the great pretender

Sit back. Here's a complicated story of deceit and intrigue that'll have you expecting to see the secret "nose-swipe" signal from Paul Newman by the time it's over.

Thirty-six years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I got married. Immediately after the ceremony and reception, my new bride and I headed to the Hershey Hotel (now the Doubletree) on Broad Street and, bright and early the very next morning, we started down I-95 in my wife's little Datsun with our eventual honeymoon destination being Walt Disney World.

A month or so before we got married, we secured a lease on a cute two-story townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. As our first foray into "responsible adulthood," we filled out all the paperwork at the complex's rental office. It included all the standard questions — name, previous address, employer. The manager of the apartment complex, a friendly woman who introduced herself as Micki Silver, explained that a customary credit check would be generated. I had never had any credit on my own, except for three years of student loans that I contracted myself to pay my way through art school. My prospective bride, however, was a different story. As a hobby, some people collect coins or stamps or little ceramic knick-knacks. Mrs. Pincus collected credit cards. Beginning in her teen years, she secured her first department store credit card, soon followed by a more powerful bank card (Bank AmeriCard, in those days). Soon, she was submitting applications for a credit card at every major (and minor) store in the Greater Philadelphia area... and she was getting them. Nearly every week, a new, colorful piece of plastic would show up in her mail — all shiny and ready to extend full buying power at a particular store. She would make one modest purchase, pay it in full when the bill arrived and watch her credit rating climb to numbers that were unheard of. Her wallet was overflowing with little "charge plates" until she started stashing the excess in a drawer, hanging on to only the ones she used on a regular basis. She had credit cards for stores she had only set foot in one time, but, once you have one card, a stellar credit rating can make more credit cards appear like ants on a glob of jelly dropped on the kitchen floor.

Within a few days of tendering our lease application, our new friend Micki Sliver called my wife to offer congratulations. She cheerfully delivered the news of our acceptance and gave a "move-in" date. Oh, and Micki made it a special point to praise Mrs. P on her impressive credit rating. She noted that, in all her years as a rental manger, she had never seen a credit report go on for so many pages. She laughed as she expounded on the incredible size of the printed report, that it went on for pages and pages. She gushed and my wife thanked her.

Our plan was that Mrs. Pincus would live there alone, until we were married (this was 1984 and our parents wouldn't have stood for any other arrangement). I would move my stuff in when we returned from our honeymoon. My wife's friend — and Maid of Honor — Randi would stay at our apartment for the two weeks we were away. Randi would feed our cat, take in our mail and keep a watchful eye on things until our return.

A day or so after our arrival in sunny Florida, Mrs. Pincus gave Randi a call before leaving our hotel room for the day. (These were the "pre-cellphone" days, when securing a telephone on vacation was a bit of a chore. Foregoing the payphone route, we just charged any long-distance calls to our room.) Randi gave us the uneventful rundown of a typical Philadelphia summer. She didn't really have much to report, except for mentioning that a number of postcards had arrived from "Bloomingdale's By Mail," informing my wife that some of the items she ordered were, unfortunately, out-of-stock.

"From who?," Mrs. P inquired

"Bloomingdale's By Mail," Randi confirmed.

"Hmm...," Mrs. Pincus jogged her memory, "I didn't even know Bloomingdale's had mail order..., so I certainly didn't order anything from them."

Randi thumbed through a few of the cards and read off some random item descriptions. "It looks like it's mostly underwear — bras and panties and stuff."

Mrs. Pincus was baffled, but soon the subject was dismissed. She ended the conversation with Randi and we were off for a day of honeymoon fun.

A few days later, a second "checking in" call with Randi revealed the arrival of more postcards from the previously unknown "Bloomingdale's By Mail." Now, Randi told us, there must be nearly two dozen of the "out-of-stock" announcements in with our mail accumulation. This became a recurring topic of conversation on our drive back home to Philadelphia.

