(To begin with, readers, I realize that the last time I published, Judson Coleman was about to enter a Christmas party and, probably, do that which he does. We’ll get back to Judson in due course. Today, though, I want to go into a different thread, one I’ve only posted about once so far: my work history, The First Fifty Are the Hardest, about the fifty and counting jobs I’ve had. I have a new story to tell where that’s concerned, and I think that story is important, and needs to be told.)

I have written on here about the excitement of a first day at work, even if, like me, you have had at least fifty first days at work; in May of 2024, I started a new gig taking inbound calls from people applying for Tennessee’s version of Medicaid. It was a decent job, if often depressing—it became evident that many of my fellow Tennesseans had a harder time of things than I do—and I was quite good at it.

Unfortunately, the election went the way it did in November, and the writing soon appeared on the wall; TennCare (our Medicaid) was at risk of falling under The Crashing Boer’s chopping block, and corners were sought that could be, once found, cut. Being relatively new, I became such a corner, and so the job I had so happily started in May of 2024 ended in January of 2025. The empty desk and cubicle I shared a picture of in May had, in the months since, been elaborately festooned with décor, up to and including model train boxcars balanced atop the cubicle’s edge; all the décor, the boxcars included, were loaded unceremoniously into cardboard boxes and I was sent away.

I, however, remained resilient, and tried to find my way back economically in any way I could, with one difference this time: I decided to embrace my wife’s supposition that I should, this time, “bet on myself”, in other words make a go of forging my own path, and (for the first time) make my living primarily by writing, be it through my efforts here or via work pitched to other publications, or as part of the business my family and I hope to launch, a business called Sparks Nation Communications, about which I’ll elaborate in another piece. It sounded daunting to me, but it also sounded good; if, after all, it worked, I would be able to, for instance, tell people I’d known forever that I was making my living doing the thing everyone says I’m good at doing, which I think would feel much better than having to say I was yet again at a call center (whereas I am completely certain that everyone I know is completely crushing it in every facet of their lives, professional and otherwise, and surely look down on me without saying so). So I decided to give it a bash.

If you’ll indulge an aside that I’ll come back to later, I don’t plan to pin my hopes to writing and editing alone. I’ve been re-skilling (a neologism that sets my teeth on edge, but one has to learn the new phrases as they come, or appear to be out of touch) and working on a certification in Social Media Management, meaning I’ll be able to create and maintain social media content for small businesses (maybe even yours!).

One of the steps I took was to set up a beach-head at Freelancer.com, assuming that folks seeking to hire freelancers would come across me, admire the cut of my jib, and I would then be well on the way to fame and fortune. Within a week of posting my information, I got a bite—the only one I have ever gotten from that site—and it looked like a good one. It was from the studio of an artist in Culver City, California, and it read thusly:

Now, you’ll note that this position is apparently that of an Executive Assistant. I applied for work writing and editing. I was concerned, as a result. So I responded:

See what I highlighted there? That very straightforward yes or no question that I asked? Watch the response:

You see what happened, I’m sure: he wholly and utterly ignored the very yes or no question that I asked. What he did say, however, pulled my focus away from that question--$50 an hour for 10 hours a week. I would essentially be replacing the income I had just lost, income that took 40 hours a week to earn, with just under the same amount, but for only a fourth of the time. Hay presto, exactly what I need if I’m also going to be starting a business and/or launching my own writing career, and it’s being handed to me. Oh goody! I gave him an enthusiastic yes.

If you’re the type of person who talks aloud to the writer you’re reading as you read, I can reasonably guess what you’re going to say, something along these lines: “Oh, come on, man, if it sounds too good to be true, et cetera…”. You would not be wrong, but there’s something you aren’t factoring in—the persuasive power of desperation. When you’re scared, when you’re broke, when you desperately need something to work out even though it’s highly improbable, the appearance of a highly improbable thing is like an oasis in the desert, and even though most of the time in an old movie or cartoon in which an oasis appears in the desert, that oasis is a mirage, you let yourself ignore that inconvenient detail. Which is what I did. I was delighted at my new high-paying, low-commitment gig that would give me enough time to start everything else I had in mind and provide a way to handle pesky inconveniences like groceries and utilities.

I signed on to serve as this fellow’s personal assistant, and I did everything asked of me. He wanted spreadsheets, I made spreadsheets. He wanted purchase order histories, I made purchase order histories. Whatever my benevolent employer asked, I did, and it was always well-received; never once was I asked to change or revise a single thing. I could not believe how well it was going, and how well I would be compensated for it.

Then these messages came:

So…he’s sending me the money to pay for the printing instead of just paying the printers himself.

So…he can’t find a decent local printer in Culver City, a suburb of Los Angeles, the second-largest city in America.

So…he’s offering to fly me there and I’ve never even talked to him on the phone.

So…he seems to struggle a bit with standard English. I don’t want to be That Guy, but that seems, well…I’ll put it this way. I’ve been an ESL teacher, and have nothing but respect for folks learning English; they inevitably speak more English than I speak of their language. But the back-story on “David” indicated nothing about his being from elsewhere.

I was beginning to wonder about this. Which is when I got an email about getting paid.

Hold the damned phone. I have never heard of an e-check. I’m not saying they don’t exist; for all I know, they do. But I’ve never heard of one. And why (WAIIIIIT FORRRRR IIIIIIT) does he need to know anything about where I bank? I’ve given my banking info to employers, but that was so an according-to-Hoyle direct deposit could be arranged. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to say no to this, and ask that my first check (which, again, was apparently also going to be sent to me but contain money not meant for me) be mailed to me.

