The perp as rendered by his victim.

As you can probably tell from the fact that you’re reading words I’ve put on a page, I’m a writer. And if you know something about the state of writers in general, and in New York in particular, then you know I’m poor. Luckily for me and the city’s taxpayers, I’m not yet food-stamp poor (I checked, I don’t qualify), but I’m cash strapped enough that if I’m out to dinner with a friend, I’ll make sure she pays the extra dollar she owes instead of splitting the check down the middle — because, after all, that’s why I got the PBR and not the glass of house wine.

All of this is to say that I can’t afford to just hand out money to strangers on the street, especially when it comes in the form of paper and not coins. Yet, despite the fact that I’ve lived in New York off-and-on for more than 12 years, that is exactly what I did a couple of weeks ago. I handed $30 to a scam artist.
More →