Karin Fuller, Gold Digger
In my never-ending quest for column material, I often take on new endeavors (and new animals) because of their gold mine potential.
For instance, a few years back, when I agreed to finish out the term of an ousted Brownie leader, it wasn’t because it was the right thing to do or because I have so many fond memories from my own Scouting days. I agreed because I knew there was gold in them there Brownies. And they didn’t disappoint.
My most recent venture seemed even more promising. Not only did it appear to be interesting, but it also came with the potential to earn extra cash.
I’m fond of cash. I especially enjoy how it enables me to indulge in silly little extravagances, like electricity and a month’s supply of Ramen noodles. (I know what you’re probably thinking-electricity IS a bit frivolous this time of year, what with it staying light out so much later and the fact that I DO have the three dogs to sleep under on those nights it gets cold, but I’m not as young as I used to be.)
Anyway, when I saw an ad for a weekend job as a gold buyer, I was intrigued. I wasted no time contacting the company, and my husband did, too. We were both hired to work the company’s first show, which was in Teays Valley last weekend.
After being trained, we (and two other rookies) worked alongside experienced buyers until we were comfortable and confident enough to work on our own. With the testing equipment the company provided, determining gold content was fairly simple, and if you don’t take into account that one little $8,973 mistake I made, I had a blast. The show was a gold mine for stories.
“You probably wouldn’t guess it to look at that ring,” said the gentlemen across the table from me as I brought his ring to my loop. “But what you have there in your hand cost me a fortune.”
The ring was simple. There were no precious stones or markings proclaiming it to be platinum. The only identifying mark was one etched by the manufacturer that said “14K.” Even brand new, at gold’s highest, it wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred or two. I looked up. His amused expression convinced me to ask.
“A fortune, huh?” I said. “So how much did it cost?”
“Twelve years, a house and a car and half my retirement,” he said. “Not to mention alimony for another six or eight months.”
“At least you got to keep your sense of humor,” I said.
“Shhh!” he said, finger to his lips, glancing mock-nervously around. “She’s never had one of those. She might come after mine!”
Many of those who came seemed hesitant, some even bordered on fearful. One college-age woman admitted that she’d forced her roommate to come with her because she was afraid the show was a scam with thugs running the operation. I assured her I’m more of a Thud than a Thug, and so pleased was she with the money she made from her ex-boyfriend’s jewelry that she returned the next day with more. Broken relationships don’t often leave a reason to celebrate, but there was a good bit of celebrating going on when folks learned what we’d pay for their ex’s gold.
By Sunday afternoon, the crowd had begun to thin, so the manager thought it would be a good time to teach me how to run checks. The program he had was fairly simple to use, and it wasn’t long before my cashier skills were tested by a flurry of customers. As the manager read the information to me from the receipts, I typed it in, printed the checks, then handed them to the customers.
Y’know, it’s hard to fathom the importance of something as small as a decimal point. They’re such wee little things. But believe me-recognizing the absence of one sure can cause quite a stir, especially considering the one that was missing was supposed to be sitting halfway between the 89 and the 73 on a customer’s check.
Fortunately, only a few minutes passed before I found the mistake, so we were able to stop payment on the $8,973 check and issue another, but my confidence was shaken. I returned to my testing station, determined too tune out all the opportunistic remaining customers who’d begun pleading with me to be their cashier.
At the insistence of our good-humored manager, I eventually returned to the pay station, where I made it through the rest of the day without any mistakes.
Except for that one little blip, Geoff and I enjoyed ourselves so much that we’ve signed on to do several more weekend shows in this area, and I’m hoping to hold one as a fundraiser for the Gazette’s Send-A-Child-To-Camp Fund.
