The Bridge

His real name was Rafael. He thought Rafael was too exotic, so he introduced himself as Ralph, which he thought had a nice American ring to it. Ralph/Rafael grew up in Spain, sweated in the summer heat and fried spicy rice with his eleven brothers and sisters. He came to America for opportunity, to make his name, left behind his life as a tan city boy in Barcelona and set out to become, he told his mother, an entrepreneur. His brother Petro knew the truth: Ralph was out to con “those stuffy, rich Americans out of their golden euros.”

Ralph had always loved the feel of money, the ripe metallic smell and the solidity of coins in his palm. A cousin of the family had gone to college in America, wrote letters detailing the posh dresses worn by women and the gold watches snared around the wrists of businessmen. “The streets are paved with gold,” he’d written, “if you are clever enough to get it.” Ralph did not doubt his cleverness. He’d already conned hundreds of tourists in Barcelona into purchasing “Spanish diamonds, mined just twenty minutes away!” for $999.99. The “Spanish diamonds” were rhinestones he’d bought at the fabric store for eight bucks a bag. He also sold “Spanish coffee,” “Spanish fruit jam,” and “Spanish M&Ms.”

Ralph loathed Americans. They flocked to Barcelona like vultures and turned up their noses at local “urchins” like him. His parents’ puny apartment was right across the filthy street from The Marriott, Spain. He used to gaze out the tiny, barred window for hours and curse at the rich Americans with their landscaped hotel balconies and glittering jewelry. Once, in the street, he and Petro had asked an American man for two dollars so they could buy rice for dinner, and the man had laughed in their faces.

So Ralph arrived in New York Harbor with a battered briefcase when he was 23 and set out to swindle. What little he knew of the idyllic American “good guy” had been gleaned from the Mary Poppins video he’d seen in elementary school. He envisioned himself in a snazzy Dick van Dyke cream-colored suit, with a classy wooden cane and a white felt hat with a flat top and a blue ribbon around the center. The wholesome, trustworthy look. He splurged on the suit and accessories.

He dyed his hair gray and grew a beard, long and spindly with a curl of genie smoke at the end. He worked on smiling, so the corners of his eyes and lips would crinkle. For people to trust him, he needed to seem like the quintessential American grandfather, with a suit out of the 40’s and a kind smile and tan, cowboy skin.

Sick of selling jam and rhinestones, Ralph dove straight into a grandiose swindling scheme. He wanted the big bucks. He walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and tried to look wealthy and appraising.

The couple was from Milwaukee. They were young, newly married, gullible. Ralph greeted them enthusiastically, then launched into his sale. “The city of New York has recently piled up a lot of debt, Mr. and Mrs. Turnblatt. To help alleviate these costs, the council has decided to sell the Brooklyn Bridge. They’ve hired my agency to conduct the sale. For a mere $45,000 you can help get the city back on its feet. Not to mention the fast cash you can make from setting up a few toll booths. The money you pay now (which did I mention must be in cash?) will come back in double or triple that value over the next few years. It’s quite the bargain, Mr. and Mrs. Turnblatt, quite the bargain.”

The Turnblatts returned later that day with the $45,000 and three toll booths. Ralph shook their hands and wished them a happy rest of their vacation.

A few hours later, when police prevented an irate Mr. Turnblatt from placing a fourth tollbooth on the bridge, and explained to him and his wife that they’d been cleverly duped, Ralph was on a plane to San Francisco, counting his money, off to sell the Golden Gate Bridge.