Never trust a fake cowboy

The cowboy hat should have tipped me off.

Reeling from recent personal and professional setbacks, I had resolved to right my ship. I was in the midst of a proverbial storm, and any lifeline was greeted by me with outstretched arms. But that hat. That ugly, pretentious, God-forsaken cowboy hat. It was as if that lifeline was a lasso, pulling me from my boat into the water.

Thanks, friend, but I could have jumped in all by myself.

The man underneath the cowboy hat was named ... well, for all intents and purposes, let's call him Ray. His name isn't really Ray, so I apologize to all cowboy-hat-wearing Rays out there who didn't screw me over.

Let me back up. I was in a crisis of employment. I had much to offer, yes, but little place to put it. After the past 10 years in the dying newspaper business, I knew any move upward would have to be taken as a giant leap of faith. I had to cast my net wide and take chances. My grandfather did not finish high school. Although it is something he regretted most of his life, he instead chose to take risks in his professional life, and nearly all of them paid off. My mother said it was one of his greatest assets. Myself, I had chosen to play things close to the vest. Find something you are good at and let someone pay you peanuts to do it.

But that had gotten me nowhere. In fact, it had helped to get me in a bigger hole than a weekend at Oaklawn would have done. So when opportunity came knocking, I hesitantly answered.

Ray is an entrepreneur, a self-made man. His latest venture would involve taking over a company in Kansas City that dealt with energy-related products. That didn't mean much to me. What he needed was someone who could write, who could design, who could take his thoughts and turn them into something tangible. But first, we needed to meet.

I was working two jobs at the time, doing whatever I could to keep the lights on while I discovered my dream, so when I called Ray, he was eager to speak with me as soon as possible.

"I can be there right now," I said. There was a pause.

"Oh. Yeah, okay." Funny, but I thought as soon as possible meant, oh, I don't know, as soon as possible. He continued.

"That's fine. I am having my piano tuned right now, and I'm not even dressed for the day, but why don't you come on over."

Turn the car around, Ricky. Turn the car around right now and drive far away from this man.

"I'm on my way."

Crap.

I drove into Maumelle, an area of Little Rock that I never frequent. I might have well been in Oklahoma. I had no idea this place existed, even though it was only 15 minutes from my home. Hoping that the directions would lead to some sort of gated community, I ventured past the golf course and the trappings of a self-sustaining suburb. Turning onto the street of my future boss, I felt a little more at ease. These were houses that I hoped to attain someday. Unless he was squatting, this had to be a legitimate opportunity ... right?

I pulled into the driveway. One massive pickup truck and one gaudy Mercedes Benz greeted me. The house was not showy, but  it was nice. I walked up to the door brimming with confidence. This is what will turn things around. This is that moment.

The door opened, and I saw the hat.

He wasn't even wearing one of those big cowboy hats like you see on those CMT studs. No, this was a smaller hat, curled up on the sides, curled down in the front and back, like it was left on the dashboard of your car. It looked like it belonged on one of those spaghetti-strap wearing co-eds from an SEC school. It didn't look like it belonged on someone who was supposed to turn my life around. This was a girl's cowboy hat.

It didn't help that he was still wearing his bathrobe with silk pajamas underneath. I was juxtaposed in my pressed shirt and pants, resume held at my side. I took one more look at the Mercedes. Take a risk.

"Come on in," he said.

I inched past the aforementioned piano tuner as he was getting out of Dodge and happened upon a very small, very rambunctious dog.

"Oh, that's just Samson," Ray said, scooping him up and holding him under his arm. "Let me get him situated, and we'll talk."

Then came the sales pitch. Without the boring details, I must admit I was convinced that his appearance was contradictory to what this man communicated. I knew what he needed done, and I knew how to do it. I also knew that I could get a very nice paycheck to do so. He said he had a seminar the following weekend, and if I could help him with it, we would discuss the future. I would meet the folks from Kansas City, and we would begin to make some money.

Now, this guy is a salesman. I understand that. But I also knew that I wasn't going to be a part of that. I just needed to do the legwork. As long as I kept my head down and let him convince the masses of his worth, I could punch my ticket to a different type of career. I came back to his house for the next three days to write, to produce and to get all of his ducks in a row for the big event. I met the notorious "Kansas City People," and we discussed my compensation. Hands were shook and smiles were passed around. But I still noted that during that entire time, Ray was either wearing that cowboy hat or a baseball cap.

