My ex-wife’s wedding ring. That’s what I sold. It wasn’t easy, since it originally belonged to my great-grandmother. Don’t judge. I’d hit hard times. Living in the third-least affordable city in North America didn’t help.
Offers came fast and furious. (Out of respect for my readers, I’ve corrected their atrocious grammar.)
Crissy69 responded first. “hi i’m interested! please contact me if this if still available.”
Before I could reply, they sent a follow up: “i had a ring that looked the same. love the style. mine was very sentimental to me. love to purchase your ring.”
I responded politely, stating the history of the ring, and its original owner. In truth, I probably said too much. I got gushy. Selling this ring brought an onslaught of emotions I wasn’t prepared for.
Another offer arrived up at the same time. This one from Mooby, who lowballed me. I told Mooby about the previous offer. Mooby upped the offer, adding an additional $100. I checked their profile. A jeweler. Figures. They’re all the same.
More interest poured in, all from jewelers, demanding pics from every angle, asking ridiculous questions regarding every aspect of the diamond. It was overwhelming. If you’ve sold jewellery on Kijiji, you understand. The fact that the ring was a family heirloom increased my anxiety.
I messaged Crissy69 and Mooby, since they were the first to responded. “Whoever sends money, gets the ring.”
By now, the money was less important. I wanted to rid myself of the memories, and be done with the hassle.
Crissy69 was furious. “what? i thought we had a deal?”
We didn’t.
“Sorry,” I replied. “First come first serve. I need this ring gone by this weekend.”
“why the hurry?” Followed by, “you can’t lead me on this way!”
This message was upsetting.
Their profile was blank. Seems fishy. Nothing to go on.
Mooby, on the other hand, was respectful. We chatted on the phone for almost an hour. Turns out, she owns a small jewelry store, selling knickknack and random hippie paraphernalia. She seemed nice. Mooby offered to e-transfer me the money on the spot. Yes, it was less than I’d asked for. But not much. She was making this easy.
I had two options: wait it out for my highest bidder (more offers were rolling in), which meant haggling with jewelers. Or I could sell it to Mooby, and be done with it.
In the meantime, Crissy69 was flooding my inbox with spiteful, misspelled rhetoric: “you just wrote me a page of how much you wanted me to have this ring! and now this? honestly i’m disappointed. yes i was initially nervous, but i will not be once i figured it out. i just called my daughter here to show me how to do this…”
Their reply went on and one. Each sentence grammatically worse than its predecessor. This was no one’s grandmother. I was sure of this.
Crissy69 was a troll.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I considered Mooby’s offer, who was itching to send money.
My inbox dinged. Crissy69 again, wanting to meet in an abandoned parking lot in a neighboring town. Cash upon delivery.
The message was suspicious. Was I being lured? Meeting strangers in random locations is not my idea of safe. Grudgingly, I told her the item was sold. Which was true. Mooby sent the cash. The transaction was complete.
Crissy69 was not happy.
“how dare u! big mistake! i got something coming for u.”
I was stunned.
Before I react, another message arrived, straight to the point.
“karma’s a bitch.”
This was unacceptable. My life was already in turmoil. I didn’t need this. I reported it to Kijiji, then rushed off the to UPS Store to mail the ring. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Goodbye family heirloom. Farewell former life. New roads ahead.
Crissy69’s response stayed with me all weekend. I’ll admit: It had me spooked. Maybe I was naïve. That said, by Monday, I’d forgotten about it. I had some extra cash to play with, and a new life to build.
For the first time ever, I was living alone. The house was empty. Selling it wasn’t an option. My work studio was in the basement, something I’d spent the better part of ten years creating (to my wife’s chagrin). I write music for a living. Nothing fancy. Jingles, mostly. Plus, I teach private lessons online. My work space was invaluable.
Life went on, as it does. Each day presenting new challenges. Yet despite these adversaries, I did my best. I coped. Unfortunately, my inner dialogue was crippling. I questioned everything. You see, I thought my ex-partner was my soulmate. I was wrong. What went wrong? What comes next?
These were the questions rummaging though my mind, as I sipped my morning coffee, listening to the American goldfinches and brilliant-colored cardinals, gather around the feeder. I sighed. Then I took a tentative sip. The coffee lukewarm. Just like my ex’s heart.
