by Wylde, Tara
A second later, a penguin emoji follows. I find myself laughing alone at the kitchen counter. I want to keep this conversation going .
where are you anyway? home ?
Library. The ellipsis icon does its dance, and does it some more. I’m starting to wonder if she’s lost her connection when the next message pops up: Had some work to do w/their computers, but now just enjoying the quiet. Nobody here. Feels like the start of a horror movie. Attack of the Giant Silverfish .
ewwwwwwww, don’t say silverfish .
srsly, they are my one phobia .
with their gross powdery bodies and their antennae on the wrong end .
and earwigs .
centipedes.
anything with ass antennae .
sick.
I half expect her to text back a silverfish emoji—or worse, a gif—but she doesn’t prove so sadistic. Sorry. Hate them too. What about you? You at home ?
yeah. had chinese food. I pause with my finger on the SEND button. Maybe I should say something else. Something suggestive. Something silly enough she could play it off as a joke if she wasn’t into it, but naughty enough...nah. I go with the Chinese food thing. She’s in the fucking library. Sexting can wait .
Mmm, now I’m hungry .
Haven’t had Chinese in a while .
Or McDonald’s .
Miss their fries .
Can’t remember the last time I had real, cheapass fast food, either. The fridge here’s always full, or Katie’ll order us something—neither she nor the housekeeper seem to be into cheap and greasy. Before I can think better of it, I write back, wanna get big macs for our date on sun ?
Her response is quick and sweet : :-)
I like that she’s not a complete health nut—that she’ll do things like French toast and cheesecake, a burger here and there. Tells me there’s more to her than that skittish, nervous streak. Someone probably scared her; someone must’ve ....
Another message pops up: I should get home. Before our date, though...there’s something you should know .
oh?
A name you should Google: Joe Bentivoglio. And if you want to cancel after, I won’t hold it against you .
Shit. Maybe he’s the one ....
who is he ?
The microwave clock ticks down three minutes before the ellipsis icon pops up. It’s another full minute before her answer comes through: The man who took everything I had .
She stops answering after that. Probably on her way home—or avoiding my questions. I wind up back in my study, staring at a page of Google results I wish were for the wrong Joe Bentivoglio... But the churning in my gut tells me they’re not .
Munchausen by Internet: Cancer Scam goes Viral – The Strange Story of Joe Bentivoglio
I skip over that one, and the two that follow—all articles from major newspapers. The fourth result looks like a blog post: Jan’s Blobservations – Everything We Know about Joe Bentivoglio, aka ultramar1ne, aka giuseppe_b. I click on that .
The post’s a little over a year old. Whatever happened, it’s pretty recent. Pretty raw. No wonder she’s not exactly eager to talk about it .
I take a deep breath and start to read .
“THE GRAND SCAM: JOE BENTIVOGLIO vs. THE BLAZING BADGER CYCLING CLUB
“OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: OK, so I’ll be posting my own theories in the comments, but this is what we know for sure and can 100% verify. Information is still coming in from a LOT of sources! Me and Paula and Cherie are checking it out as fast as we can, but we’re only 3 people. For the sake of clarity, I’m not including anything that can’t be proven...but don’t hesitate to speak freely in the comments !
“For those who have no clue what this is about, a) what rock have you been living under?, and b) Joe Bentivoglio, aka ultramar1ne, aka giuseppe_b, is a lying assbassoon who claimed to have cancer and ripped members of the NY cycling community off to the tune of at least $20,000...THAT WE KNOW OF .
“I first noticed ultramar1ne on the BBCC Facebook group. He hadn’t yet been “diagnosed” (yeah, right!), and seemed like an active member in good standing, and hot. (And his profile said he was single, but as we all know, that turned out not to be true.) I’d say hi to him at the post-ride cooldowns at Full Circle, but we didn’t really run in the same circle (y’all know I’m a back-of-the-pack girl; he was a speed demon ).