Here, now, are the emails between myself and “David” which followed:

I hate to harp on the non-standard English again, but “in the emergency unit at the hospital” is something I have never heard anyone say. You know what else I haven’t heard? Another word from this guy since my last email to him. And brace yourselves—that check has yet to arrive.

Incensed, I began (too late, I now realize) to research “David”. I was able to find an address, and it was in fact in Culver City, but I could find no phone number—and the address, per Google Maps, was part of a sprawling block of condominiums, not offices. I found a number for the property manager, but no one at that office could or would confirm for me that “David” lived there (which, in all fairness, may have been something that office isn’t allowed to do, especially for some guy calling from another state). Undeterred, I then called the California Secretary of State’s office—since Secretary of State has to do with business licensing, I assumed they’d either be the place to start or could point me to it. I told the story I have told above to the woman I spoke to. When I got to the $500 for 10 hours a week, she said, “aaaaaand that was your first red flag”. When I mentioned the e-check, she said, “aaaaaand that was your second red flag”. (Herein I learned an anthropological detail: Californians, unlike my fellow native Southerners, don’t care if they make you feel stupid with what they say. But I digress.) I did learn, however, that turning down the e-check was phenomenally good thinking on my part. What I described, it seems, is a scam that the Cali S of S is seeing all the time, as are other states, apparently. She advised that I call the Department of Justice, which I have yet to do, but will soon.

There is something I feel I should make perfectly clear before I go any further. There is, from what I have observed, a very real artist with the name this scammer used, and he seems to operate out of Culver City. I am confident that the real artist is not the perpetrator here. This was some anonymous con artist who picked this person’s identity as a cover, and as such, this person is being as damaging to him as he/she/they/the conniving garbage fire responsible was to me. (If you want to know the name that was used, so as to further investigate, let me know and I’ll send it privately.)

The other thing I want to make clear is this. While I, thankfully, avoided losing any money to this person or (as the CA Secretary of State explained to me) ENGAGING IN MONEY LAUNDERING FOR THEM (sending me the printing costs, remember?), this still hurts, and deeply. I believed I had found an incredible solution to some problems I was facing and still face, and I didn’t. I hemorrhaged time that I could have spent looking for a real solution. I remain unemployed, underemployed, however you want to put it—I remain an unfortunate statistic. I’m on the autism spectrum, and 80% of my brothers and sisters on the spectrum are, like myself, un- or underemployed, and after this, I (1) am still part of that statistic (2) am wondering if my hard-wired tendency to not sync up with most of the world didn’t make me more susceptible to scams like this. This con has left me feeling stupid, which is something I can’t afford anytime, but it really doesn’t help while I’m trying to “bet on myself” and make a DIY career.

You may be wondering what, if anything, you can do about this. I have two answers for you. The first answer is to share this story, especially if you or anyone you know is in the job market, or on the spectrum, or both (especially if both). Normally I’d ask you to share my stories so as to get my prose in front of more eyes; this time, I’m asking because I want people to know that these scammers exist, that they’re finding their way onto otherwise legitimate job sites, masquerading as legitimate businesses. If sharing this stops this vulture from burning one other person, it’ll be worthwhile.

My second answer is, to be totally frank, more self-serving, and is the part where this becomes something like a PBS pledge drive. If you are a regular reader of mine here on Substack, or if you’re a Substacker coming across me for the first time because someone shared this, here’s what I ask: become a paid subscriber. My subscription rate is $60 a year, or $6 a month. I’m told that I’m an exceptional writer, and to be honest, I feel that putting words together in print is where I’m strongest. Also, at this point, it’s my source of income, full stop. I am still looking for other work, something part-time to keep my family afloat, but I recently had a “spirited discussion” with my wife in which she said this: “you’re so focused on getting jobs that you didn’t go to college for, jobs that aren’t going to pan out long-term, that you aren’t focusing on the job you already have, WHICH IS WRITER!” (That last part was the spirited bit.) She has, loath though I am to admit it, a point. (She would also like me to mention that she was always leery of this thing, but didn’t much push the issue because I was already depressed, and she’s usually my biggest cheerleader.) The argument I’ve made to myself is that a part-time, non-writing job, while not what I want to do or admit to anyone that I’m doing, has a tangible, definite paycheck at the end of it, whereas writing…might. Then again, it might not. For years, I have taken lesser gigs, as it was what I needed to do to support my family; I still do, to some degree. But it has left my self-esteem in tatters. Is this the rhetorical equivalent of saying that Tinkerbell will live if you believe in fairies and clap loud enough? Probably so. But there it is. The more subscriptions I have, the less I have to do things that aren’t this, see?

Actually, there exists a third way you can help. If you aren’t interested in subscribing to my Substack, but you would like to hire me for some other communications-related task, that’s an option too. If you/your business/your church/your Elks’ Lodge needs anything written, or you have written work that needs editing, give me a shot. I can also create your social media content, maintain your presence in that world, and give you one less thing to do yourself. If you’d like to hire me for that, let me know; I exist on CashApp as $JasonTSparks and on Venmo as @Jason-Sparks-39 and on PayPal as @DrCasbah (much like my handle here).

There you have it. I was scammed, I want the world to know and be aware of this risk, and I want—no, I need—to bet on myself and see a return on that investment. Please, if you can, share this far and wide, and become a paid subscriber, or consider hiring me for other work. Thank you.