Jake’s Journey.

Old Jake walked to the post-box by the highway. He usually waited ‘til late, enjoyed the privacy of darkness, under the stars, taking his time along the long dirt road. He really didn’t care if there was a letter or not, probably preferred not. But there was one that time, rather official-looking, unusual, suspicious.

Jake never took one of the bags of brochures and coupons left hanging on the hook. He pocketed the letter and carried on walking, along the highway to the next road. He did that when there wasn’t much traffic, made his way back along the other long dirt road that passed by at the back of his property. He threw the keys in the basket and sat down at the yellow 1940s kitchen table. He took the letter out of his back pocket, unfolded it, tore it open, took a fast look before throwing it into the waste-basket. It was just another scam.

Sometime in between watching the baseball and taking out his teeth for the night old Jake reached down into the bin to retrieve the letter. He smoothed it out on the table best he could. At the top there was a logo of some weigh-scales with an official-looking letter-head from Thompson & Thompson Barristers, an address in London, England, a fax number and a date. 

The first paragraph read: ‘Dear Mr. Jacob Robertson; My name is David T. Thomas, expert in corporate legal claims. I am contacting you in regards to a client who unfortunately died in an auto accident on a highway in Spain in March of 2010. He was a prominent client of mine who shared your last name. Following a thorough investigation it has been determined that you are in fact his only living relation. Before his death he deposited twenty-two-million dollars in the vault of a certain institution’ blah blah blah. Of course the letter went on to explain in some detail how the transfer of said funds could and should be concluded. There was a signature at the bottom of the page with an email address and even a phone number. 

Old Jake took a photo of the letter with his iphone, then emailed it to his brother having first typed on top: ‘Hey Pete; Take a look at this letter I just received. It’s great news isn’t it? We’ll split the money 50/50.’ He chuckled to himself, then of course he tossed the letter back into the waste-basket before going off to bed. 

Hardly a day or two earlier Jake received an automated phone call supposedly from the ‘Internal Revenue Agency’ stating that he was in a helluva lot of trouble. He was in danger of jail time, perhaps solitary confinement, perhaps even some water-boarding. He was supposed to phone a certain number immediately for further instructions on how to rectify his obvious attempt at tax fraud. It may have been that same day he received two emails apparently from the ‘itunes store’ informing Jake that somebody had recently tried to use his account. He was directed to click on a link provided in order to verify his contact information. 

It felt to old Jake as though he had scams, questionable sales practices and business offers coming at him like bugs to a speeding truck. He had people trying to grab his modest savings directly, indirectly, in so many creative and wonderful ways. He knew to watch out for identity theft, personal cheque forgeries, lottery scams, fake shopping websites and many more. But it was daunting at times. And unfortunately the phenomena took an exponential leap once he posted his ancient truck for sale and his cottage for rent on ‘Kijiji.’ It seemed like a good idea at the time. He really didn’t need a big truck anymore and he hardly went to his cottage. He just thought that renting the place out for a few days now and then through the summer would help pay the taxes. 

He immediately received many emails about his truck, private messages and phone calls, but not one from anyone actually interested in purchasing the thing. ‘Kijiji’ itself bombarded him with innumerable emails suggesting he upgrade his ad for better results, at a cost of course. People called up seemingly keen to buy the truck only to eventually reveal they were calling on behalf of a marketing firm or a dealership. There were odd-balls, ridiculous low-ballers, even a frequent automated call from a lady speaking Mandarin.

He also got constant emails from ‘Kijiji’ suggesting he upgrade his cottage ad for better results, at a cost of course. Many requests just wouldn’t be appropriate for his place, several odd-balls, even a frequent automated call from a lady speaking Mandarin, and then there was Jayme.

Jayme, Jaymelea actually, sounded quite nice, natural, normal. And Jake had no reason to think her call was anything other than a lovely young lady wanting to spend a couple of romantic days in the country with her boyfriend. The kids were with their dad for the weekend, she’d been tremendously attracted by photos of the cottage and it’d take hardly more than an hour to get there. She e-transferred two-hundred-and-forty bucks, received directions and told where to find the key. It was quite a nice, natural, normal transaction, until five o’clock next morning.

When the phone rang Jake had been dreaming about an old dog he once had. The dog wandered off and he thought someone was calling with information as to her whereabouts. It was Jayme. She sounded agitated, upset. “We had a bad accident on the way and have been in the hospital all night. I’m ok but my boyfriend’s pretty messed up.” Old Jake immediately expressed his concern, assured her that he’d return her money but in his mind that was the first red flag fluttering in the wind. 

In Jake’s somewhat cynical mind, actually, there were several red flags fluttering in the wind. As he sat on the edge of his bed he thought: ‘What are the chances of them having an accident on the way? It just felt like an excuse, a lie. And if they’d had a bad accident, so bad that they’d been in the hospital all night, would getting her two-hundred-and-forty bucks back be uppermost in her mind? And if all that was true, would it seem so important to wake him up at five a.m? Why not wait until eight or even seven like a normal human?’

As old Jake sipped his strong black coffee he wondered what the scam might be this time. Once he sent money might they cancel their original transfer? Is that even possible and, if so, why couldn’t he then simply cancel his? Were they somehow after his banking information? Were they wanting to know how to get to his cottage for later on, to rip him off? Was there even a ‘they’? By mid-way through his second cup of strong black coffee he was pretty convinced it was a scam. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. And almost prophetically he received a response from the email he’d sent his brother. Peter wrote only three words: ‘It’s a scam.’ 