We finally entered our apartment after a long trek on homebound I-95. Just as Randi warned, there was a stack of white postcards alongside our regular mail, each enumerating a computer-generated list of "out-of-stock" items that Bloomingdale's was convinced Mrs. Pincus ordered. Mrs. Pincus, however, thought otherwise. Once we got settled, Mrs. Pincus called the mail order department to straighten things out. She spoke to a helpful operator at Bloomingdale's who authenticated my wife's account. She looked up recent orders and located a lengthy list, most of which — as the postcards confirmed - were out of stock.

"Who ordered these?," my wife asked flatly, "I sure didn't." The operator said they were ordered by Susan Pincus (my wife). Then, she added that all of the items appeared to be gifts, as they each included a personal message. My wife asked if she could please read the message. The operator obliged.

"Dear Maria, Thanks for everything. Sue"

Two things rang out immediately. First - nobody, but nobody, has called my wife "Sue" since she was a child. She doesn't even answer to the name. Second - My wife didn't know anyone named "Maria." And she certainly wouldn't purchase underwear for her as an alleged "thank you." This was weird. Perhaps, Bloomingdale's, a fairly large company, just made a mistake. Perhaps a wrong digit was entered in the account number.

Now this was 1984, the glorious pre-internet days of no encryption, no passwords, no "mother's maiden name" and "last for digits of your social security number." This was a time where companies would happily and freely offer personal information to anyone who called and asked for it. The operator happily and freely told Mrs. P the address to which the items were to be shipped — if they were in stock. My wife hastily jotted the address down and recognized it as a street in Northeast Philadelphia, not too far from our new home. The next day, my ever-brazen wife decided to do a little investigating. She took a drive to the address in question, stealthily tooling down the street and she scrutinized the house numbers. When she arrived at the number corresponding to the one she had written down, she made a interesting discovery. Parallel-parked by the curb, right in front of the house, was the dark blue sedan that belonged to Micki Silver, the rental manager at our apartment complex. Of course, she didn't know the exact license plate number, but Mrs. Pincus spotted a silver-colored sticker that had been placed on the rear bumper, its message faded from years of exposure to the elements. The weird just got weirder. Obviously, there was no proof of anything at this point. But, Mrs. Pincus is not one to give up easily.

My wife has always had a good head for business and is very entrepreneurial. It started years ago and was fueled when she worked in (and eventually ran) her parent's general merchandise store in a rural Pennsylvania farmer's market. Mrs. P possesses an uncanny knack for finding the "hot item" of the minute. She has capitalized on (and benefitted from) the "Pogs" craze, the "Crazy Bones" craze and the ubiquitous "Beanie Babies" craze. Well, in 1984, the "item du jour" was Cabbage Patch Kids. The quest for these puffy-faced cloth and plastic cuties prompted fistfights among anxious parents in toy store parking lots. Delivery trucks were stalked like armored cars arriving at Fort Knox, their cargo more precious and elusive to the throngs of moms and dads queued up for hours at the behest of their relentless children. Mrs. P latched onto this frenzy and managed to acquire a half dozen or so Cabbage Patch Kids on any given week. She'd put one or two out on display in her parents' store and make a good , quick profit on them. One day in December, as the Christmas gift season approached, Mrs. Pincus went to the office of our apartment complex to pay our monthly rent. She was greeted by an overly friendly Micki Silver, who began to elaborate on how she needs to get "one of those Cabbage dolls." Still wary of the discovery she made about Micki, Mrs. P offered her assistance in getting Micki hooked up with a Cabbage Patch Kid. Hey — a sale is a sale! Mrs. Pincus explained that she had several dolls available and she could bring them by the office. Micki was ecstatic and greatly appreciative.

After visiting the stock room at my in-law's store, Mrs. P returned with two fine examples of the hottest property of Christmas 1984. She carried them into our apartment complex office and handed them over to an elated Micki. Micki hurriedly wrote a check and presented it to my wife — along with a bit of clarifying information. She had scribbled over the address on the check until it was totally obscured. She explained that she no longer lived at that address. The name printed on the check was "Maria Gustavo." Mrs. Pincus had difficulty keeping her now-widened eyes in their respective sockets, as Micki further explained that "Micki" is a nickname and "Silver" is her maiden name. The tiny hairs on the nape of my wife's neck stood on end, as this tale took a twist more suitable for an M. Night Shyamalan film, despite the celebrated future film maker residing somewhere in nearby Penn Valley, Pennsylvania — busy being fourteen years old. My wife tried to steady her shaking hand as she accepted the payment. She smiled an uneasy smile and quickly exited the small office. 

