Eva, the person most scammed and stunned by you -- and her dead husband-- is gone.
Back to Miami to start a new life. Again. It took her only six months to pack up -- but it seemed like an eternity both for her and for me. I endured her daily phone call of acid, wrath, hate, misery, complaints. I was the only person she knew in town, the only person who knew the dirty details of what happened to her. The only person she could talk to.
A year ago, her husband was alive and they had just moved into the colonial that she had renovated to perfection. Now, he's dead, her bank accounts have been pillaged and ravaged by you, plus lots of cash and property stolen. You emptied her house of anything you wanted or could use to raise cash. Expensive power tools mainly. Tommy, you sat at her computer, rifled through her desk, threw out files, erased things on her computer. Evidence.
On Stan's deathbed, he gave you the user ID's and passwords to his secret bank accounts, and you stripped them before Eva could ever find out they existed. But she did find out.
She also found out the husband she had been married to for 28 years was: vile. A vile man, is how a niece described him to Eva when she learned of his death. A bigger scammer than you, ha ha.
The prostitutes, the sexual addiction, the money laundering and manipulation as a Goodyear auditor. Who better than a corporate auditor to learn how to steal money, cook the books, squirrel cash away to fuel his sex addiction. $1000 a night Chinese prostitutes. Phone sex at $X a minute. Lies, lies, lies about everything.
No wonder Eva was strange after he died. She was not the usual grieving widow. Sure, she was in shock, but there were no tears, no mourning. Just huge anger boiling up and she didn't know why. In six months as she unraveled his life, she found out everything. That her entire marriage to his man had been a sham. That he had used her for a housekeeper and a cosigner of his precious tax returns, as a specter of respectability to hide behind while he indulged in his appetites.
The only thing he said to her on his deathbed was a vague, "I was too selfish." And then he asked for Tommy to come in, and handed over all the secret bank information. At the end, Stan didn't want Eva to know of his double life. He asked Tommy to disappear the books and get the funds deposited into Eva's account, never thinking Tommy would keep it all for himself.
A scammer being scammed by scammers.
Poor Eva was scammed from all sides. But now she's gone to start her new life. And I am left here alone, digging myself out of the emotional rubble.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Shame
It is hard for me to write this, to come face to face with my naiveté. Embarrassing. The thought of time wasted. How I let these creeps into my home, into my life, that they met and mingled with my children. They contaminated me with evil. Evil had never visited me before and now, evil seems to be around every corner, waiting.
Now that the memories flood to me, now that I know who these creeps were, are...I am ashamed I was so taken. Everything seems so obvious now, but then, I was blind to messages screaming out at me.
As you read my posts, you must be thinking, my God, this is so obvious. And, "I would have known immediately. Or, better."
That's the thing about a sociopath. You think you can outwit them but you can't. You think you can sniff them out, but you can't. They fooled everyone. There is no one they met here who didn't fall under their spell. They. Are. That. Charming. Beckoning. Warm. Seductive. Evil.
They were very careful with who they hung out with. They kept their social circle small. They were not the typical expat gringos pouring into town, wanting to become a part of the scene. They didn't go to the English Library, the hub of expat Merida, just around the block from the house they didn't buy. They didn't go to the Nafta cocktail parties on Friday nights to socialize with other gringos. They didn't go on the House & Garden tours. They didn't go to church bazaars or lectures or events. They did not want to integrate or become part of the social life of Merida.
The fewer people they met, the better. The more people they met, the more the chance that someone would know who they were or sniff out what kind of people they were. They didn't want friends, they only wanted enough people to survive, and amongst those people, were those who they would scam.
I was the first person they met. They were about to groom me, until they met Eva and Stan.
Now that the memories flood to me, now that I know who these creeps were, are...I am ashamed I was so taken. Everything seems so obvious now, but then, I was blind to messages screaming out at me.
As you read my posts, you must be thinking, my God, this is so obvious. And, "I would have known immediately. Or, better."
That's the thing about a sociopath. You think you can outwit them but you can't. You think you can sniff them out, but you can't. They fooled everyone. There is no one they met here who didn't fall under their spell. They. Are. That. Charming. Beckoning. Warm. Seductive. Evil.