“When it came out that he had cancer, it didn’t seem suspicious. Most of us didn’t even hear about it from him. He honestly seemed like the LAST thing he wanted to do was talk about it. The story was he’d confided in a few close friends, and didn’t necessarily want everyone to know. Which, yeah, makes sense. And it also makes sense that people would spread that shit. Cancer is interesting !
At the same time, the rumor started circulating that he and his fiancée were hurting for cash, barely keeping a roof over their heads. They’d even had to call off their wedding to pay for his treatments .
“There was a collection within a week of the news going wide. This was organized by Mike B, Mike R, and Paula, and I can confirm that NONE of them were involved in the scam in any way. (All have been proven to have lost money themselves.) So far, I’ve had confirmation that all but 4 members contributed (and the 4 I can’t confirm are no longer active, and couldn’t be reached). I think I threw in $50 .
“For anyone keeping a running total, that initial pass of the hat brought in close to 3K .
“Next ride, he showed up with his head and eyebrows shaved. I remember noticing the eyebrows and thinking, what a relief, he’s not one of those cancer fakers. They always forget the eyebrows. And I remember feeling like shit for the possibility even crossing my mind. That’s what these types of crooks rely on: our unwillingness to think our friends, family, and loved ones would pull that shit !
“Always, always look a cancer horse in the mouth !
“THE FIANCÉE: We finally met his supposed fiancée, Elina Petrova, the following July. She started showing up to “monitor his condition,” which basically meant riding with him and participating in club activities, without paying any club dues. After her 2nd or 3rd ride, she approached Paula about some fundraiser she was having for his treatments. Only when we saw how far she’d actually got, it was like she’d put no effort in it at all. She had a gofundme page that didn’t even have a picture, and a few posters around her neighborhood for a game night at some restaurant. I think she’d raised all of $50. Which should’ve been a huge red flag, but by then, we were fully invested in their “struggle .”
“So we rallied round, plugged the SHIT out of this thing. We amped up the games, went crazy on the food, paid for Facebook ads, plastered the whole BOROUGH with fliers, even rented a hall when we saw how tiny the restaurant was .
“RUNNING TOTAL: $9K raised, $1.5K paid out in ad/venue expenses. I shit you not, we went ALL out !
“The whole time, Joe and Elina were borrowing smaller amounts from individual club members, but no-one had any idea of the scale of this. We weren’t exactly comparing notes. It wasn’t till September that Cherie was like...hey...hasn’t his chemo been going on for a LONG ASS time? Which, I did some research, and it seemed like it COULD go on longer, but a normal course of treatment is 3-6 months. And he’d been doing it for over a year, at this point, while being somehow well enough to go on bike rides the whole time? Something smelled fishy .
“That was when we finally started tallying up the financial aspect of it, and this is just from PayPal transactions with confirmed receipts, NOT including cash gifts/non-confirmed e-transfers/food and other goods :
“RUNNING TOTAL: ~$19,980 !!!!!!!!!
“Once we started investigating, really comparing notes for the first time, everything fell apart. We found doctors who didn’t exist, medications that wouldn’t be prescribed for his specific cancer, records of him on Facebook at times when he was supposedly in intensive care...plus, he and his fiancée couldn’t keep their stories straight about whether those scars came from surgery or (LOL) m
ilitary service .
“Me, Cherie, and Paula were the ones to confront Elina, when Joe stopped responding to our messages. She claimed to have no idea what was going on, and actually went to an ATM and reimbursed me and Cherie on the spot. Paula also confirms she’s received just shy of $900, but never got a response when she asked when she might expect the other ~$1,200, or when the rest of our members would be getting their refunds .
“So far, there’s no solid proof Elina was part of the scam. But the last communication I had with her, she was still living with Joe, and wouldn’t say whether or not she planned on going through with the engagement, so...hmmmmmm.... Draw your own conclusions .
“THE SILENT AUCTION: This is still going forward! Everything’s already set up, and no-one wants their donations back, so...what else are we supposed to do? But proceeds will be going to cancer research, and NOT to these scammers .
“UPDATE: The auction was an incredible success! I want to thank everyone who came out, and everyone who boosted the signal! Your generosity was amazing, and we actually earned $22,672, which may be more than our combined losses...and not a penny of it will see the inside of Joe Bentivoglio’s greedy pockets !
