By It was the week of the Long Beach Grand Prix in 2014, and I’d been working for the Bank of America parking lot for quite a while.
As a parking lot attendant, I spent my most of my work days holed up in a booth. My days would consist of handing out small flashcard-sized validation cards to anyone that came in for a visit to the bank.
Many people were agitated that they had to get these cards validated and although it wasn’t my fault, I still bore the brunt of the blame for the policy.
Some people understood that I was just doing my job, but others, particularly those of a slightly upper-class, looked down at me.
They would side-eye me and think of me as something less than, like I was a total loser for working a part-time job. I was 22-years-old.
As a beginner job, it wasn’t too bad. I thought I was doing well for my nine dollars an hour. I had started as a part-timer before dedicating myself to more overtime hours.
It was never my intention to work the gig full-time, but the bosses made it known that I should’ve.
I was told that there would be more opportunities for overtime due to the Grand Prix and I jumped at the opportunity.
As I was getting off shift on the first day of the Grand Prix one of my co-workers ushered a guy over to me, he was asking for help.
For the purposes of retelling, let’s call him Andrew.
Andrew needed help in finding fare over to the airport so that he could return to Washington to see his daughter.
At first, I didn’t want to deal with it. I just wanted to go home, but Andrew was adamant and persuasive.
“Look, I can give you a hundred bucks. I can write a check and have you cash it. All I need is for you to cash this check for three hundred bucks,” he said.
At the time, I think all I had was $157 in my checking account.
He proceeded to play audio clips of his daughter to prove her existence and even showed me his Navy Federal Credit Union checks, but a part of me still felt like I shouldn’t trust him. Something was off about him, but I just couldn’t figure it out.
Ultimately, being the naïve youngster that I was, I figured why not. We walked over and used the U.S. Bank ATM on Ocean Blvd.
Andrew insisted that I sign the “pay to the order of” and in less than a minute, he had three hundred bucks in his hand.
He gave me one hundred for my troubles along with his supposed personal phone number and Facebook account, but it was not till too long afterwards that I realized what an awful mistake I had made.
Upon returning to the parking lot, I checked my U.S. Bank app and discovered that I had a negative balance of (-$143).
I feverishly tried to text and call Andrew, but to no avail, the phone calls either ended automatically or went straight to voicemail.
In a panic, I rushed back over to the U.S. Bank to cancel the transaction. They said that it was impossible and that I had to pay the negative balance on my card or else I’d be at risk of further penalties.
I eventually did, but ever since then, I have been wary of scam artists and their desire to defraud hardworking people.
If nothing else, this “too good to be true” event taught me the value of saying no and trusting my gut when I need to.