The short walk back to our street-front apartment seemed to take hours. A recap of all of the related events rocketed through Mrs. P's mind — all of the seemingly unrelated pieces now falling into place. The first thing Mrs. P did when she got inside our apartment — before even taking off her winter coat — was call the police. 

An explanation and a few follow-up questions resulted in a Philadelphia Police car arriving in our parking lot, just a short time later. Two officers exited the vehicle. One headed to the office at the rear of the lot. The other knocked on the front door of our apartment. A few moments later, a crying Micki Silver emerged from the office. Her uniformed escort navigating her from behind, his hands gripping the handcuffs that restricted her manual movements. Mrs. P silently stood outside of our apartment with the second policeman. As they approached the police cruiser, Micki loudly pleaded: "Please don't do this! Please! My father is a policeman! I am so sorry! I didn't mean to do this! Please!" Her voice trailed off as she was guided into the back seat of the vehicle. The officers took their place in the front seat and the car proceeded out towards the street.

In the days following, Mrs. Pincus pored over some of her past credit card statements. She identified several purchases that she didn't recall making. They were small and insignificant enough that they went unnoticed by Mrs. Pincus. Inquiring phone calls confirmed that these were early, unauthorized purchases that "tested the waters" for Micki's eventual, more diabolical, plans. 

There was a different woman in the office when we paid January's rent.

Mr. Newman, that's your cue.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stand and deliver

Mrs. Pincus and I have been eating the same thing for dinner — nearly every night — for over a year... and we love it! We actually look forward to it. No, it isn't anything exotic or that can be considered "gourmet." In fact, it's fairly simple with minimal preparation. We eat salad. A big salad... with all kinds of stuff on it. Although I have been a vegetarian for almost fifteen years, I eat a surprisingly limited amount of vegetables, the majority of which are commonly classified as "salad" ingredients. I pass on tomatoes, cucumbers and celery. I will, however, include generous amounts of green peppers, radishes, artichokes and pickles. Yes, pickles! I love pickles on salad. Curiously, my wife likes the vegetables that I don't like, so our refrigerator is still stocked with celery stalks and a container or two of little grape tomatoes. Our salads are usually topped with a five ounce can each of salmon. Then we garnish our big salads with a sprinkling of crispy French fried onions and a smattering of "bacon bits," those tiny morsels of unknown origin that have never been anywhere near actual bacon. The kosher certification emblazoned on the label — to this day — cracks me up.

We try to keep all of these ingredients on hand at all times. Since most of these items are straight from the fresh produce section of our local supermarket, we find ourselves having to restock and replenish the vegetable drawer of our refrigerator a few times a week. And now that we are forced to stay in our homes due to the threat of the spreading COVID-19 pandemic, even sporadic visits to the supermarket can be somewhat dicey. Not to mention the fact that some supermarkets are having a difficult time keeping some items on their shelves. Mrs. P has still been venturing out to a nearby produce store, in an effort to stop her 80+ year-old parents from going out into the risky world. For other, shelf-stable items, we have taken (like most people) to having groceries delivered. During Week 1 of our government-mandated quarantine, we placed an order with mighty retailer Walmart. I love and hate Walmart. Their prices are ridiculously cheap, but as an entity, they are the bane of my existence.... but their prices are so low! Through their website, Mrs. Pincus placed an order for the following items: nine 6 ounce foil packages of French fried onions (we had been out of these for at least a week and our salads lacked that familiar "crunch"); a 13 ounce container of imitation bacon bits (again, the last of our fake bacon bits were shaken out weeks ago); and two 21 ounce bottles of teriyaki sauce (I love steamed broccoli dipped in teriyaki sauce. Maybe I like the taste or maybe this is the only way you can get me to eat broccoli. Who really knows?). That's it. That was the order. Within a day or so, allowing for the sudden rush of online orders, Mrs. Pincus received an email stating that our order would arrive on Saturday.

