Plutocracy

I've never been one for social networking. In fact, I've never owned an Asian Avenue page, never logged onto friendster, avoided myspace, and dismissed Facebook. So while I was shocked to find out that all of my information was posted online on a website called The People's Market, what pissed me off more was the fact that I was for sale.

Along with my photo was a listing of all of my specs, — 5 foot 8", 160 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, single, Masters in English, one quarter Chinese, three quarters Portuguese, optimum health, and a "Hawaii Born" written in a starburst next to my name, Travis Guerra. I was going for $10,000. Not bad — I thought — for a high school English teacher. But I'll be damned if I get moved to the bargain bin. I clicked around and realized there was no way to register or sign up. The clientelle must have been pretty damn exclusive.

So I went to the FBI and reported the site. Inside that elaborate, concrete wedding cake, after an hour of waiting, an agent greeted me and sat me down at his desk. "The People's Market. Damnedest hypothetical," he shook his head and told me that they had been on it for a year, but that it was nearly impossible to track their activity. "One guy, I hear, sold for $1,000,000, and he hadn't seen a dime of it. He'd been sold and bought with no knowledge, and just went on with his normal life. Then one day, he gets a letter in the mail. It's from the president at Sony, wishing him a Happy Birthday. Then he goes inside and there's a new Sony Bravia in his living room. 2 weeks later, they renovated his house." The agent paused and offered me coffee, Kona Macadamia. I politely declined. He popped a donut hole into his mouth. "This other guy I know," he continued, "sold for about $3,000,000. As soon as he was bought, he had a new SUV delivered to his house with a message informing him that Mukesh Ambani was his new owner."

"Who?" I asked.

The agent tried to hide the fact that he was a bit ignorant on the matter himself. "Petro, I think. Anyway, he would check in, personally, via skype. He'd buy them all gifts for Christmas and birthdays, then just disappear."

I was having a difficult time believing this. "So who makes the money?" I asked.

"We'll, that's what we're trying to figure out. The buyers are really just the victims here. They buy you, and then they want to take care of you. They spend millions, sending money for home upgrades, physical trainers, dietitians, paying for your kid's college tuitions, doctor's bills. Then they find out it's a scam. Poor guy, when we got hold of him and told him, he nearly broke out in tears. He had really gotten close to that family."

I was having trouble sympathizing. The entire endeavor sounded downright philanthropic. It was like some sort of wired-in Robin Hood.

The agent tapped his pen on his desk. I think he knew what I was thinking. "Here's the dark side," he said, leaning forward. "Most buyers, they invest in you like property. They pay for new cars, home upgrades, they send you on trips, they take pride in your health, they pay for your physical trainers, they send you back to school, help you get started on a new career, they pay for cosmetic surgery or whatever personal enhancements you can think of, and then they just flip you," he clapped his hands. "They sell you for twice as much as what they bought you for. And on it goes," he said.

"So what can we do? Once, we're stuck in the current of being bought and sold?"

"The best you can do is decline all of their gifts. Discourage it," he paused and assessed me. "Some find it hard to do. I mean, if you get a check for a million dollars, you'd have to be a special breed to even think about turning it away. So, how much are you going for?" he asked.

"$10,000," I answered.

"Oh." He shrugged. "We'll, it goes to the highest bidder. Don't feel bad, maybe it'll go up."

"Maybe," I said, and walked out. I got in my Nissan, hoping maybe I'll be getting a new one soon from some mysterious benefactor overseas. When I got home, I rushed to my computer and checked my profile. Turn's out I was sold for $11,320 to Kelsey Grammar. He had sent an email. "Hey buddy," it began. "Just got you season tickets for UH football! Also, in the mail, you'll find the Season 1 DVD of Frasier. Enjoy!"

I was never a fan of the show, but I guess it's never too late to start. At least he wasn't asking for feedback.