This is how its done

Bob and Tom showed up at my front door, awkwardly holding a typical tropical bouquet,  i.e. on the wilted side.

It seemed over the top to bring a bouquet for cocktails at American five.  But I thought, how sweet, they are either gallant or insecure about etiquette in Mexico.  Although they claimed to have traveled extensively, first class, throughout Europe and taken cruises on major rivers, this was their first trip anywhere and they were scared shitless, especially given that they didn't speak any Spanish and had an unusual terror of the Mexican police.

"Come on in.  Welcome to my world.  It's for sale, by the way."  It's what I tell everyone when they walk into my amazing, yes it is amazing, tropical townhouse.

A few steps in and they stop and look at my soaring ceilings, skylights, inner garden.  "Wow.  We should have bought your house," Bob says.   "Yeah," says Tom.  "We like your house so much better."

What were they thinking?  This is how sociopaths work.  They create a fiction from the word go.  By the time they're through with you, you don't know what's up or down anymore.  They had never bought any house.  It seems they cut a deal with the owners of that house they claimed to have bought:  to live in the house and renovate it, financed by the two gay owners who were not in the best of health.  When Bob told me they had paid $450,000 for it, "furnished," he added proudly,  I said, "Oh my God" and not in a good way.

"Why? A house like this would cost a million in the U.S." he said.  I thought, oh man, have you been taken to the cleaners.  The fiction had begun.  They owned nothing, they had nothing, and they had never planned on making Merida their new home. It was a desperate act they had pulled off, throwing Uncle Ron, their two huge dogs in their Mercedes SUV and fleeing the U.S. just ahead of the Feds.

For two such picky gay guys who had owned four houses at one time, decorated to the max, with four sets of sheets for each bedroom (for the change of seasons, Bob said) I often wondered, how could they live in someone else's not so nice stuff?  During the time they were here they never bought so much as a place mat, a pool towel, a spatula.  Not even new sheets.

We're all on our best behavior.  The gracious grand dame of gringas, the humble clueless newcomers.  I made margaritas and served melty quesadillas cut into Martha Stewart triangles.  Homemade meant everything to them, margaritas from fresh, hand squeezed lemons, rosemary toasted almonds hot out of the pan.  They lived entirely on Costco frozen food.

After two hours of I knew nothing about them.  I was amused, I was confused.  I ask the usual getting to know you cocktail party questions.  I don't know how they dissembled, but they did it skillfully.  Real estate and banking was all I could get.  They were vague about where they lived, where they were from, and there seemed to be so many places.  References to Chicago, Atlanta, Savannah, Florida, Arizona.  When I asked Bob, what bank did you work for, he said in an condescending tone, "A major one," and nodded, like, there are only three of any importance, so, one of those.  I took it to mean he was a super high executive who had made his millions, signed a confidentiality agreement and didn't want people bothering him for investment advice.

I set Bob into the routine that would become his whenever he came over.  After I served their first drinks I said, "Now, you make your own."  Bob loved that.  He started drinking at ten in the morning, although I never saw him drunk.  He liked coming over and feeling free to pull the vodka from my freezer and mix it with cranberry juice.

As we settled on the cushions and enjoyed the sweet breezy dusk, I said, "Listen.  You guys are new in town.  I'm going to tell you something.  Be very careful of what you say and who you get involved with.  There are lots of crazy gringos out there.  Don't trust anyone."

I didn't follow my own advice.