“SON OF UPDATE: Joe Bentivoglio’s social media accounts have been deleted. Elina Petrova’s are gone as well, which doesn’t look great for her. She returned another $2,250 total to a few of our members who were able to get in touch, but hasn’t responded to e-mails or phone calls since the silent auction. There’s still no confirmation she was actively involved, or knew what was going on...but let’s just say she was either in on it or dumb as a box of rocks. Plus, she didn’t start returning money to anyone besides those of us who confronted her face to face till legal action was mentioned .”
I reach the end of the post, and sit there staring. Wow. I’ve heard of this type of thing, but never seen it up close and personal .
I feel cold. I reach for my coffee, but that’s cold too. Actually...did I even make coffee before I sat down? Think that might’ve been there from earlier. Gross .
She couldn’t have been part of it...right? I mean, she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t tell me where to find it, if that was true ....
Skimming the comments, a good half of them are about her—first rule of the Internet: never read the comments! Not many are supportive. Most, I’d call downright abusive. They raise some decent points, though: why would she return all that money, if not a guilty conscience? Why wouldn’t she leave the asshole right away? How could she live with him, and not notice the unexplained income ?
I should text her .
I have no idea what to say .
I check out a couple of the other articles, and a YouTube clip of a news report, but don’t learn much of substance. There’s a lot of interest in Elina, a lot of discussion of her involvement, her character, her looks...fucking vultures !
I sip my stale coffee. Why does it taste ten times as bitter once it’s cold? Does the flavor intensify with time, or does heat incapacitate the tastebuds ?
I’m keeping our date on Sunday. I have to hear her side: I won’t be just another rubbernecker ogling her disaster, refusing to give her a chance. I had a good feeling about her from the start, and I’ve got to trust that. Mark did always say I was a good judge of character .
Chapter Ten
E lina
Nick texts me Friday morning. Can’t stop to read it: every time I take my eyes off Joey, he’s racing down the boardwalk, trying to pet strange dogs, dig through trashcans, eat stuff off the ground. We’re on our way to the aquarium. It’s an expense I don’t need, but the poor kid deserves a reward. He’s been a real trooper, in the wake of the break-in and the dead rat .
I’ve been driving myself up the wall worrying about Nick’s reaction to the Joe debacle, but it’s worse now he’s actually responded. I could be carrying my walking papers in my pocket, without even knowing. I think he’s the type to let me down gently, at least... But I’ve been surprised before .
Maybe I should’ve bit the bullet, told him the whole story face to face .
But then I’d have had to see it, the horror, the disbelief...the judgment .
“Mommy?”
“Yeah, sport ?”
“What’s the difference between turtles and tortoises ?”
“Ah...I think turtles have flippers, and tortoises have feet. Or—no. Maybe that’s just sea turtles—those turtles in the pet shop had feet. Remember their little claws?” I tickle him under his chin and behind his ears till he admits he remembers. “Eh...I think turtles live in the water, and tortoises are more on land .”
“You don’t know.” My four-year-old is mocking me. Guess the “mommy knows everything” years are over .
“Well, that’s why we’re going to the aquarium. So we can learn all about turtles .”
“Do turtles bite ?”
This one, I know. “Yes—yes, they do. And they have salmonella, so whatever you do, look, don’t touch !”
“Look, don’t touch !”
“Perfect.”
Joey gets a little sulky once we’re in the aquarium and he realizes he can’t take any pictures. I gave him my old digital camera last year, and he loved it, but of course that was stolen. Fortunately, he perks up when he spots the colorful clownfish in the reef display, especially when I promise we can come back when he has a new camera .
A new camera... Maybe I can add that to the Christmas list. I whip out my phone while he’s enthralled with the fish and search for cheap digital cameras. Even the shoddiest ones are barely under fifty bucks—and for a little kid, you need something durable, something easy to use. Something that won’t crap out at the first bump or jolt .
I wonder, is Polaroid still a thing? Another quick search tells me it is, and I can’t afford it .
