I Live, That I May Serve
A Madame Umynmee Ofabozo, describing herself as the wife of the deposed leader of Equatorial Guinea, has contacted me personally asking if I would help facilitate the removal of $760,000,000 from her Swiss bank account to the United States. She has asked, with disquieting humility, if she might use my own bank account on Vinalhaven as a conduit. It sounded like a reasonable request, not unlike helping that auto supply guy who cruises the ferry line in Rockland to find someone who’ll take some auto parts to Todd’s Garage over to the island. Madame Ofabozo’s e-mail addressed me as My Happy, Dearest and Special New Friend Phil, so I naturally assumed my columns had found favor in Africa and that Madame, probably her husband (pre-deposition), and maybe their constituent population, were fans. After offering effusive apologies for having intruded on my privacy, she spelled out her desperate circumstances and the particulars. All I had to do was provide her with my own bank account number, its routing number, and my Social Security number. She would then wire the entire $760,000,000 from her account to mine. Some weeks later, she explained, if she was successful in smuggling herself out of Guinea and into the States, she’d contact me to retrieve half of it, leaving me with the other half, $380,000,000, as a token of her appreciation for my assistance. If she was unsuccessful in escaping from Guinea then the entire sum was mine. I am always happy to help out and usually for no compensation so it seemed fair that I accept this modest fee for helping out someone who seemed content in offering it. I provided the requested information. Several casual reviews of my on-line banking revealed no unusual deposits and a few days later one of the ladies here at the bank described a conversation she’d had with someone who, offering my account number and Social Security number, had made inquiries regarding the available balance. Upon learning the answer the caller apparently succumbed to gales of laughter and hung up.
Pre-Approved and Doing OK
Recently too I’ve been getting offers, also addressing me as Phil although not as Happy or Special, to re-finance my island home. The most recent of these came from the Vinalhaven Bank, an institution about which I know nothing and that’s a little odd since this is a small island community and no such enterprise is a member of our little Chamber of Commerce. Given the great selectivity they exercise, however (they called me after all), they’re probably quite hush-hush. Right away they offered great rates, starting at about 4.5 percent. Day after day I came home to find urgent reminders from the Vinalhaven Bank reminding me that time was running out, that I needed to respond immediately to take advantage of my pre-approved status, but every few days the rate got a little lower too, till it stalled at about 2.8 percent at which point I could no longer resist. I called and got Greg who said, “Phil, you must be a very special prospect to have been pre-approved so quickly. How are you doing?”
I told him I was doing OK and expected to be doing a lot better soon, once we’d settled this business and I had a 2.8 percent mortgage. Greg asked me how the weather was “over in” Vinalhaven which led me to wonder whether he was really calling from the Vinalhaven Bank. No one who knows this island community refers to it as “over in.” It’s always “over to.”
“Greg, the weather is fine, now how about the 2.8 percent mortgage? Greg asked me how I was doing. I told him I was still doing pretty good and expected to be for the foreseeable future and would like to talk about the 2.8 percent financing.
Greg asked me if I knew what he had in his hand. “Phil, what do you think I’ve got in my hand?”
“I don’t know Greg, and I’d rather not speculate but I do hope it has something to do with my 2.8 percent financing.”
“Phil, I’ve got your credit report here and you have scored a solid 510.”
“What does solid mean Greg,” I asked. “I’ve never heard of a credit score. Are you sure you’re not looking at my SATs?”
“Phil, I need to take a minute to ask you a couple of questions. Is that OK?”
“You’re not going to ask me how I am, are you, Greg?”
“I see here on your credit report that you were 15 days late with a J.C. Penny payment back in ’96. Can you explain that for me, Phil?”
“Yes Greg, I purposely held back on that so that today, eight years later, when negotiating the re-finance of my home with you, I might make you more apprehensive about giving me a 2.8 percent mortgage. Is that what I’ve accomplished?”
“Well, Phil the 2.8 percent probably isn’t going to work out for you, given your less than ideal credit score of 510. We’re probably looking at something closer to 5 or 6 percent.”
“But Greg, I’m pre-approved at 2.8 percent. The folks who pre-approved must have looked at my credit report. Why is it now an issue?”
“Well Phil, if you take a closer look you’ll see that you were pre-approved for consideration and that’s what we’re doing now, considering your application. That’s not important though. What’s important is identifying what you want to do with the additional money you will receive as a result of this re-finance. You see, even if the rate we offer is not as good as the one you have now, the terms are so much favorable that you will wind up with money in your pocket, money you and your wife can travel with.”
“What terms might those be, Greg?”
“Well, Phil, we could finance the same amount, for a little more in interest but amortized for a hundred years. That would leave you with an additional $75 in your pocket each month. How do you feel about that, Phil?”
“I don’t feel so good, Greg. ”
Increasing Membership
Of course, the most intriguing offers have been those that sell products guaranteed to – how can I employ the requisite delicacy – dramatically increase the size of or alter the firmness of certain of my appendages or accomplish both things. Unlike the solicitations described above, these contain no personal salutations, that is, they don’t address me by name, which is kind of a relief. I’m afraid were that not the case, given my natural insecurities, I’d assume the offer evolved from a complaint.
These proposals to stretch my assets left me with the unsettling fear that, given the unlikelihood that at my age any part of me was going to grow further naturally, some other part of me would suffer a deficit corresponding to whatever gain was manifest elsewhere. I couldn’t help imagining one leg would become proportionately shorter and that I’d be evermore limping toward the object of my affections.
The most recent appeal, alerting me to a miracle herbal extract, forecast a future in which I would enjoy the stamina and level of performance of a Wapiti Elk in full rut. I went on line to learn more about this creature with whom, if I would send in my credit card number, I would share so much. Wapiti, it turns out, means “white butt” and I think its safe to say that, even without the herbal extract, only the most exhaustive examination of the Wapiti and me, in the altogether and in the wild, would reveal any difference in that regard.
I learned that the Wapiti is enamored for about 30 uninterrupted and sustained days each year, between mid-September and mid-October. He announces his seasonal interests with sounds of “Aaaaeeeeuuuuh! E-ugh! E-ugh! E-ugh!” accompanied by what is universally described as a bugling noise intended to keep other males at bay and to invite the attention of receptive females. I don’t have a bugle but I do have a trombone and the noise I make by employing it does seem to keep neighborhood males at bay. If, however, it invites the attention of receptive females, I can only conclude there are none within range.
Competing Wapiti often fight, sometimes to the death, for the right to companionship and the victor then creates a wallowing area, kind of a fun place, where he gathers a harem of females for a singular and breathlessly unrelenting purpose. The herbal supplement whose promise was to put me in the same category as the Wapiti went further; it promised without qualification that the females in my wallow would soon be begging me to take a break. For a while I didn’t know whether to order a bottle or alert Amnesty International.
I am standing here, a few days later, in my driveway, a suitable wallow in mud season. I am prepared to make my interests known with my trombone. My somewhat diminished bottle of herbal extracts is in my pocket and I am ready.
– Phil Crossman
Vinalhaven