Taken for a real ride by conman at tollgate

They say a sucker is born every minute; count me among them, writes Des du Triou.

Driving up to the cash/ card tollgate, I spot this fella next to his parked car, forlorn as if the sky has fallen. In the passenger seat, his wife. As I join the short car queue, R20 in hand, ready to oil Fikile’s wellrun transportation machine, Mr Forlorn zones in on me, cap in hand, and says: “Sir, I’ve got R6.50, I’m out R8, can you help?”

Short, sweet, no petrol sermon, no five kids to support, no rhapsody in blue.

What the hell, I toss him my folded twenty.

Empathy is my name, generosity my game.

“Bless you and may the gods smile on you,” he enthuses, the hallelujah chorus dripping off his lips.

I wish him well, wave goodbye, and move along.

The lady at the toll palms my new R20, slides me my change, and casually says: “Congrats, sir, you’re his 17th mark today.”

It’s said a sucker is born every minute. Let me stand up and be counted.