They were very careful with who they hung out with. They kept their social circle small. They were not the typical expat gringos pouring into town, wanting to become a part of the scene. They didn't go to the English Library, the hub of expat Merida, just around the block from the house they didn't buy. They didn't go to the Nafta cocktail parties on Friday nights to socialize with other gringos. They didn't go on the House & Garden tours. They didn't go to church bazaars or lectures or events. They did not want to integrate or become part of the social life of Merida.
The fewer people they met, the better. The more people they met, the more the chance that someone would know who they were or sniff out what kind of people they were. They didn't want friends, they only wanted enough people to survive, and amongst those people, were those who they would scam.
I was the first person they met. They were about to groom me, until they met Eva and Stan.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Sunday dinner
It is a brilliant, fresh, blustery October Sunday in Yucatan, and I'm cooking Sunday supper.
But not for you guys.
When I was a little girl, I hated Sundays. The day dragged and the week loomed, heavy and impenetrable. But now I love Sundays. Sunday breathes. Sunday stops. Sunday is the great pause, where nothing is expected and anything goes. My religion is Sunday supper, served anytime from 2 to 8 p.m. It is a definitive moment, a collective sigh, a communion.
I wonder where you are every day but especially on Sundays. Do you think of my Sunday suppers and remember me fondly? Are you cooking for yourselves, or just opening cans? Do you even have money to buy food? Who have you conned into cooking for you now?
The boys loved my insistence on Sunday supper. They loved it even more because I am a wonderful cook. And they loved it more than that because I was willing to cook at my house and bring it over to their house. Easier for them not to be a guest, not to leave their house. At the time, it seemed like a fair trade to me: I cooked, they entertained. But they were thinking, wow, did we get a deal with this one.
I cook with heart. "You should open a restaurant," Tommy said. "Really." Trays of lasagna, pyrexes of Chicken Marbella, parsley flecked tabouleh salad, plum tortes, roasted beets, candied carrots, masterful meatloaves, vats of hearty soups and home baked breads, apple crisps and prize winning carrot cakes. My Sunday suppers were comforting and inspirational.
I think of Uncle Ron laughing at his good fortune, his two "nephews" had found a live one. He was the only one who knew exactly how good the food was. Tommy screamed "Awesome" all the time. "Elizabeth it was awesome," he said with two thumbs up and a definitive nod. No matter what I cooked, it was awesome. I hate the word, awesome, it became meaningless. I could have cooked sloppy joes and they would have screamed, "Awesome." Awesome is what I consider to be everything wrong with America -- super sized, meaningless, lack of imagination. What awesome really meant to them was: something we didn't have to cook ourselves.
I was awesome because their diet consisted of defrosted Costco. No Mexican supermarket for them with its chance of germs, of strange packaging they couldn't read. They bought by the bulk: huge bags of frozen, breaded chicken, tough steaks by the dozens, (they would never spring for the good meat -- all they wanted was huge quantities of beef on the grill) enormous cans of baked beans. Their idea of the high class was what they had gleaned in Rustler steak houses, not Gibsons of Chicago as they claimed. They liked their baked potatoes wrapped in silver foil, precut iceberg lettuce salad served in separate salad bowls, with a selection of bottled dressing on the table, and steaks that were tough as hell. I took it as charming, nostalgic Americana and didn't think more about it. As I struggled with the steak I thought, maybe they just didn't know about good steaks, never considering they didn't want to spend the money. And the wine they bought was pure shit. I was never served a decent glass of wine in that house. In fact I cringed when a glass of wine was offered to me. And yet, I ignored all these messages staring at me in the face because...everyone did and they were so nice.
Tommy had an emotional thing for jarred pears and cans of tomato sauce. If his cupboard was filled with pears and tomatoes, he felt safe. Industrial size bags of potato chips, those giant, impossible to put anywhere bottles of Kirkland vodka, flats of Coke, dozens of cans of tuna, huge glass jars of pickles. It was American, it was big, it was sterilized.
