SCAMMING THE COMMUNITY:
GATEKEEPERS 2000
By Valerie Shaw, M.PR
On
a recent trip to the mall I accidentally bumped into
an old fair-weather friend of mine from years ago.
She ran up on me like I was a football ready for the
punt. "Va-a-alerie," she screamed in amazed
delight, "you're still alive! No one has seen
you for years. We heard that you lost your house after
your business went belly-up. Are you still living
in Los Angeles?"
"I
moved out a ways," I said pensively, not wanting
to reveal too many details to this woman who had stabbed
me in the back both personally and professionally
over 20 years ago.
"I'm
so glad to see you," she said. "You'll have
to give me your phone number so we can keep in touch."
"Why
do you want to keep in touch with me?" I asked.
"I'm leading a quiet life now, raising my son
and working a steady nine-to-five," I said meekly.
"You've
given up on entrepreneurship?" she squealed.
"Don't tell me that you let my little stab in
the back stop you."
"Well,"
I said, "it wasn't a mortal wound, but it sure
set me back a few steps when you stole my proposal
and had me locked out of the meeting with our potential
clients." She looked surprised that I remembered
the gruesome little details of our partnership and
her treachery.
"Now,
now," she cooed, "you should be grateful
for the million dollar lesson I taught you. Before
I stole your business you didn't understand killer
instinct, did you?"
"You're
right," I acknowledged hesitantly. "I guess
I was too busy being a team player to be a killer."
"Don't
get me wrong," she said, oblivious to my sarcasm.
"People like me need team players like you. Who
could we abuse if everyone had the killer instinct?
It's you guys who carry the ball to the ten-yard line
so we can dance it across the goal and look like heroes."
She patted me on the head sympathetically, like
I was a pound puppy.
"You
really have it down, don't you?" I said, amazed.
"Oh
sure," she said. "I've always been good
at using people. Why, after I screwed you I went on
to develop a very successful company. Co-opters, Incorporated.
Our motto was: We'll take your business and make it
our own. Or, give us your confidence; we'll give you
the shaft. Cute, huh?"
"Yeah,
very." I was incredulous at her brash confidence.
"But
that was just a warm-up," she said hurriedly.
"Three years ago I dreamed up some great Y2K
scams that bought me a first class trip to Jamaica
and capitalized my next business venture."
"Another
new business?" I queried.
She
looked at me obligingly, like her counsel might have
some influence on my life. "Well, you know I
like to change focus, shall we say, every five years
or so. I gotta stay a mile or two in front of the
suckers. Metaphorically speaking, that is."
"You
don't mean it?" I was aghast.
"I
surely do," she said. "Take this Information
Age hooey."
"Oh,
you're into computers?"
"Not
exactly. Although I do have a few dozen computers
in my office. It's a good front." Without missing
a beat she handed me a laminated copy of a newspaper
article. "Here, look at this write-up. That's
me, smiling. Holding the check."
"How
did you do that?" I asked.
"Oh,
it was easy. I got the computers and all of the office
furniture donated to
my phony 501(c)3 by a big multi-national company that
wanted to look good in the community."
"Gosh,
you have come a long way," I said.
"Oh
yeah! With the Information Age, I've become one very
hip sophisticated shyster. Now I'm really on a roll."
"You
say you don't know computers or techno?" I was
fascinated.
"Naw,
why should I? A few years ago I coaxed this computer
genius who'd been downsized by JPL to come and work
for me. I used him for a couple of years without him
even knowing it."
"You
didn't pay him?" I asked sincerely.
Just
as sincerely she said, "I had to throw him a
bone or two, but I was able to cut him out of the
real money by telling him that I didn't believe in
signing contracts. You know my philosophy. My word
is my bond."
"You
really screwed him, didn't you," I asked rhetorically.
She
looked at me gaily, throwing her mane of fake hair
back, laughing robustly. "Oh, dah-hling, that
was just the beginning. You should see the list of
people I promised information to. I even got into
the website building business. Why thanks to me over
one-third of all black-owned businesses--from Compton
to Inglewood--aren't wired."
"How's
that?"
"Well,"
she shrieked with glee, "since they paid me every
dime of their discretionary income to provide them
with services I didn't deliver, they're broke."
"Broke
and mad as hell I'll bet," I interjected.
"Oh
sure, they're holding some kind of misguided grudge,"
she said, "but they know they can't win. I put
my assets in my daughter's name. And all of my money
is in a Swiss bank account."
"That
was smart," I agreed.
She
leaned forward, beckoning my ear to her heavily painted
lips. "Listen," she
whispered. "I'm not fooling around with those
little guppies anymore," she said
confidently. "A shark like me needs deeper waters
to swim in…bigger fish to eat."
"What's
your big plan this time?" I asked genuinely.
I swear I heard her lips smacking, like my question
was about to turn me into her lunch.
"Don't tell anyone, but I'm about to launch the
biggest black business scam Southern California has
seen in decades. It's better than fraud, embezzlement,
or misrepresentation, and a whole lot more legal too."
I was speechless.
"I
call it Gatekeepers 2000," she continued with
a flair. "We administer fund raisers that only
make money for us. We're silent on all meaningful
issues. Specializing in rumor and innuendo, we run
businesses into the ground with bad leadership, while
we're skimming off the profits. We make the workers
and the volunteers think that it's their fault that
the organization is failing. We ignore all good advice
and we glorify the old way of doing things."
She
was on a roll, describing her new business swindle.
"We make the people who want to stop progress
look so good in the press that the community won't
even know that it's being shafted."
"I
can certainly see how you can get rich off of this
scheme," I agreed.
She
interrupted me. "It's not a scheme. It's a service!
After all, someone has to remind black people that
they are the backbone of the underclass. Someone has
to stand by that gate and hold the new energetic leaders
back. Someone has to preach subservience and mediocrity
to the masses, allowing all of the members of the
board to keep getting their free ride. That's what
the class system is all about, Sweetie."
"Okay,"
I acquiesced, "but why are you telling me this?"
"Well,"
she said coyly, "I figured that if I cut you
in on Gatekeepers 2000 I could woo you over to our
side. I've got a desk full of grants and proposals
that need to go out and I could sure use a good writer
like you."
I
looked at her in amazement.
"I'm
willing to offer you any salary you want," she
said whipping out an embossed Gatekeepers 2000, Inc.
business card from a gold bejeweled card case. "Just
state your fee and I'll pay it."
I
was incredulous. Bug-eyed. Dumbfounded. Of all the
nerve!
"Honest,"
she said soberly. "Anything you want. Just name
it. You know me, Valerie, sweetheart. After all, everybody
knows that my word is my bond."
