Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

Off/beat

Finding frustration while chasing after a thief's promises

By MOLLY MOORHEAD
Published September 18, 2005

I hate liars.

A simplistic, obvious sentiment, yes. And a universal one.

I was reminded recently by a man who called himself Bob how intolerance for deception and deceivers spans all levels of humanity.

Last Friday night Bob shattered my roommate's car window and stole her purse, which held $60 cash, several credit cards and her cell phone.

Bob hates liars, too.

I spoke with him several times that night. After Sara and I had hung out with a couple friends in South Tampa, we all walked back to her Ford Explorer and discovered the crime.

Then, the phone calls. To 911. To Bank of America and Chase Visa. And on a whim, to Sara's cell phone.

Bob answered.

He just needed to feed his kids, he said. The government has really raked him over the coals, see.

I was willing to listen to Bob, if for no other reason than to keep him on the phone. But one of our friends wasn't hearing the hungry children story. He told Bob, in a frankly unfriendly tone, that he needed to tell us where he was going to leave Sara's stuff.

Our friend also promised we wouldn't call the cops, when in fact, we already had.

The conversations went in circles for a little while. Sara got her cards canceled, filed a police report and we dropped off our friends, who implored us to give up on Bob.

We didn't.

So we got back on the phone. Bob swore up and down he had left Sara's purse in a Dumpster off I-4 and 50th Street. Then he mentioned Davis Islands. We drove to Davis Islands.

Allow me to interrupt myself here and acknowledge that throughout this escapade we made one stupid, reckless decision after another. Our mothers will be very upset.

Bob became agitated with us. He insisted that we drive to 50th Street for the purse and then he'd tell us where he would leave the phone. We resisted. It was an awfully long way.

Then he got all sanctimonious. He's a decent guy, an honest guy. And he hates, I mean hates liars.

I then had to hand off the phone to Sara because I wanted to scream something to the effect of "Well, I hate THIEVES!"

But that wouldn't do much to get her stuff back.

So we went back to the scene of the crime. Bob had hinted he was in the area too, so we thought we might help him identify a place to leave the phone for us.

But then Bob stopped answering, and Sara pointed the car toward I-4.

He had given specific instructions. At the 50th Street exit, turn left at the light. The Dumpster would be in the parking lot of a green and yellow gas station on the left.

Once there, Sara inched her front bumper up to the trash so I could stand on it and peer inside. Having no flashlight, I used the light of my cell phone to illuminate the contents.

And there, in the bottom left corner, sat Sara's brown fur skin Prada knockoff. But it was empty.

So we were back on with Bob. (I'm still amazed he answered the phone at all.)

In her best kindergarten teacher voice, Sara reminded Bob that he told us the purse would be there, along with her wallet, the only thing she really cared about. He told us it would be there, and it wasn't, and no one despises untruths more than Bob.

He became agitated again, but this time his target was a man named Alan. Alan is the one who dumped the purse, he said, and Alan said the wallet was inside.

Bob really felt guilty about misleading us, I could hear it in his voice, and he promised again to reunite Sara with her belongings. Before hanging up he mumbled something about the southeastern Hillsborough town of Dover, which is, heck, only a little farther east on I-4.

I wish I could say we didn't drive out there.

A while later Bob called us, this time from his own phone, and named an intersection in Tampa where he would leave the wallet and phone. He would drop them off in an hour, he said, because he was busy.

So we drove back toward Tampa. After a 3:45 a.m. pit stop at Steak 'N Shake, we went home, changed into our pajamas and waited. At five minutes till 5 a.m., we drove to said intersection and cruised through the scary, dark parking lots at all four corners.

No wallet. No phone. No big surprise.

I blame that no-good liar Alan.

[Last modified September 18, 2005, 02:15:36]