I certainly have more than my share of character flaws, but gullibility isn’t one of them. I have always prided myself on not being naïve. Gambling holds absolutely no allure for me. I am virtually immune to advertising. Salespeople might as well not waste their breath blathering about “the last one in the store,” “for today only,” “I have one of these myself,” or, worst of all, “trust me.” My motto has been caveat venditor — “let the seller beware.”
That’s why it was especially crushing when I fell — hook, line, sinker, rod, reel, and boat — for the oldest scam around: the classic shell game.
It was late afternoon on a pleasant fall day in Amsterdam. I had been meandering my way around Europe — traveling alone, crashing at sometimes seedy youth hostels — on a painfully constrained budget. For weeks, every dollar, franc, lira, and guilder was judiciously rationed out of my ever-shrinking fanny pack.
Suddenly my eyes and ears were drawn to a group of people, all whooping and hollering, huddled around a tiny makeshift table. As I made my way to the front, I immediately recognized the attraction.
One of the oldest cons in recorded history, the shell game is a sleight-of-hand trick, in which a pea is hidden underneath one of three walnut shells, cups, or, in this case, matchbox covers. The scam artist then quickly shifts the pea from one shell to another with the intent of deceiving the spectator into
guessing — and incorrectly betting on — its location.
The action was frenzied. The youngish fellow seated behind the table sported a backward baseball cap, scruffy sneakers, and a pleasant Dutch accent. I was spellbound. His hands were quick, but not too quick; I was able to track his every move (or so I thought). I must have watched on for close to twenty minutes, as various spectators would win, lose, or walk away. And with every game, I was able to correctly guess (silently, of course) under which matchbox cover the pea had been placed.
My visceral excitement and self-confidence both were swelling. But did I have the gumption to actually wager some of my dwindling funds? I diligently scrutinized several more games — and each time, spotted the correct location of the innocent pea.
Okay, that did it — I just had to take my shot. (I mean, there was no way I could lose, right?) Since I had very little money in my pocket, I headed off to an ATM and impatiently withdrew twenty dollars. Not a fortune, to be sure. But, confident of my inevitable winnings, I would now be well-fed for the foreseeable future.
With hands trembling and heart pounding, I made my way back to the table. Finally it was time. The guy shuffled the matchbox covers a few times, then lifted the one on my left to reveal the pea. And then — and I’m telling you the absolute
truth — in one clean, casual move he merely switched the positions of the left box with the middle box. And then asked if anyone wanted to wager.
I swallowed hard, uttered a brief Hail Mary (mind you, I’m Jewish), plunked down my twenty bucks, and pointed to the matchbox containing the pea. Without a trace of emotion, he lifted the cover and paused. My blood ran cold. There was nothing there. I stared in utter disbelief at the emptiness under the box — and the emptiness just stared right back at me. Surely my eyes were deceiving me. I blinked repeatedly — to no avail. “But it was just there!” I screamed silently. And now, it wasn’t. The guy deftly scooped up my money and moved on, trolling for the next gullible sucker.
I had been swindled. Duped. Scammed. I slithered away, in utter humiliation — and with no one there to turn for solace. In a daze, I ambled back to my cramped hostel room, a stale granola bar, and my tattered copy of “Man’s Search for Meaning.”
So, lesson learned, right? Well, not entirely. Flash forward five years. The streets of New York City. A blustery winter afternoon. My chum, Drew, and I were wandering around, searching for a slice of the city’s best pizza, when we turned a busy corner and chanced upon it: The Big Apple edition of the shell game.
The insignia on the backward baseball cap, sneakers, and accent all were different — but the game was unmistakably the same. The guy in Amsterdam was good; but this guy was really good. What especially captured our attention, though, was the group of spectators. As we watched on intently, we were able to detect that several of the onlookers crowded around the tiny table were, in fact, merely actors in the elaborately choreographed
charade — both those who “won,” and those who “lost.” The whole intricate ruse was a marvel to behold.
Oddly, even with all of that knowledge, the game still somehow tempted us. “Since we know how it works, maybe we could outfox them?” we wondered aloud. But we swiftly came to our senses, realizing that these guys had surely planned for every possible contingency. There is simply no way you’re leaving that table with their money. Lesson (finally) learned.
We all live with the fact that many “games” in life are rigged, in one way or another. Did you ever find out (usually too late) about the vast array of exclusions embedded in your insurance policies? Or try to challenge the multiple charges that are systematically stacked onto your monthly utility bills? And good luck navigating all the rights to privacy that you unwittingly sign away on the internet (have you honestly ever checked the box “Don’t Agree”?) Frequently, there’s little realistic option other than to participate. (Face it, you’re not going to start up your own insurance, utility, or internet company.) In such cases, we need to live by the credo caveat emptor — “Let the buyer beware.”
But, for God’s sake, don’t go out of your way looking to get ripped off. When you come across any situation that seems “too good to be true,” as the saying goes, it probably is. Despite how tempting things might appear, you’re not walking away a winner. The best action is no action: just don’t play. And caveat credulus — “Let the gullible beware.”