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.
"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.
