I just can’t stop fucking yooooouu…

Nearing the end of a sorry saga. And the worst thing about it is: I had a chance to avoid it. If I’d just done what I always try to do these days – follow my instincts – none of this would ever have happened. Let’s shine a light on the story:
I have a cute little LCD projector, about three grands’ worth, casts a nice picture against a white wall. For the last couple of years I’ve been lending it out to the odd associate with a party to liven up. I got a warm glow from helping a bunch of black funk daddies; they understood that damage gets paid for; all were happy. The odd mistake got cleared up fast.
Until 2004.
One of the funk daddies (the only non-ethnic minority one, as it happens) starting borrowing the equipment on his own account. ‘I’ve got to try some packages out’ – as if it were a business proposition instead of his personal hobby.
I drove through Nevada once, past a federal penitentiary, and noticed a big sign saying that if someone flags you down by the roadside, DO NOT STOP UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. The only place they’ll have come from was 8′ by 5′ with bars at the windows. In other words, stopping to pick up hitch hikers is an invitation to a really messy party somewhere southeast of your beltbuckle.
Sometimes, people just start diving into a bad situation, and this is where mine started. Actually, not so much diving as bending double and saying ‘lookahere!’ in the shower block of that prison. Think of this projector as a prone bar of soap.
***
After one particularly lengthy lend – involving one occasion when I needed it myself, and it wasn’t available – it returned, after a lot of hassle. Less than a week later, as if nothing had happened, he asked for it back. As if I was the one doing the borrowing.
And at that moment, my instincts started screeching at me. Don’t do it! – if he’s asking for it again, four days after returning it, it means he now regards it (however unconsciously) as his own property. The intervals between borrowing and returning have been getting steadily longer; I knew that this time it went, it wouldn’t come back.
And for months, it didn’t.
As if he’d simply taken possession of it – even telling a fellow funk daddy that ‘Chris has given it to me’ – he retained it, month after month, without a word. My friendly reminders turned into biting sarcasm, without effect. Whatever problems he’s had in his personal life, it doesn’t excuse such complete disregard for other people’s property – especially when it costs serious money.
And then, after one ultra-sarcastic exchange, I discovered the projector had stopped working.
***
Bulb failures aren’t rare in projectors, especially not when they’ve been used a dozen times in smoky, sweat-ridden party atmospheres. Luck of the draw. Like I said, you break it, you pay for it.
And he said he’d take responsibility for it.
And that’s what he did. Say it.
Didn’t DO it.
Seven and a half weeks later, nothing’s been fixed. Apparently he’s spent a month chasing a USA retailer with cheques.
In the end – I said fuck it. Just give me my property back. Even if it’s a pile of junk.
More weeks later, it comes back.
On a Thursday. After I’d stayed in all day waiting for the courier. On Monday.
Apparently even a fucking phone call about a courier time is beyond this guy.
I’m starting to get a little annoyed.
***
Many days later – and after calls with a rather strange courier company that apparently uses guys riding the Tube network to deliver things – I visit the office to pick up my property. They charge me £24 for the privilege (up from £16 on Friday), but somehow this doesn’t surprise me. (Nor does making the cheque out to the driver personally, rather than the company.) By now being fucked is a natural state for me. Five years in an American federal prison would be a kiss on the cheek by comparison. Big Turkish cellmate called Achmed? Hey bud, let’s head for the showers! And bring all your friends too!
***
Anyway, tonight the proj re-enters my house (as opposed to a white wannabe funk daddy re-entering my ass) for the first time in a loooooong time.
OK – there are no batteries in the remote. Par for the course. A cable looks suspiciously like a second-rate replacement. The proj itself seems in excellent order – except for the simple fact that IT HASN’T GOT A FUCKING WORKING BULB, and is therefore an unusable pile of junk.
***
So… here we are. Fucked like a first-night remand guy on the lifer’s wing.
I check the net. Within 25 mins, I’ve got a new bulb on order. It took seven weeks and liason with the USA for him to … fail to get this far? What the fuck is this guy smoking? Doesn’t he know Google has a second page of results?
Ah well. I’m only £300 down on my act of kindness. I’m sure Achmed would understand. He’s about 300lb too.
***
And the worst thing of all? None of it needed to happen. If I’d just followed my instincts, which are right every time they shout at me. (Sorry, instincts. I’ll listen to you next time.)
This is a guy who’s done some work for me, and he had another job – fitting out my bathroom – in the pipeline. It was his job; he didn’t even need to quote me. It was his. And now, of course, it’s not. Perhaps £2000 of fees I’d have been happy to pay him, now lost to him forever.
***
Small comfort though, when the situation’s got so bad and taken so much time and energy to resolve. You try to trust someone, and it turns out they’re just another fucker.