It happened again.
A different bank, a different credit card, but the same mailbox
on Bergenline Avenue, and the same thief who stole my check the last time and
made it out to herself
Although I’m not the only one, I should have known better,
having felt the stickiness inside the mailbox both times and thought nothing of
it.
Two banks suffering through the same catastrophe, and this
woman robbed me blind, draining one account, almost the other as well
The cops tell me she’s notorious, leaving me cash-strapped
until the mess gets sorted out, and vulnerable, as if I am a born sucker, learning
of the thefts only when the credit card companies informed me they didn’t get
paid, then forced to go through the ritual of convincing the banks and the cops
this was really fraud.
How on earth does anyone steal anything from a mailbox right
in front of the post office?
The postmaster is on my side. He put up a camera to catch
the thieves only for the thieves to steal the camera.
A sad joke, especially for me, having just enough left in my
wallet to pay for a cup of coffee?
Strangely, I admire the woman – just as I admired that other
woman from a decade ago – the gall, the potency, the James Bond-like audacity.
How can you not love someone like that?
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