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But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbour and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.---
I got scammed out of three pounds five days ago by a blonde girl with a lip piercing. She was standing outside the entrance of the medical school wearing smart black shoes, a blouse and business skirt, holding a mostly finished cigarette in her hand. She stopped me as I was passing by and asked if I had a bus ticket back to Derby.
Of course I didn't have a bus ticket to Derby. We both knew she didn't really want a bus ticket to Derby. I said no and she started explaining that she had come over as a volunteer and lost her purse and was consequently stranded in Nottingham. 'Oh that's unfortunate,' I wanted to say. But I didn't. I did a brief preliminary survey to try and estimate the probability of her being a con-artist. She was about 25 years of age, Caucasian and seemed employed, or at least well dressed enough to afford her own bus ticket home. The blue lanyard around her neck read 'staff' but was conspicuously missing an id badge. She certainly had enough money to buy an outfit which presented her as a working class, vaguely respectable, trustworthy member of society. So what was she doing hustling outside the QMC for small change? The picture didn't fit. She had the means, I was the opportunity, but what was the motive? If she was indeed a con-artist, wouldn't she have bigger fish to fry? I had a strong feeling I was being duped but didn't have enough evidence to back up my hunch.
In the end I decide to err on the side of caution. "How much does it cost to get to Derby?" I say. She looks me straight in the eyes. "About three pounds and forty pence," she replies. I reach for my wallet reluctantly. "Really? Are you sure? Thank you so much," she says, her voice flat and unconvincing, her words a hollow facsimile of gratitude. I deposit the coins one by one into her palm. "God bless you." She beams and hurries off before I have a chance to change my mind.
As I walk away I feel a peculiar bitterness rise up in my throat which begins to grow with every step, a deep resentfulness at having been taken advantage of. But why was this bothering me? I decided to analyse it. I knew full well that it was probably a scam and decided that the best course of action was to give her the benefit of the doubt. But then why was I still unhappy with the outcome? The answer is that I felt I could have handled it better. That I should have done more than throw money at a difficult situation in order to get out. There had to be a better way. A way of being trusting without being gullible - of being smart without being cynical - of being kind without being conned. Is it love if you only deal with them at arm's length?
A few days later I read in Jon Ronson's book, Lost at Sea, an account of real life superhero Phoenix Jones encountering a similar situation and his way of handling it. Below is an excerpt:
"Just then a young man approaches us. He's sweating, looking distressed. 'I've been in tears!' he yells.
He tells us his story. He's here on vacation, his parents live a two-hour bus ride away in central Washington, and he's only $9.40 short for the fare home. Can Phoenix please give him $9.40?
'I've been crying, dude,' he says. 'I've asked sixty or seventy people. Will you touch my heart, save my life, and give me nine dollars and forty cents?'
Phoenix turns to me. 'You down for a car-ride adventure?' he says excitedly. 'We're going to drive the guy back to his parents!'
The young man looks panicked. 'Honestly, nine dollars and forty cents is fine,' he says, backing away slightly.
'No, no!' says Phoenix. 'We're going to drive you home! Where's your luggage?'
'Um, in storage at the train station . . .' he says.
'We'll meet you at the train station in ten minutes!' says Phoenix.
Thirty minutes later. The train station. The man hasn't showed up. Phoenix narrows his eyes. 'I think he was trying to scam us,' he says. 'Hmm!'"
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Twenty years ago the following scene took place in one of the numerous prison yards of northern Russia. At seven o’clock in the morning the door of a cell was flung open and on its threshold stood a prison guard who addressed its inmates: “Citizens! The collective of this prison’s guards challenges you, the inmates, to socialist competition in cutting the lumber amassed in our yard.” In those parts there is no central heating, and the local police, in a manner of speaking, tax all the nearby lumber companies for one tenth of their produce. By the time I am describing, the prison yard looked like a veritable lumber yard: the piles were two to three stories high, dwarfing the onestoried quadrangle of the prison itself. The need for cutting was evident, although socialist competitions of this sort had happened before. “And what if I refuse to take part in this?” inquired one of the inmates. “Well, in that case no meals for you,” replied the guard.
Then axes were issued to inmates, and the cutting started. Both prisoners and guards worked in earnest, and by noon all of them, especially the always underfed prisoners, were exhausted. A break was announced and people sat down to eat: except the fellow who asked the question. He kept swinging his axe. Both prisoners and guards exchanged jokes about him, something about Jews being normally regarded as smart people whereas this man…and so forth. After the break they resumed the work, although in a somewhat more flagging manner. By four o’clock the guards quit, since for them it was the end of their shift; a bit later the inmates stopped too. The man’s axe still kept swinging. Several times he was urged to stop, by both parties, but he paid no attention. It seemed as though he had acquired a certain rhythm he was unwilling to break; or was it a rhythm that possessed him?
To the others, he looked like an automaton. By five o’clock, by six o’clock, the axe was still going up and down. Both guards and inmates were now watching him keenly, and the sardonic expression on their faces gradually gave way first to one of bewilderment and then to one of terror. By seven-thirty the man stopped, staggered into his cell, and fell asleep. For the rest of his stay in that prison, no call for socialist competition between guards and inmates was issued again, although the wood kept piling up.
— Joseph Brodsky, A Commencement Address
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