On the day of Ray's event, I walked through the ballroom doors of the Embassy Suites and saw Ray standing there in his suit, his rings, his million dollar smile ... and the worst hairpiece I have ever seen in my life. My heart sunk.

And yet it went off as a rousing success. I watched him work the room, convincing investors to take part in this energy revolution. I saw my power point presentations, my logos, my designs and my writing contribute to what looked to be a very lucrative morning. When it was over, Ray came up to me and said, "Let's open up the office for you on Monday." He handed me a check for $500 for about three days work, and I justified the dead animal on his head.

For the next four weeks, everything chugged along great. I worked out of his office in North Little Rock, "getting things done," getting ready for this big transition, getting ready to get paid. Occasionally Ray would come by.

"Do you have a laptop?"

"Umm, no. I don't."

"We're gonna get you a laptop."

"Great!"

"Do you have your passport?"

"Umm, no. I don't."

"We need to take care of that. I'm sure we'll be doing some traveling."

But I saw some cracks in the armor. Although Ray is a great communicator, I never had to email or text him. He always wanted everything done by phone or Skype or video. Then I finally found out why. Instead of calling him one morning, I decided to send a quick email.

— Hey, were you planning on coming into the office today?

— I no Im lat

Huh? Was that no? Was that "I know. I'm late?" I started to get nervous.

— That's fine. I just needed to know what the schedule was like today.

— B ter latr

For the third time since I met him, I shuddered. This man could not write a complete sentence to save his life. He couldn't spell. This wasn't mere texting language. This was something different. I walked into his office and saw a legal pad on his desk.

New Feul Opmizer. Sav gas! Sav Mony!

For the first time in years, I placed both fingers to my temples. Part of this man's inspirational story was that he was an eighth-grade dropout. I had at least figured he would educate himself as an adult. But this was beyond repair. No wonder he needed someone to do his legwork. Without it, he'd have no legs at all. 

But I continued to tell myself, "Take the risk. It will pay off." I had an agreement in place to pay me a healthy salary, and I had sent all of my information to Kansas City. I had already received one paycheck, so if I could just prove my worth, maybe I would become indispensable. Of course, my boss couldn't spell the first half of indispensable. No matter.

After Christmas, I returned to work and submitted my next invoice for services rendered. And I waited ... and waited ... and waited. I emailed my contacts there. Was there a problem? I called. I was placed on hold. I was told to call back. I called back. No one was available.

Then I contacted Ray. This was the man who was going to be taking over their company. He had been out of town for a week. I swallowed hard and emailed him, knowing the response would be like reading hieroglyphics. When I told him that I haven't been paid in a week and that I needed him to help me to get the ball rolling, I received this response.

 — I not do busnes with them any mor. they havt pad me ether. they r lires. dont go to offce

So now the man who convinced me to quit two jobs for this incredible opportunity has ceased with his merger and neglected to tell me. When I asked if he could pay me for the work I had already done, he said this.

— I dont rit cheks for them. wat do u wat me 2 do? i am tryng to get new busnes.

And with two quick emails, my new career was dashed on the rocks of illiteracy.

It has been more than 30 days, and I still haven't been paid. I have made contact with the "Kansas City People," and they have said on several occasions that I will get what I earned, but with each passing day, it looks a little bit murkier. As for Ray, I think he is embarrassed that he didn't deliver, and although I still have the keys to the office, neither one of us has contacted the other. Instead of acting responsible for his actions, he passed the buck and turned his back on me.

I don't believe in karma. But more and more I have a sinking feeling that things we have done in the past can come back to us in different ways. In an earlier life (six months ago) I lied about financial information to people that I cared about. It wasn't done out of malice or selfishness. It was done in order to spare those people from any undue stress. I didn't get away with it, and I paid dearly for it, but maybe not dearly enough. It seems now I am learning that it is hard to trust someone who lies to you. I have been lied to many times in the past five weeks, and maybe this is some sort of lesson I need to learn before I can move forward. It's a tough lesson to learn, but maybe it has to be tough in order for me to pay attention. I have to be able to draw something positive from this experience. 

I can only think of one other lesson ... stay away from girly cowboy hats.