There’s got to be something .
Can’t you take photos with a 3DS? I look those up too: still pricier than Polaroid. Plus, I’d have to get him at least one game if I went with that option .
No camera, then. Maybe an Etch-A-Sketch ?
Nick’s text’s still sitting there unread. I glance at Joey: he’s poring over the exhibit notes. His reading’s pretty good, but there could be Latin names in there. I should help him. Besides...which is going to be worse, getting through an aquarium trip with the threat of being dumped hanging over my head, or getting through it knowing I’m history ?
I zip my phone into the innermost pocket of my purse. This is the kind of day parents and children are supposed to savor. The stuff memories are made of. And it is beautiful here, all peaceful and blue and rippling with watery shadows .
Why do my feet hurt so bad ?
I mash down my worries, summon my best smile, and let Joey read me the lowdown on the reef exhibit. He’s bursting with pride, even when he has to stop and sound out the unfamiliar words. Maybe I can get him to do the same thing on shopping trips, to keep him from throwing tantrums—tell him I forgot my contacts, need him to read all the signs. He does love to help .
He catches me chuckling at the idea and kicks me in the shin .
By the time I’ve convinced him I wasn’t laughing at him, and reminded him we do not kick, Nick’s safely buried in the back of my mind—not quite out of the picture, but close enough .
The aquarium’s small, but there’s plenty to see. Joey seems especially taken with the sea otters. Despite his disappointment when I tell him he can’t take one home, I make it through the afternoon with a cheery kid...and without being guilted into any treats from the gift shop. Maybe, on some level, he gets that we’re running on empty .
I end up carrying him home, sleepy and sticky, but still chattering about turtles and sharks. How he managed to get sticky when we didn’t have any snacks, I’ll never know. I make Maria promise to give him a bath before I head for work .
The bus takes its sweet time coming. I don’t risk sitting down to wait: it’s hard enough, not falling asleep on my feet. And Nick’s text’s bothering me again—if I
read it before work, will I be a mess? If I don’t, will I be able to concentrate ?
Ugh! I barely know him! How pathetic am I, working myself into a frazzle over some random food pantry guy, someone I’ve met all of three times —
—and been mostly naked with twice ?
I’m not this person. I’m tough: I’ve endured much worse. I whip out my phone, grit my teeth, and read :
hey!
hope you’re not working too hard !
what time for the garden on sunday ?
Attached, there’s a gif of a tiny, mouselike creature falling backwards off a kitchen scale. It is kind of hilarious, but...really? Not even an acknowledgement ?
Maybe he never Googled Joe. Maybe he thought about it and decided he wanted the story from the horse’s mouth .
I hate not knowing. I should ask. Put myself out of my misery. But then he might demand an explanation, right here and now. Over text. Which I don’t exactly have time for, and can’t face, and—no. Just no .
I stick with the question at hand: How about 1? Gives us most of the afternoon .
He texts back just as the bus pulls up: perfect. you like greek food? heard about this new place, thought we might try it .
Love Greek ! :-)
also perfect. see you sun !
So... He’s still planning on dinner. That’s...probably good ?
I don’t end up having a lot of time to obsess over it. The night’s a busy one: from six till midnight, there’s not a moment when my section isn’t full. I get screamed at by some lady who can’t understand why we don’t have ranch dressing, and threatens to leave a bad Yelp review. Some college kid puts a roach in his salad to avoid paying the bill, but he’s not nearly sneaky enough. Half the dining room sees him do it. Two old ladies actually do manage to skip out—one of them in a fucking walker! How the ...?
My tips suck, and my feet are beyond pain. I stop feeling them around seven. By nine, the ache’s resurfaced in my ankles. It spends the rest of the shift creeping up my legs till it settles in my lower back .
By the time the last diners clear out, well after one, I’m sick with fatigue, barely standing. Vanya shoos me out the door. I feel bad, not helping close up, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially with tomorrow promising to be twice as bad. There’s a two-for-one promo on; those are always bad news. They bring out the cheapos and jackasses like nothing on earth .
