Honesty Made Me Do It
by
pugnacious1@earthlink.net
A
few years ago this postal inspector, wearing the ugliest tie I ever saw
(his mother must have given it to him or he wouldn't be wearing it)
walked right into my office like he owned it. He was tall as a 6'4" tree
and carried a pompous air of self possession that made me think he was
overpaid. After flashing his badge he knocked the dottle out of his pipe
onto my priceless Two Grey Hills rug, and read me my rights. WHAT!!!!!
Now I've always wanted to be discovered but I thought for sure I'd been
found out instead. Even so, that was the only time I'd ever been read my
rights when I wasn't guilty.
Anyway, this guy started to tell a pretty ugly story and he seemed so
intent that I didn't have the heart to tell him I was on my lunch break.
Besides, the number 1 on the front of his gold badge kept staring at me.
It seems that we'd shipped an unfortunate, prehistoric Anasazi pottery
bowl to a client in Peoria and insured it for 450 bucks. No big deal
about that except that evidently the person (we used to call him the
mail man) backed his funny looking delivery car over the poor package
leaving black tire marks on the wrapping, and the pot was now crushed
into a thousand pieces, at least.
I was about to tell this inspector guy to go read the driver his
precious rights for ruining my pot when he said, "The Postmaster General
thinks you're guilty of criminal intent to defraud. NOW WAIT JUST A
MINUTE HERE!!!
With that remark some of the cockiness fled from my attitude just as the
coward tendencies in me started flowing up from below, and I sure didn't
want to make any news with this kind of guy.
When we untangled the box and gazed at its contents all we saw was a few
pottery sherds and a lot of white plaster. "You sold a fake pot and then
made a fraudulent insurance claim against the federal government." Well,
if we'd been outside when he said that I'm sure the blossoms on my prize
apricot tree would have fallen all over the ground.
It was obvious that this guy wanted to send me to the long adios because
he had promotion written all over his grin. What bothered me just a
little was that my partner had purchased the damn pot from a Blue Ribbon
shyster whose picture must have hung in half a dozen post offices at one
time or another.
My only chance was to take the offensive and try to bluff it out, so I
picked up one of the authentic sherds and explained that when I had last
seen that wreckage it was a beautifully painted vessel that anyone would
be proud to own. "There was no way for me to know it had been overly
restored with plaster and glue." I was trying to take charge but this
guy looked like he had a strong intolerance of self-control.
He started to make a point so I quickly interrupted, and asked that we
sit down and discuss this thing for a minute. "Now, if I put a broken
pot back together and discovered that a small piece was missing from the
rim would it be OK to fabricate a replacement sherd and paint it over so
no one would know?" He looked like a shiver that was trying to run up my
spine. "I………..," he said ruefully. "Well then, if I had a small sherd
and fabricated a complete pot around that piece would that be legitimate
restoration?" "ABSOLUTELY NOT and I think that's what you did." I hated
the sneer on his face but he'd played right into my plan so it was
alright.
I quickly separated out the modern plaster in the box from the ancient
clay sherds and weighed them separately. The authentic pottery made up
about 81% of the total weight and I knew my back alley wisdom was about
to take this guy out. "You see, only 19% of the pot was restored with
plaster and that seems fair to me."
I could hear him thinking so I played my hole card, "If 5% restoration
is alright and 95% is not, then exactly what percentage of restoration
is legitimate?" Of course there is no answer to that question but I
needed to confuse him further. "I think the government has
misapprehended the terms here and the mystery of this situation must be
its sole accusation."
It had passed the time when he logically would have figured my math
didn't add up because clay sherds weigh a lot more than plaster and my
figures could have been easily reversed.
I quickly changed the subject as I walked my new best friend to the door
making sure he forgot to take the pot. "That's really a great tie you're
wearing." "Thanks," he said, "My mother gave it to me."