Well, Saturday rolled around. Another email arrives informing us that our delivery had arrived. I looked out the window of our front door and, except for the things that are usually on our front porch, it was empty. No box from Walmart... no matter what Federal Express claimed. I went outside and surveyed the area around our porch, expanding my search to include our front lawn, the front walkway and even the shrubs and flower beds that surround our porch. You never know the thought pattern and camouflage methods employed by a Fed Ex driver. I checked everywhere and concluded there was no delivery. My mind began to wander. In the current climate of panic and uncertainty, did some desperate scavenger sneak out of his claustrophobic self-quarantine, take a box from our front porch and spirit it away to a make-shift shelter to revel in his spoils. Did he think they had absconded with untold riches (from Walmart, no less!)? Was he hoping for something he could use as bartering leverage on the Black Market? I would love to been a fly on the wall when this motherfucker split the security tape on the box to reveal fried onions, fake bacon bits and teriyaki sauce! Serves 'im right! Bastard!

I posted an account of our Saturday morning "possible" burglary episode on Twitter (as I am want to do) while the more reasonable Mrs. P contacted some of our neighbors to see if our delivery was accidentally waylayed to one of their homes at the hands of a dyslexic Fed Ex driver. After getting negative replies for our contacted neighbors (my wife actually talks to our neighbors), she called Walmart customer service. The service rep said that we would be refunded for the order and, if we still wanted the items, we would have to reorder them. Well, of course we wanted the items, so Mrs. P recreated the order.

Three days later, on Tuesday, a plain brown box arrived on our front porch. Aside from the reordered Walmart items, we were not expecting anything. I brought the box in, examining the unusual way the address label was affixed. I realized that it had been cut from another box and carelessly taped to this new box. The blue remnants of a Walmart box were still attached to the label, clearly visible through the transparent packing tape. I opened the box. It contained a translucent plastic bag, its contents obscured. I undid the knot at the top of the bag with Mrs. P witnessing my untying ability. To our surprise, the bag contained nine bags of French fried onions and a large plastic container of imitation bacon bits. Conspicuously missing were the two bottles of teriyaki sauce. Or were they.....? Upon closer tactile examination, each foil bag of fried onions was coated with a thin layer of teriyaki sauce, as was the container of bacon bits. Actually, in some spots, the dried sauce was clumpier, a light brown in color with visible congregations of sesame seeds. And each bag smelled like a Benihana's.

I tossed the bags — one by one — into the kitchen sink, where Mrs. Pincus gingerly wiped them down with a wet paper towel. Then, we further inspected each bag, checking for a complete state of unstickiness. Several bags required additional wiping, especially in the folds and creases of their undersides. Mrs. P cleaned the bacon bits container. We placed everything on a dish towel to dry. A little later, we found room for everything in our cabinets along the stockpiles of our favorite salad dressings. (When did we become food hoarders?) We are still short the two bottles of teriyaki sauce.

So, now we wait for the replacement order. After it arrives (if it arrives), we will have eighteen bags of friend onions, another giant container of imitation bacon bits and — hopefully — those two bottles of teriyaki sauce.

Then, we'll be all set for the next pandemic.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

food, glorious food

No one likes a good buffet more than I do. Actually, no one likes a bad buffet more than I do.

I love going to and eating at buffets. When I was a kid, my parents used to take my brother and me to a buffet, except back then, it was known by the exotic and exciting sounding smörgåsbord, a name that my label-giving, xenophobic father bastardized into "schmorgazboard." This place was a picky-eating child's dream. From the long, winding buffet, I could select only the items I liked — fried chicken, corn, french fries — and avoid the yucky stuff I was forced to eat at home, like green beans and broccoli. I was reminded of a time when my nephew (now 24, but just a child at the time) returned from the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's with a giant plate sporting a compartmentalized portion of crispy rice noodles and dollop of chocolate pudding. See? Kids know what they want.

