Craigslist

When Craigslist removed their adult services section, it was easy to wonder what relevance the site still held.  Sure, you could peruse the personal ads and find no end of women and muggers pretending to be women who will indulge your most obscure fetishes for nothing more than the satisfaction of a job well done, and perhaps “many roses.” But it’s just not the same. Even if our most depraved physical urges can be fulfilled with nothing more than a few clicks and a five-year-old’s knowledge of slang, we can’t openly acknowledge our greatest and most American turn-on, the love of entrepreneurial capitalism.  The money may change the same hands, but when you’re told to pay no attention to the business transaction behind the curtain, it can’t hold the same thrill if you’re told to pay no attention to the transaction behind the curtain.  Half the fun of “adult services,” and some might even say the better half, is watching a buxom young market player stand up and proudly declare, “I have a commodity that you value, and I’m willing to exchange it for an artificially raised premium.”  With no adult services section, independent commerce is once more relegated to the seedy underbelly of society where it must disguise itself as nothing more than run of the mill nymphomania, and the American economy pays the price.

But before Craigslist became the one-stop shop for hedonistic enterprise (though perhaps only minutes before), it was once known as a place to buy and sell less commonly erotic products, like moth-filled Tupperware and broken lamps.  Thanks to Craigslist, I once slept for eight months straight on an old futon mattress that cost me nothing more than the gas required to remove it from a musty old porch.  And, of course, I couldn’t have made it through my twenties without selling my fair share of shoddily designed and even more shoddily assembled Ikea furniture to people who are under the mistaken impression that any bookshelf, no matter how wobbly or soiled, is better than no bookshelf at all.

As a veteran Craigslist seller, I’ve learned to avoid some of the more common hazards of direct e-commerce the hard way.  I mean, I’ve never agreed to cash a substantial check for an eccentric doctor who would love my old dresser with only two jammed drawers, but is too busy vacationing in Rwanda to write one for the correct amount.  Nor have I ever agreed to ship a toaster unwaveringly set to “dark” halfway across the country in exchange for 200 times the asking price (that is, 2,000 times the actual value).  But I have learned some basics lessons from experience.

For example, you should never respond to anyone who, when offering to buy an item, opts to identify it simply as “the item.”  This is internet code for “I haven’t read your listing, but I’d like to offer you non-surgical assistance with the problem of your rather diminutive genitals.”  Similarly, when someone responds to a post that includes overly detailed descriptions and enough photos to fill a coffee table book by asking what the condition is, what they mean to say is, “I bet you’d like to know what girls do when left alone with farm animals, and I’d be more than happy to offer a solution to your quandary every fifteen minutes or so until you change email addresses.”

I’ve also learned to avoid bartering. Not that there’s anything wrong with bartering per se. I actually kind of like the idea of compensating my local doctor with co-pays of freshly baked pies or freshly slaughtered goats. But since New York tends not to be the first thing that springs to people’s minds when they hear the words “pastoral simplicity,” I tend to assume that if someone is trying to offer me something I didn’t ask for and don’t want, they’re also trying to screw me in the process.  Best case scenario, anything someone is willing to part with “fell off a truck in New Jersey,” which is of course a polite way of saying “receiving stolen goods.”  Worst case scenario, “my brand new iPod” is code for “knife with which I will entice you to give me your brand new iPod.”

Usually I just disregard any offers for trade.  But the other day I got an email from a man who was very excited to have “many deals” for me.  He was particularly excited about the idea of taking the old backup hard drive I was selling, for which I had asked $100, in exchange for “a pair of air jordans 17 that are worth 200 dollars and they come with a suitcase.”  And I have to admit, this caught my attention.

First of all, when I read the words “Air Jordans,” I could only assume that I’d accidentally stumbled upon the Queens Wormhole and had travelled back to 1996.  But after the disappointment of learning that Air Jordans are still in active production and that I didn’t have the premiere of Independence Day to look forward to, I shifted my focus to the suitcase.

It seemed an odd thing to include with a pair of shoes.  Was it meant as a free gift, like when an infomercial offers you a glow in the ark key chain for being so kind as to buy something you wouldn’t dream of owning if you weren’t delirious with insomnia?  Did the 17th iteration of Air Jordans come with an overnight bag because you’d jump so high that you’d need to get a hotel for the night before you landed?  Or did he just imagine that I would be so enamored with my new shoes that I’d immediately want to take them on a romantic getaway to some remote island? Someone suggested to me that the man in question might not speak English as his first language, and it was a case of poor translation due to limited vocabulary.  But it seems odd to me that someone would learn the word “suitcase” before the word “box” in any language.  Unless, of course, Manuel had made it all the way from Torquay to New York, and was ready to sell his only possession, the shoes that brought him here.

I was tempted to inquire further, but in the end I was still worried about the prospect that he might mistake my interest in his offer for interest in receiving email updates about the goings-on of Asian ladyboys, so I let the deal slide.  I’ll just have to keep wondering if I’ve made the right decision until I finally meet the shoe of my dreams, which can offer me the comfort and support I need so we can pack up our belongings and run away together.  In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep stuffing my luggage, like my feet, in a series of Duane Reade bags.

-TC