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The Newsletter >
The Timeshare Affair
August 6, 2008
Dear People Who Knew Me In A Former Life—Of Crime,
I’m writing this to you from a Federal Witness Protection
Program. It’s true. I have had to go underground in order
to testify against a true criminal mastermind—my dear
husband, Sherwood. I am no longer a short, red-headed,
white woman, so don’t look for me. I am now a tall, raven
haired, gypsy woman.
In the month that I took a break from it all, I found
myself dragged into a pit of “shady dealings.” It began
simply enough. It began with a phone call from a solicitor.
“How about a romantic weekend?” Sherwood called out over
his shoulder, while dickering with somebody on the phone.
“With who?”
“Me,” he said.
“How far do I have to go?”
More phone dickering ensued.
“Right down the road, The Hilton (Is This Heaven, Mommy?)
Resort and Day Spa, here in Orlando.”
“No planes? Some romance, but not too much? Reading by the
pool time? What’s the catch?”
“No catch. It’s free.”
“Hmmmmmmm! Sounds like a hookup; you know how I feel about
hookups.”
“Sign us up.” The dickering ended, and the hookup began.
In the truck on the way to “the romantic weekend” Sherwood
let me know that 1) the grandchildren would be joining us,
2) the grandchildren would be staying the night along with
their parents bringing the total of people in our room to
about three hundred, and 3) I had to attend an hour and a
half timeshare presentation—at 8:00am!
“I am not attending a timeshare presentation. I hate those
things. I won’t do it.”
“You have to or they’ll kick us out, and, besides, I kind
of fudged to get us a free weekend. Usually they won’t let
you stay in their resort if you live locally, but the nice
man . . . “
“. . . You mean the other disgusting criminal element,
don’t you?”
“ . . . the nice man said that I could use my work address
in Marietta, Georgia and that there will be a free
breakfast and $150.00 dollars in gift cards.”
“What are we homeless? Is this our new strategy to feed the
family?”
I showed up at the presentation wearing a bathing suit,
reading a book, and sporting a bad attitude. I continued to
read my book through the entire video presentation that
promised constant and total Nirvana should we purchase a
Hilton timeshare. The nice high pressure sales lady looked
at my husband, the grifter, and said, “Your wife doesn’t
seem to be too interested.”
“Hee, hee, well, she’s here under, hee, hee, protest. Hee,
hee, hee,” he said, as sweat dripped from his criminal
brow.
I said, “We’re not buying a timeshare. We live down the
road. We’re here to eat your breakfast, sleep in your beds,
use your toilets, swim in your pool, and collect our
reward; besides my husband gets endless, free Marriot
points so that we can stay at five star resorts—all the
time. Can you do better than free?”
“Mind if I call in my manager?” she said.
“Please. Call two. We’ll wait.” The manager was very nice
but very determined to find out how we had busted through
the timeshare security wall. We said, “The guy who called
us suggested the work address scam. The guy who works for
you. The guy you hired to call us.”
“Hmmmmmmm!” said the manager. “Shady, very shady.”
“Excellent choice of words,” I said, glaring at my shady
husband. As we left the presentation (early) my husband,
the charlatan, turned, paused, and said to the timeshare
manager man, “I hate to be tacky, but I believe we were
promised a gift card?”
In disgust, I left the further dickering to change my
identity and forge a passport. Later, at the pool, while
the grandchildren splashed and frolicked, I turned to my
husband, Mack the Knife, and said, “Seems like a lot of
trouble to swim in somebody’s pool.”
“But fun.”
And so now I am in witness protection until Sherwood the
Jackal is brought to justice or until we build a swimming
pool.
Linda (The Gypsy Queen) Zern
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