Jayme sent a message at eight asking if Jake had transferred the money. He decided to be up-front. He wrote that he’d absolutely send back her money but only after talking to his bank manager on Monday. He also said he’s asked his neighbour to take away the key and keep a watch on the place, which he hadn’t. But his message precipitated another call from Jayme, not angry, just more upset, more agitated. “Look Jake, I understand your concern. I’d move the key too. But I‘m totally legit,” she began dubiously. “I own a home in Barrhaven and two businesses. I have kids and can’t just throw away the money. I even bought two-hundred dollars of food!” 

Jake let the lady rant on a bit while all the while watching more red flags fluttering in the wind. He kept thinking: ‘You own a home and not one but two businesses yet you’re freaking out about this money. And how’s your boyfriend doing? As well, why would you buy two-hundred dollars of food for two people for two days? And anyway would all that food be wasted?’ “Jayme,” he finally responded. “I promise you I have no intention of keeping your money. Since you didn’t use my cottage the money’s not mine. I wouldn’t even need to know why you didn’t go to my cottage. I will be returning it. But I wanna go to my cottage first and I wanna go speak with the bank on Monday.”

There were a couple more text messages through the day, mostly trying to impress upon Jake that she was an honest, hard-working single mom. He looked on ‘Facebook’ and, yes, there was a Jaymelea Firestone, no photos of her but a few of two really cute kids. Eventually Jake decided what the hell and tried to e-transfer the money back, only the transfer didn’t go through. Her email address apparently didn’t exist and another red flag began fluttering in the wind. 

Sunday was a hot sunny day in the Gatineau Hills as old Jake drove over to the cottage. The trees were crying out with delight, the lake was brimming with confidence. There were unmistakable signs of a beaver working through one of the trees, frogs were jumping and a snake was under the canoe. But there were no signs of anyone having been in the cottage. Jayme called to explain why the email she uses didn’t accept the e-transfer. It had something to do with it being a company address. Jake really didn’t understand but it didn’t matter. Against his better judgment he was kinda warming up to her.

Monday morning was equally sunny as Jake made his way to the bank. He didn’t feel so sunny, actually wasn’t feeling at all well and was left cooling his heels in a tube-chair for a while. But he had a good chat with the manager eventually. She assured him that there really was no problem but to be totally safe he could purchase a ‘new product’ that essentially was a phone-number one could call for advice day or night on specific security concerns. She also tried to steer him into a high-interest account which in fact was not so high. She also tried to sign him up for their on-line self-directed investment service. And right before ending the meeting, as they both stood up to leave, she also generously offered to expand the borrowing limit on his credit card. The irony was not lost on the old guy.

By noon Jake was really feeling fairly flushed, probably just over-heated. He was also quite ready, willing, even eager to transfer Jayme’s money. He wasn’t tremendously reassured, still somewhat suspicious. But at that point he was also fed up, frankly a little curious and, God help him, even rather fond of the lady. She’d shown more interest in Jake over the past few days, for whatever reason, than any lady in thirty years.

The email address Jayme suggested worked fine that time but then she couldn’t download the funds. Jake tried to walk her through it, to no avail. Then she seemed to implode. “I can’t do this! I can’t do this!,” she hollered into the phone. “My life’s shit! You wanna know the truth? My boyfriend left me that night! He got home at five in the morning after spending the night with another woman. That’s the truth. There was no accident. Fuck the money. Just keep it! Now I gotta move by tomorrow with the kids!” 

Jake, for his part, was listening to the tirade with equal measures of surprise, concern, amusement and scepticism. Of course it didn’t matter at all what the truth of the situation might be. She was clearly a liar but also clearly distraught. “Jayme relax. Take a breath. I’ll cancel the transfer and bring you a cheque this afternoon, right now, wherever you are.” That seemed to do the trick. She settled down. They agreed to meet at a ‘Farm Boy’ grocery store on Woodroffe avenue. 

She of course couldn’t know how horrible Jake was feeling by then. As he drove to the city he felt positively faint. By the time he got downtown he had to pull over. He closed his eyes, unaware for how long until his phone rang and he heard her voice, excited, shrill, hollering, asking where he was, exactly, what cross-streets. Where was he? What colour was the truck? What street? What street Jake!? After that, like sort of the very next moment, he was in an ambulance, and then he was in a hospital bed.

And then Jayme was sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Old Jake looked at her for the first time. He thought she was really quite lovely, not the loveliness of youth. That wasn’t it. He‘d frankly expected her to look a little more desperate only she was relaxed, soft, with light-coloured hair, deep dark moist eyes, a mother’s body. He reached over and took her hand. “You know, I was pretty darn sure you were scamming me.” “Not everybody’s trying to cheat you Jake,” she responded. “But I’m sorry I made it all so hard and now you’re here.” He smiled. He was well medicated and his eyes were closing, until he remembered. “Just a minute,” he muttered. “Take the cheque out of my jacket.” She leaned over and actually kissed him on the cheek as he drifted off. 

Standing outside in the parking area Jayme held onto the cheque as her phone rang. She answered and a man’s voice spoke: “Did you get it?” After receiving no answer he repeated: “Jayme did you get it?” “No,” she said finally. “Ok, fuck it. Never mind,” the man barked. “We’ll cut the old bugger loose.” Jayme ripped up the cheque, threw it in a garbage can before getting in her car.