The Day I Stepped On 50 Rakes In My Front Yard
David is a lawn care specialist for the Wall Street Journal.
On a Friday evening this past November I walked out into my front yard and placed my foot on the upturned tines of a commonplace rake. The garden tool’s handle was propelled upward by the leverage and hit me directly between the eyes. I was dazed, and feeling pathetic I said “please, not again.” It was the 30th rake I had stepped on that evening.
Now I know that this was all avoidable, the pain, the embarrassment, the incredible expense of buying that many rakes. Why didn’t I text my wife, or my sister? Why did I repeat the same mistake after being hit in the face, chest, and most frequently the crotch due to my own actions? Why didn’t I just stay inside?
When I’ve told people this story they mostly say the same thing: you don’t seem like the type of person to step on 50 rakes in quick succession to the point where you knocked yourself out and soiled yourself in front of the neighbors. But these sort of stereotypes are actually false. A recent report from the FTC that I heard about stated that younger adults are 90% more likely to be crushed by falling pianos, open up a package containing large quantities of lit TNT, or run into a rock wall with a tunnel painted on it.
How could I have been such a sucker? I’m gainfully employed with a professional focus on garden equipment, I’m married, and I speak with my friends and colleagues every day. I replace my shopping cart at the grocery store and I load the dishwasher in a compact and orderly fashion. I’m not someone who loses my head.
It started with a text message that simply stated “hi” with a long link and many dollar sign emojis. Naturally, I clicked on it, not wanting to offend the person who had taken the time to reach out. Next, my phone rang with an unknown number and I quickly answered it, stating my full name and birthday and asked how I could be of service.
The man on the other line was named Kyle and he claimed to be from the garden center downtown. He asked if I’d recently purchased 4 riding mowers and 36 bags of manure. I hadn’t, but he assured me that his records showed the charges attached to my account and that a recent uptick in identity thefts meant that things like this were happening more and more. He then asked if I wanted to speak to the former head of the FBI James Comey. I agreed.
When my cell phone lit up with the name“Jams Cony” the clear typo felt suspicious, but the man on the other end assured me that it was a common error when encrypted communications are sent out of MI7. His voice was nasally and he was loudly eating something, but the conversation moved quickly.
He asked me how much cash I could reasonably get my hands on in the next 4 hours and how quickly I could drive to Home Depot and Lowes. He said that buy purchasing all the rakes in the surrounding area and spreading them across my front yard I’d prove that I don’t need outdoor supplies and the scammers would have to move on to their next target. My head swam with confusion and panic crept up in my throat. None of this made sense or formed a cohesive argument for following his directions, but what choice did I have? I drove directly to Home Depot.
If this was a scam I couldn’t see the angle, just as I couldn’t predict the angle at which a wooden handle would be propelled into my face dozens of times.
On return from the store I spread the rakes across my yard and waited for further instructions. Jams sent me a photo of my house from Google street view and his badge number to further cement his legitimacy and then commanded that I run in circles in the yard to quote “make a scene” for the scammers who were likely watching me at that very moment.
I did as he asked. What choice did I have? Each rake hit me harder than the last until the 50th blow knocked me off my feet and I blacked out.
Looking back, I still can’t believe what happened but I’m beginning to realize that this could happen to anyone. My doctor noted that the impact from the first rake likely dazed me just enough to tolerate the next 49 consecutive blows. Thankfully, no permanent damage was done, but for now I’ve stopped taking care of my lawn.