I was heading into the house, when something caught my attention.
A van.
It was parked on the road, directly in front of my house. The van was black, with tinted windows. A disturbing image stamped on its rear: Crissy’s Critter Control. The C’s crooked with fancy devil horns. The letters dripping with blood.
I gave the van a curious look. No website, nor phone number was included. Just a creepy logo. I grimaced. Then I disappeared, coffee in hand, into my basement studio.
Work was arduous. Deadlines fast approached. Unfortunately, my mind was in disarray. So was my personal life. My jingles weren’t good enough. Everything was a struggle.
The following morning, sitting on porch, listening to the chatter of the chipmunks, I noticed the van. It was parked in the same spot, directly across from where I was sitting. It looked menacing. I shivered, despite the warm weather. Then I shrugged. The van was an anomaly. Something new. Nothing of any importance. Certainly not a threat. Vans are creepy. Especially black vans with insidious emblems.
I’d forgotten Crissy69.
The van had me spooked. I distrusted the logo. Crissy’s Critter Control. Did one of the neighbors call them? If so, who? And why? Moreover, who drove the van? Its tinted windows were impenetrable. No sign whatsoever of a driver.
I spied out the window periodically. The inconspicuous black van remained. It was an eye sore. Someone should call the city and complain.
Sunday morning, I went for a hike, pondering the loneliness of my life. I’ll admit, I was feeling sorry for myself. Probably why it took me so long to notice I was being followed.
The van.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
A few yards behind me, puttering along the boulevard like a black box on wheels, was the black van. The chrome grill snarled its ugly fangs, ready to chomp. The sun glared off its windshield like fireworks. The driver totally concealed.
The van crept closer.
With the full force of fear, I veered left and disappeared into the woods.
The walking trail, with its bubbling brooks, charming foot bridges and array of cyclists and nature enthusiasts, is a small slice of heaven. I hoped it would improve my spirit.
It didn’t.
When I resurfaced, an hour later, the van greeted me. Parked at the curb, tomb-like, separate from its surroundings. Sill, no driver was detected.
The van followed me home.
I considered approaching. But it looked dangerous. The way the flat-black tires hovered ever-so-slightly above the pavement. The headlights, like glowing eyes, staring into my soul, all-knowingly. The van seemed to drive itself.
For the first time in my life, I wish I owned a firearm.
I rushed inside, poured myself of stiff drink, and gathered by the window. The van returned to its usual spot. Its engine belched, releasing a plume of diesel-driven dust, then went still. With trembling hands, I googled Crissy’s Critter Control, hoping to get to the bottom of this.
The search proved nil.
Now what?
My mind returned to that Kijiji conversation with Crissy69.
Karma’s a bitch.
Good grief. I felt sick to my stomach. And for good reason. It wasn’t long ago that a neighboring family was devastated by the Kijiji Killers. Folks still talk about it. In fact, this town has never been the same since. That murder trial exposed a level of evil previously unknown in this community. It was beyond tragic. A lesson was to be learned: Selling stuff to strangers is dangerous. Especially online.
“I’m being paranoid,” I told myself, refilling my glass. Crissy69 was a disgruntled jeweler looking to snatch a precious gem from a sucker like me. That’s it.
Still, I didn’t know what to make of the mysterious van scoping me out. I peaked outside. The van sat like a Buddha, lurking under the shadows of the weeping willow.
I gulped. My heart was a bouncy castle. My breathing treacherous. Something had to be done. Reveling in liquid courage, I grabbed a baseball bat from the cellar, and forced myself out the door. Time to get to the bottom of this.
The van was lurking under the pale light of the yellow moon. I took a tentative step towards it, wiping my brow. My driveway seemed as long a football field.
I edged closer.
Something rushed me.
A racoon.
It was rabid. Blood was dripping from its whiskers like fresh paint. Its claws clutching the flesh of a discarded animal. Guts hanging like loose threads. It scooted across my foot, and ran away.
The stench of death pervaded me.
I surveyed my surroundings, then grimaced. My yard was a morgue. Animal parts lay scattered across the freshly-cut grass, mutated. Disfigured birds with broken wings rested under the willow tree, dead. A scurry of squirrels, with eyes removed and bushy tails torn off, dumped by the back of the van.
