Balls and Glory – The Art of the Bullshitter

Today I happened upon a story about a consummate liar and scam artist, Frank Abagnale. Throughout the 1960’s, he was a notorious fraudster, scammer and con-artist.

At various times he posed as a doctor, an airline pilot, and a lawyer. Forging checks was another of his skills. To make his story even more incredible, he did much of this while still a teenager.

He was eventually arrested and spent time in prison. When released he began to assist authorities in stopping fraud. After all, he was an expert.

There is a movie about him staring Leonardo DiCaprio called Catch Me If You Can. It’s worth watching, if only to see the sheer brazenness of this teen.

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The Everyday Con-Artists I Have Known

So this got me to thinking about some people I have met and known over the years. Some of them good guys just trying to feel better, some just ‘havin’ a laugh’, some just sad, and some complete assholes.

Mind you, none of these people were on the level of Frank Abegnale. They were just the people you meet every day.

Note – I’m not talking about the Fake it ‘till you make it kind of person. I’m talking about people who lied or misrepresented themselves for some kind of personal gain, be it approval of others, sex, or money.

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Al

‘Al’ was good friend of mine from about the age of 12, and all through our teens. He was a rock / metal fan, and had aspirations to be a drummer in a band. When we were 17, the band Santana came to a city within about 60 miles of us. We went.

As expected, it was a great show. We attended, then went home. For me, that was the end of it. A nice event, and a good memory. But it wasn’t the end of it for Al. His bullshit-grinder was just getting wound up.

A week later, a bunch of us hopped in a couple of cars, got some beer, and headed to a field down a back road. Just to listen to some music and hang out. Someone brought some weed.

After a while I overheard a conversation between Al and another guy. It was about our Santana experience. We had spent virtually the whole time together, excepting toilet breaks. So I was a little surprised to hear the amazing story unfolding.

It seems, in spite of attending the concert together side by side, Al and I had had quite different experiences. Mine went, ‘We attended the concert, had a good time, then went home.’

His went –

Oh fuck man, the best concert ever! After the last song I got backstage and met the drummer. Man is he fucking chill! I told him “I’m a drummer too!”, and he was like, “Cool dude!” We partied all night, fuck he had some good coke! He asked me if I wanted to be a roadie for the band, and we could jam together sometimes. I said “fuck yea!”

And on and on like this. At first I was like, what kind of shit am I hearing? But as he weaved his tale of reflected glory, I started to laugh to myself, amazed that he could lie so baldly within a group of friends.

Image Pexels - Mantas Hesthaven


I didn’t intervene. For me it was a bit funny, and harmless anyway. But Al dined-out on that story for the remaining summer months. The local girls swooned over this soon-to-be rock legend. He did well.

Of course, reality hit in the fall when school came around. So, much to his disappointment (and cursing his parent’s strict rules), Al had to delay his rock ‘n roll dream. The girls were of course very sympathetic to this tortured young artiste.

Al never made it to the rock life, nowadays he is a service and parts manager at a new and used car lot.

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The Legend of Frank Schwartz

I once had a friend whose name was not 'Frank Schwartz'. Frank Schwartz was his ‘stage name’ that he used while performing. His venues were clubs and bars, wherever the action was. His role was acting macho, cool, and sexy. He was the cock-of-the-walk, at least to himself.

He would do things like check into small old-style hotels with fake ID, Then early the next morning, pack an empty duffel bag with everything in the room that he could fit. Open the window, climb down the fire-escape, and leave without paying. He always tried to pick hotels with fire escapes.

Image Pexels - Jaymantri

He would also pick busy restaurants, the kind where the staff were over-worked. He would finish his meal, carefully look around at the staff to make sure they were occupied, and then stroll out the door with a thank-you-very-much and a smile on his face. Without paying. As soon as he was out the door, he would walk very quickly and turn the first corner. Then he was gone.

‘Frank’ never really held down a steady job. He would work for as many months as it took to qualify for unemployment benefits. Then he would quit, or get himself fired. He was all about ‘Frank time’. Yet to others, he was a young architect, lawyer or medical student. In reality, most of his jobs were of the laboring or clerical type. He was not well educated.

One night we went to a bar that was known for attracting wanna-be models and university girls. Frank was a regular. He walked in like Mick Jagger, strutting like a rooster on stage. All cock and balls and piss. It wasn’t a club, it was actually fairly well-lit place. You could see people.

Like a snake winding through grass, Frank slowly slithered into the middle of a group of some 7 or 8 good-looking girls. He said something witty to a little beauty. She smiled and said something amusing back. Then it happened.

That's Snot What I Meant!

Frank responded with a closed-mouth smirking laugh. All the air pressure was released not through his mouth, but via his nose. And he had the sniffles.

A thick cord of pent-up snot shot through the air, like a perverse Spider Man shooting webbing, attaching itself to the chest of the cutie. She recoiled in disgust and horror and backed up.

The snot was elastic – it stretched out, still stuck to her, like a vomit-inducing rope bridge. Her girlfriends shrieked and retched. I laughed so hard I cried. Finally the girl turned and ran to the toilet to get cleaned up.