Breakfast buffets are always great, no matter how big or small. We used to make an annual event of Mothers' Day brunch at a lovely and bountiful buffet offered at a Sheraton hotel in downtown Philadelphia. An aunt, who obviously didn't get the concept of a buffet, asked a waitress — whose only function was to deliver and refill cups of coffee and removed spent plates — if she could get an omelet for her, as she didn't wish to wait in line. Waiting in line is part of the fun of a buffet! Who doesn't love to grab the last waffle from the serving tray, in full view of the hungry dude behind you, leaving him grumbling until they fill the tray up again  — which is usually in about three seconds.

Of course, I've been to my share of weird buffets, like the one at the Hibachi Grill and that al fresco set-up at a roadside motel in St. Augustine, Florida that Mrs. P stumbled upon on our honeymoon. It's one we still talk about over thirty years later.

More recently, Mrs. P and I have frequented the buffet at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City more times that we probably should have. When my wife was riding high on the "comp train" at the seaside casino, we could drop by Harrah's buffet any time we liked. We would eat there several times a month. Despite the 90-plus minute drive, Mrs. Pincus would pick me up after work during the week and we shoot down the AC Expressway for a sumptuous — and more importantly free —  dinner. But, all good things come to an end and Harrah's cut her off for no good reason and I'll be damned if I was gonna pay for a meal that I had for free over a million times. So we steered clear of Harrah's until the good folks in their promotions department invited Mrs. P back into their fold. The free buffet offers weren't nearly as plentiful, but we took full advantage of the four per month that we got.

But that didn't seem to stop a group we saw at Caesar's buffet..

Last weekend, during a free weekend stay at Bally's Resort (a sister property of Harrah's), Mrs. P and I ate dinner at the newly-renovated Palace Court Buffet in Caesar's Resort on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. (Caesar's is also part of the Harrah's family). We hadn't been to the buffet at Caesar's for years, unimpressed by its small size and limited selection. In our almost decade-long absence, they expanded the seating area and nearly tripled the buffet size with stations featuring pizza, Asian and Mexican cuisine, seafood, fresh sushi and a large array of salads. Due to our self-imposed dietary limitations (I'm a vegetarian and my spouse observes the laws of kashrut, avoiding shellfish and non-kosher meat. You have the internet. You can read all about it, if you're interested.) Earlier in the day, we visited the buffet and asked the cashier at the front if we could take a quick look around to see if there was enough for us to eat. Of course, there would be. We perused the many offerings and, satisfied, decided to return for dinner. We left and thanked the cashier for her consideration, making sure she saw us leave. After all, we could have very easily grabbed a plate and helped ourselves and no one would be the wiser.

After a day on the beach, we showered, changed and headed to the Palace Court Buffet. We waited in the long line with all of the other anxious diners. Finally, we presented our vouchers and were guided to a table. We filled our plates and ate. As we sat at the table at the end of our meal, Mrs. P toying with the bottom part of a cupcake and me, downing my second cup of after dinner coffee, noticed a small commotion at the table just behind us. A waiter was having a heated conversation with a table full of twenty-something hipsters who were working diligently on plates full of crab legs. It seems the waiter noticed their table was lacking the receipt from the cashier that every other table displayed conspicuously in the napkin holder. 

"Um, did you folks pay?," the waiter questioned.

The diners stopped their eating and looked at him, silently. One fellow spoke up, while his companions remained speechless. "Pay? There was no one up front to pay.," he replied, hoping that his answer would be satisfactory enough to end this exchange.

The angered waiter pressed. "You have to pay first. Before you eat." He asked the spokesman to accompany him to the cashier. As they walked away, his friends remaining at the table began to snicker. 

Mrs. P and I decided we were through. We left a tip for our waiter who was attentive and brought us iced tea refills without our asking. We made our way out of the dining area and approached the "down" escalator. We were surprised to find the non-paying diners just ahead of us on the escalator, laughing and wiping their seafood-tainted hands on their pants.

I guess free buffet vouchers are still too much to pay for some people.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like

For twenty-eight years, two 10-speed bikes stood motionless on my back porch. Previously, they resided in the bicycle storage room at my in-law's apartment building in Atlantic City. Before that, they took up an inconvenient hunk of floor space in my fiance's (now my wife of 30 years) living room. My bike got quite a workout in the early 1980s. I would often ride it late at night from my job on the edge of North Philadelphia, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic and across the cobblestone streets of Olde City to the Queen Village condo where I spent weekends with my future spouse. In the summer, after we were married, Mrs. P and I would wake early and ride our bikes on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk, like we did when were were kids.