Panic punched me below the belt. I bolted, locking the doors, sealing all the windows. I couldn’t move quick enough. When I peeked outside, expecting the worst, the van was gone.
Phew. I sat in front of the TV, trying to forget the dismembered animals. It didn’t work. Thus, I resorted to the bottle. I drank until I could no longer keep my eyes open. Sleep was merciless. When I awoke the following morning, I felt like the walking dead. I looked worse. With eyes as red as roses, I hoped to find salvation in a strong pot of coffee.
With iPad in hand, coffee mug in the other, I found my usual seat on the porch. My buttocks fell to the cushion with ease. I was fatally exhausted.
Rain had fallen overnight, leaving green blades of grass moist with mildew. The sun trickled through the grayish clouds, providing much-needed relief. None of this mattered.
The van was parked across the street. It’s ugly words in plain sight: Crissy’s Critter Control. At least the animal corpses were gone. The yard all cleaned up. Maybe Crista’s Critter Control was legit. Of course, it was. What else could it be? With that, I sipped my morning coffee, ate some toast, showered, then retreated to the basement. I’d fallen behind in my work. Deadlines awaited. The jingles don’t right themselves, you know?
Work never came.
I couldn’t stop thinking of the van.
My mind was heavy wit burden. I went for a nature walk. Fresh air would do me good.
The van trailed close behind.
This time, I didn’t turn down the path, leading into the forest. Instead, I pretended to text someone, keeping a close eye on the malevolence vehicle. My feet wobbled clumsily, like a kid whose shoes don’t fit.
The van pulled over to the curb. The engine clunked and clanked, as it idled. The morning light bounced off its windshield, burning my eyes.
A bomb went off inside my head, paralyzing me.
Then I was ambushed.
Two large men rushed me from behind. Maybe more. I couldn’t get a good look. A gruff voice told me to hold still. Or else. I was put into a choke hold, forced into the back of the van. My head slammed into something. Probably metal. A bag was tossed over my head, blinding me. My hands and feet shackled.
This day wasn’t starting off so well.
The door slammed shut. I was locked in the back of a van, like a prisoner. The drivers entered the vehicle. Voices argued. The man with the gruff voice was clearly in charge, shouting in a foreign language. None of it made any sense.
The van drove off.
My head was swimming. Darkness enveloped me. Claustrophobia settling in. I felt like a pretzel. I tried kicking, screaming, floundering about. Nothing worked. I collapsed onto my stomach, like a folded carpet. Whenever we hit a bump, I was flung from side to side, crashing into blunt objects. Pallets, perhaps. It was impossible to tell.
The van smelled like unwashed bowling shoes. If criminal had a fragrance, it would be this. I dry-heaved, careful not to vomit with this bag over my head. Something was dripping on me. Something greasy. I imagined the worse.
Finally, the van stopped.
The rear door opened.
The fresh air hit me like a bong toke.
“Get out,” said the gruff voice.
I groaned. I didn’t know which way was up.
“NOW!”
Half-hardheartedly, I tumbled onto the pavement, face-first. The concrete greeted me like a knockout punch. Furious feet found the back of my head, kicking repeatedly. I was a pinata. Defending myself proved impossible. Eventually, I gave up.
I passed out.
When I came too, I was in the back of a cruiser, handcuffed. The look on the officer’s face was not encouraging. A plethora of questions were slung at me, but I barely noticed. Every inch on me hurt. My body was minced meat. My face a mangled mess.
There was only one thing on my mind: The van.
I was hauled into the police station, not-so-nicely. Eventually, after repeating my story a million-and-a-half times, I was released on bail. Apparently, I was found stark naked by the side of the road, bound and bruised, with a briefcase stuffed with stolen goods. Cocaine and Jewellery, mostly. To my dismay, no eye witnesses reported seeing a black van.
I told my side of the story. The police didn’t believe a single word.
It’s not looking good.
Let this be a lesson to you. Next time you plan on selling valuable items on Kijiji, be extra cautious. You never know who’s replying. Could be a disgruntled jeweler. A psychopath, perhaps. Or a troll.
Or worse. It could be Crissy’s Critter Control.