apart. After three days of toiling diligently after work, my dad was able to get the thing back together, after only about 70 trips to the friendly folks at the auto-parts store.
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On top of those scams, I got ripped off by a diet-pill company. Of course, that doesn’t have much to do with cars, but it’s a reminder that you’ve got to be careful what you order online. I’ve looked at so many products that promise you the world, but deliver nothing but snake oil! It turns out that I got a big bottle of “lose weight, feel great” pills that really just left me with a headache and a $100 debit to my account. Not only am I still not bikini-ready, I’m even further away, because this company promised me that I could drink beer and eat pizza and lose weight all at the same time. Wrong—dead wrong.
The moral of the story this spring: Do your research. It seems that every coin has a flip side, and every dollar can be counterfeit. I feel like a rube, but at least I have a clear conscience. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from these incredible adventures in scamming, it’s never to pay up front. I’m going to continue being a good person; maybe other people will try to do the same.—Nikki Weed