My memories on this tropical blustery Sunday morning, with the air so fresh, blowing across the peninsula, this is the reason people move to the tropics, I think. I make a luscious Jamie Oliver chicken bake that I cooked for you once, a roasted beet and goat cheese salad, a creamy rice pudding. You will not be eating this.
You never deserved me. But mostly, I didn't deserve you. You were the first evil ever to show up in my life. It palls me to think you never spoke one honest word the entire time I knew you, except for the word, "Hello." Everything after that was pure shit and lies.
I am pleased that you never said goodbye because then that would make two honest words out of your mouth.
That's what happens when you skip town in the middle of the night.
But not for you guys.
When I was a little girl, I hated Sundays. The day dragged and the week loomed, heavy and impenetrable. But now I love Sundays. Sunday breathes. Sunday stops. Sunday is the great pause, where nothing is expected and anything goes. My religion is Sunday supper, served anytime from 2 to 8 p.m. It is a definitive moment, a collective sigh, a communion.
I wonder where you are every day but especially on Sundays. Do you think of my Sunday suppers and remember me fondly? Are you cooking for yourselves, or just opening cans? Do you even have money to buy food? Who have you conned into cooking for you now?
I cook with heart. "You should open a restaurant," Tommy said. "Really." Trays of lasagna, pyrexes of Chicken Marbella, parsley flecked tabouleh salad, plum tortes, roasted beets, candied carrots, masterful meatloaves, vats of hearty soups and home baked breads, apple crisps and prize winning carrot cakes. My Sunday suppers were comforting and inspirational.
I think of Uncle Ron laughing at his good fortune, his two "nephews" had found a live one. He was the only one who knew exactly how good the food was. Tommy screamed "Awesome" all the time. "Elizabeth it was awesome," he said with two thumbs up and a definitive nod. No matter what I cooked, it was awesome. I hate the word, awesome, it became meaningless. I could have cooked sloppy joes and they would have screamed, "Awesome." Awesome is what I consider to be everything wrong with America -- super sized, meaningless, lack of imagination. What awesome really meant to them was: something we didn't have to cook ourselves.
I was awesome because their diet consisted of defrosted Costco. No Mexican supermarket for them with its chance of germs, of strange packaging they couldn't read. They bought by the bulk: huge bags of frozen, breaded chicken, tough steaks by the dozens, (they would never spring for the good meat -- all they wanted was huge quantities of beef on the grill) enormous cans of baked beans. Their idea of the high class was what they had gleaned in Rustler steak houses, not Gibsons of Chicago as they claimed. They liked their baked potatoes wrapped in silver foil, precut iceberg lettuce salad served in separate salad bowls, with a selection of bottled dressing on the table, and steaks that were tough as hell. I took it as charming, nostalgic Americana and didn't think more about it. As I struggled with the steak I thought, maybe they just didn't know about good steaks, never considering they didn't want to spend the money. And the wine they bought was pure shit. I was never served a decent glass of wine in that house. In fact I cringed when a glass of wine was offered to me. And yet, I ignored all these messages staring at me in the face because...everyone did and they were so nice.
Tommy had an emotional thing for jarred pears and cans of tomato sauce. If his cupboard was filled with pears and tomatoes, he felt safe. Industrial size bags of potato chips, those giant, impossible to put anywhere bottles of Kirkland vodka, flats of Coke, dozens of cans of tuna, huge glass jars of pickles. It was American, it was big, it was sterilized.
My memories on this tropical blustery Sunday morning, with the air so fresh, blowing across the peninsula, this is the reason people move to the tropics, I think. I make a luscious Jamie Oliver chicken bake that I cooked for you once, a roasted beet and goat cheese salad, a creamy rice pudding. You will not be eating this.
You never deserved me. But mostly, I didn't deserve you. You were the first evil ever to show up in my life. It palls me to think you never spoke one honest word the entire time I knew you, except for the word, "Hello." Everything after that was pure shit and lies.
I am pleased that you never said goodbye because then that would make two honest words out of your mouth.
That's what happens when you skip town in the middle of the night.
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