Personal fraud: I am absolutely fascinated with those individuals who I have met in my life who have created a totally bogus personality: a completely contrived reality. These are, of course, sociopaths: but they are titillating and somewhat psychologically voyeuristic. They have made and lost millions, courted presidents and kings, been purveyors of the greatest financial empires, only to have been brought to a level of humility by that common curse: fate and just plain bad luck. They regale us with the life that we want to lead. They are especially attractive to the young and impressionable: to my story.

I was born in a small village in Canada that based its income on the forest, the fishing industry, and tourism. I frankly hated the place and at a moment’s notice fled to Paris. Sadly, lack of money and, if I am honest with myself, lack of direction brought me back. I, fortunately, gained employment with the best eatery in the village, our local equivalent of a two-star Michelin restaurant: it had hand-carved tables, plush and detailed, red carpet and a view of the harbor that Monet or van Gogh would be proud of. As the sun nestled into its colorful bed, the day-trollers (1) played out their soft and undulating melody as they scraped against the dock: truly captivating!

My exalted position was as bartender and cashier. An old accountant of mine always reminded me that “cash is king.” Hence at twenty years old, I had power. The chef was an exalted Cordon Bleu chef who arrived with the required bumbling French accent. “Now Leon,” I was instructed, “You must protect Monsieur Parrot.” “He is the restaurant’s ‘raison d’être.’ He is our ace in the competitive tourist market.” I was then instructed that, due to the stress of a position such as his, that of executive chef, he needed to drink during the course of his culinary creations. What did this mean?

Simply put, he was a drunk: but a Cordon Bleu drunk! His prescription was a Pernod (2) “or so,” an evening. Tragically, being yet of tender years, I did not know what a Pernod was or what, “or so,” actually meant. Soon M. Parrot was consuming a bottle a night. And we were busy, serving perhaps as many as three hundred clients in an evening. Things seemed to be moving in a comfortable direction. The staff was coalescing and business was good: I was George Orwell in his youth: clever and learning what life was all about. (3) The first cracks in the veneer appeared one late evening when I was counting the evening’s receipts. After repeated tabulations, I realized that we had a surplus of one hundred dollars. Joe Parrot was sitting opposite me. “Leon,” he queried with that whimsical intonation, “What seems to be the problem?” “I am over, Monsieur Parrot,” I replied. “Pas de problem,” came the riposte. “We simply divide the money fifty-fifty.” “What? That has to be wrong!” ”Leon, you know nothing about the restaurant industry, you are simply too young and inexperienced.” I rather sheepishly handed him his fifty percent.

I somehow felt that something was morally wrong here, so I inquired of our hotel manager if this was a normal business practice. He absolutely blanched and literally snatched the fifty dollar note out of my hand. “Le chef,” however, was not to be punished, he being just too seminal to the overall operation. Joe had a host of fetishes: he had a predilection for ill-gotten gains, but he was also in love with women — truly leery and fixated. Today, this depraved behavior, if acted upon, is certainly seedy and profoundly illegal, and this has greatly improved our collective human dignity.

Fifty years ago, however, society was more tolerant or maybe nonplussed by this sort of comportment. But the ladies on staff became unhappy with his untoward physical attitude. One sweet, kind young woman tearfully mentioned this to her father: Sergeant that is, police sergeant, Lefty Smyth. In an age long before the Internet, investigation takes time, but it eventually bears fruit. Our exalted Joe was not a Cordon Bleu chef, after all; he had learned to cook in prison while serving a five-year sojourn for fraud. When presented with this information, he did not appear for work the following morning. The great poet and playwright, Sophocles (496-406 BC), leaves us with a thought: Rather fail with honor than succeed by fraud. (Parts of this article were first published in December 2014.)

A closing thought: It is an old truism, isn’t it? The only person you have to be truly honest with is yourself. There are people, however, that deny this truth. Most, though not all, suffer the judgment of the cosmos. They die a painful and gruesome death. I am always reminded of the mobster Myer Lansky. (4) His life, though exciting and dynamic was predicated on evil. His old age prior to his demise was filled with pain, suffering, and self-recrimination.

To sum up: This week, we spoke about honesty. Your luck is usually based on your own integrity. The universe is mostly just.

A small joke: Why do we tell actors to “break a leg?” This is because every acting company has a cast.

Just for fun – Schumann

This week on your contemplative walk, please consider your own personal fraud

Every day look for something magical and beautiful.

Quote: Our greatest strength is that we each have the ability to be truly happy and fulfilled on our own terms.

Footnotes:

1) A day-troller is a small fishing vessel that leaves harbor early in the morning and returns late in the evening.

2) Pernod Ricard

3) Down and out in Paris and London by George Orwell (ISBN: 9-781-78730-0972)

4) Meyer Lansky

Happy New Year: may your upcoming year be filled with prosperity and joy. Thank you for your ongoing support and encouragement.