Everyone within sight was staring. Then came the mocking laughter, insults and comments, and jokes. Frank mustered what little dignity he could, turned, and walked out the door, never to be seen at that bar again. His days as a ladies’ man were seemingly over.

His fake name spread like wild fire through the small city. He had to ditch it. But he was creative, if nothing else. He spent months trying to perfect a British accent. The girls loved it. So sophisticated! And a new star was born, ‘Nigel Stonehenge’. Of course he avoided the old hangouts for a time.

We lost touch after that, but I heard that about a year later he finally got some justice. Seems he went to a late-night restaurant and tried his walk-away payment plan. A few male staff chased him to a back alley and gave him a severe beating. Seems his legend had preceded him.

Last I heard, he had straightened-up and got a job. Good for him.

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Dave, World-Class Fashion Photographer and Fine Diner, Class-A Asshole

I met Dave in the ‘Heart of Africa’. Actually, it seemed more like the ‘toilet of Africa’, somewhere in the upper tributary areas of the Nile River, a vile, almost inaccessible swampland. I won’t name the country, don’t want to hurt the delicate feelings of any nationals there.

More snakes and insects and critters and beasts than I have ever seen in my life. But not the polite, well-choreographed David Attenborough experience. This was the ‘scared-shitless that I will die of malaria or snake bite or some fucking rogue beast’ sort of experience.

Balls-deep in swamps full of leaches. Guards with guns watching for crocodiles. By the way, I watched a man there die of malaria. The medics could do nothing. It can be a very nasty, painful, and absolutely horrible way to die. I felt bad for him, but my feelings were useless.

Dave was British. A full mane of blonde hair, funny and charming, and a Colgate smile. Although he was quite a bit older than me, more than 20 years, we shared the same sense of humor. He told me his stories.

In the 1980’s, Dave worked in Southeast Asia. Singapore was his base, his hub, and his party town. He was a good-looking man, even as he aged. In his prime, he was a lady-killer. Breaking hearts everywhere.

He was a bit like Frank Schwartz, but more experienced, charming and successful. He actually had a good job, paying good money. And that’s why I had trouble understanding his previous life.

Image Pex els - JEShoots.com

Stealing Hearts and Food

Even with his well-paying career, Dave just had to roll the dice. It was his nature. He would go to the best clubs and bars, and more times than not, leave with the most desirable woman there. Sometimes they would fall in love with him, but Dave was a man on a mission, spreading love. He just moved on to the next one. Collecting his Jar of Hearts, as they say.

His normal routine was to tell girls that he was a fashion photographer or designer. He wasn't. But he knew that would appeal to fashion-conscious girls.

He had another nasty habit as well. That involved searching out all the 4 and 5-star hotels in Singapore. (Keep in mind this was pre-smartphone, internet and electronic key-card days).

He would choose a hotel, either one he had never been to ever, or at least in a very long while. He would enter, well dressed and confident, and walk up to the front desk and engage the receptionist in some questions or idle chat. Meanwhile, his eyes were scanning the wall behind reception, where the room keys would be, each with their room number. In his system, if the key were hung there, either the room was unoccupied, or the guest was out.

He would choose a room number in his mind, thank the receptionist, and then stroll into the restaurant-bar area. Then he would dine and drink at leisure.

When he was done, he would tell the waiter to bill ‘his room’. There was more trust in those days I think. Then he would casually walk out, probably never to return.

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Fate and Karma

This seemed to work well for him, at least for a couple of years. Then fate and karma paid a visit.

Dave had met a beautiful, charming Chinese-Singaporean girl. They dated for a time. She fell in love. But, as was Dave’s nature, he ended it. She was heartbroken. Heartbroken and angry.

Seems her father was the CEO of one of the largest corporations in Singapore. A very powerful and politically connected man. Police were contacted. Dave was followed.

One night, a night like any other thought Dave, he went to a new hotel to wine and dine, and check out the ladies. He was being watched. He did his usual routine. Finished, he walked out the door and down the street, satisfied with his evening. Then the police surrounded him.

Image Pexels

Long story short, Dave was arrested, went to trial, and sentenced to 1 year in prison. When his sentence was over, he was not only deported, but banned from entering Singapore for LIFE. His career in Southeast Asia was over.

And that is why I met him in a swampy shithole in Africa. At least he could still laugh about it - a little anyway. Dave is getting old now, but he reformed his ways, and is doing just fine.

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And So

These are just some of the people I have met. In the scheme of things, they were just otherwise 'normal' people taking things a little too far. They weren't master fraudsters like Frank Abegnale.

As for me, I’m too much of a coward or a pussy to pull off stunts and scams like these. Besides, they seem petty and counter-productive in the long term. Maybe if a few million dollars were at stake? Maybe. But a free meal or a few drinks? And a fleeting feeling of victory? No thanks.

If you're going to be a scumbag criminal, don't be a petty thief, go big like Bernie Madoff $50 billion baby! Now that's money!

Besides, as my lovely grandmother used to say, "Don't steal. Work for it or ask for it." Not that I have never stolen anything. We are all idiots, sometimes.

What about you? Know any petty or great scam artists and bullshitters?

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Image at top of post - Pexels - Jakob

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