But then we bought a house and moved to the suburbs. Then we had a baby. Then the baby grew up and started school. And then leisure time slipped away, replaced by a bustling, busy life. And our bikes were soon ignored, relegated to the back porch, where they would lean on their extended kickstands undisturbed, dust gathering, tires deflating and dry-rotting, rust forming here and there.

Last Saturday, our neighbors Rae and O. had a yard sale and invited us to supplement their cast-offs with anything we'd like to add. My wife surveyed our three-story, six bedroom vault of accumulation and selected a couple of seldom-used beach chairs and a few rattan pieces that had worn out their welcome. After a quick dusting to make them presentable (and saleable), I lugged them across the street, and deposited them on my neighbor's front lawn where they stayed for approximately two minutes when a woman bought all of our stuff. 

O. and my wife had previously discussed the sale of our bikes. O. told us that, through an ad he placed on craigslist, a man was coming to see a bike that he was offering. O. invited us to bring over our two bikes and maybe the customer would be interested in a package deal. I dragged our two bikes from our back porch and wheeled them unsteadily across the street on flattened tires. O. opened the fortified high wooden gate to his backyard and I parked our 10-speeds next to his in a secluded area next to his large recycling bin.

This afternoon, O. called my wife in a panic. "Did you take your bike back?," he asked.

"No. Of course not.," she replied, "Why?"

O. gulped. "Someone stole our bikes! I moved them from my yard to the front porch because it was raining and now they're gone!"

"What?!?," my wife exclaimed in disbelief.

"Actually," he continued, "they left one of yours. The silver one. They took my bike and the red one." (The silver one that the thieves deemed unworthy was mine.) O. was very upset. A native Israeli, he began ranting about his disappointment in America. Mrs. P suggested that the police be notified. O. seemed confused. 

"Why call the police?," he asked.

Mrs. P explained that the proper procedure in this case was to file a police report. Then, officers will be extra concerned with the possibility of another theft. Not fully convinced, O. reluctantly called the police. (Actually, Rae made the call.) A short time later, a police car pulled up in front of our house. An officer emerged and headed straight over to Rae and O.'s house. My wife watched as the officer returned to his cruiser. He sat behind the wheel busying himself with some paper work, when My wife approached and introduced herself.

"Hi," she said, "I wanted to tell you that one of the bikes that was taken is mine."

"Yeah," the policeman smiled, "your neighbor told me. As a matter of fact, we just got a red bike over in the evidence locker."

"Really?," my wife questioned.

"Yeah," he continued, " a man just up the street gave a report earlier." The officer looked down at his clipboard and, in his best "Sgt. Joe Friday," read "just the facts" straight from the scribbled form. "He said that around four o'clock today he saw four black teenagers* walk up the front path of your neighbor's house, up to the front porch and come back down with two bikes. They ditched the red one on someone's lawn halfway down the block."

My wife followed the officer over to the police station. She was led to the evidence locker to identify the bike. The officer unlocked the gate and, sure enough, there was Mrs. P's red bike in all its dusty, flat-tire glory. The officer ripped a big "EVIDENCE" sticker off of the frame and my spouse maneuvered the bike into the back of her SUV.

When I got home from an evening doctor's appointment, I wheeled our two bikes — my wife's newly-returned red one and my unwanted silver one — back to the safety of our back porch, where, perhaps, they will reside for the next twenty-eight years without another harrowing adventure.

* * * * * * U P D A T E * * * * * *

The mighty Cheltenham Township Police force set up a surveillance team specifically focused on nabbing the wave of bicycle crime sweeping the area. On Wednesday, July 30, a vicious trio of youngsters — ranging in age from 8 to 15 — were apprehended by authorities. The gang's M.O. was snatching unattended bikes from porches, driveways, yards and unlocked garages. The little bastards were caught in the act. Thanks to the fine work by the Cheltenham Police, the reign of terror is over.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* the officer's actual words