Termites and Identity Fraud

Before I start telling all of you about my latest whacked-out encounter with my beloved homestate, I think it is necessary to give you some background information about my less beloved hometown of Greenville. You know those energy lines that New Age folk believe converge over places like Stonehenge and Sedona, Arizona? There are more lines, called Freak Lines, and they radiate out from here. Almost every neurotic behavior, survival skill, or good story I know or possess is directly related to this freakopolis.

Here are some random pieces of knowledge that prove this. Benazhir Bhutto bought her first pair of blue jeans in Greenville. The woman who Emmett Till whistled at and whose death pretty much started the Civil Rights Movement now lives up the street from my Mama. Mooning barges on the Mississippi is a primary source of entertainment. The water is the color of pee.

Anyway, here goes the latest story about Greenville. My stepfather died last week, which is definitely a sad occasion, but I am pretty sure he is feeling much, much better. I came down to stay with Mama through all this, and I am still here. She has been a little wackier than normal, but nothing that my immunity shots will not protect me from. So, the real story begins with a phone call. Mama, who has never owned an answering machine because that is what Caller ID is for, looks down and sees the name of her dying husband on the caller ID. She knows there is not a hotline from heaven, and she sure as heck knows he isn't calling to chat, so she picks it up.

It is a woman I will call Pam, since that is her name. Pam is a supposed friend, who has periodically been running errands for them, keeping stepdad company while Mama works, tending to the dog, etc. and so forth. Mama chats with her a minute, but after she hangs up, she says, "We need to go to the bank." Yep, you guessed it. "Someone" has been using my stepfather's account and has been shopping. This person has set up a handy-dandy payment plan using stepdad's account to buy some new stuff, get internet, and chat on their nifty new cell phone. Fortunately, this person is an idiot, and her daughter who was in on it all is even a bigger idiot, but I will come back to in a minute after I tell you about the termites.

The actual funeral was as good as any funeral can be, and Mama seems relatively sane after everyone departs, so she sends me off to spend the night with my beloved and the three munchkins at a hotel. The next morning, I get a call from A CRAZY LADY. It is my mother, screaming, "There are BUGS! Bugs EVERYWHERE! Bugs up MY NOSE! Bugs UNDER THE COVERS! COME NOW!" I think various expletives, but the real thought is, "Crap. My mother has started dropping acid at 60." So, off I run in my night shirt, dirty jeans, and high heels which were conveniently clustered together.

Get to the house. Mama is sitting in the car, in her underwear and night shirt, with a cigarette in her mouth, another in her hand, sobbing and twitching. She sure looks like a drug addict right now, but I go inside, and DANG! there were bugs! Like 10,000 of them! A swarm of termites had gotten in the house and picked my mama's head to be the landing pad. Of course, this is really funny to me, which just pleased Mama even more, let me tell you. Mama tells me that she KNOWS they are termites because she had already chased down the next-door neighbor (in her underwear and nightshirt) to get him to tell her what they were. He apparently told her, "Don't you want to get dressed now?" She told him, "After you get all those damn bugs off my clothes, I will."

So, after we responsibly deal with the termites by simply closing the door and walking away, we go to bank. We now have piles of paper with forged checks, credit card receipts, overdrawn notices, etc. that we can take to the police station. On the way, we decide to ride by and see if Pam is still in town. Sure enough, she is. Mama stops and runs into a store, and while she is gone, Pam calls on her cell phone that I think my stepfather bought for her. Mama calls back, and she says, "Why did you ride by?" Mama makes up some crazy story that takes the entire time to get to the police station where she is going to be swearing out a warrant for the woman's arrest. She honestly says to Pam, "Well, we are almost to where we are going, I will chat with you later."

Police say come back in 45 minutes to sign papers. Mama decides to leave me at home with the kids and goes back on her own. In Greenville, there are absolutely NO DEGREES of separation. If that person standing next to you isn't a relative, neighbor, former classmate, former student, relative of former student, former boyfriend, relative of former boyfriend of my mother's, or doesn't know one of the above, then that person is from out of town. Anyway, one of the three random strangers in Greenville overhears Mama, and says, "Oh, I know where that person cashes her checks. Hold on." So, he speed dials from his cell phone the seedy pool hall, and tells him the situation. Not FIVE minutes later, pool hall dude calls back and says, "She is here. She even has one of his checks for me to cash." Police drive down there, and pick up daughter. Daughter calls Mama. Pool Hall Man looks at Trashy Mama and says, "Oh, she does it, too!" Daughter lies about her name, a charge by police is added. Trashy Mama says, "Oh, he was paying me for services." Yeah, moron, tell the police you are a prosititute. Let's just say that we know she is lying, particularly because she gives details of where services were supposedly provided. If she had actually been in the hot tub at my parents' house, as claimed, then she would be in the hospital with some skanky skin disease or she would have at least smelled. So, Mama stays until they show up, she waves sweetly to them as they walk past, and the funeral festivities seem to end on a high note because since the judge is in that no degrees of separation (he was the law partner of my stepfather's daddy) and would have a conflict of interest, she and daughter can't be arraigned until the other judge gets back from his vacation next week.

You would THINK this is the end, but you must remember I am still inGreenville. Last night, THE CALL comes. From stepdad's funded phone number at the arrested people's house. From the son-in-law/husband of the stupid thieves. Problem is, he IS crazy. Like crazy where the police investigator goes, "oooooh," when you say his name. Like as Mama put it, "Where the government gives you a check for being crazy." Needless to say, I wig out. My liberal ideals are GONE. Call the police! Load the guns in the attic! Hide the children! We get 3 cops (assistant chief is, naturally, another no-degree connection), a report, and documentation for possible restraining orders. Sleep, finally, at 2 a.m.

Well, I guess that is all so far. Welcome to my blog! And remember, I still have over 48 hours here, .....