Guilt Over Fifty Fake Euros: Part II

After several weeks in London, I returned to Italy via a sketchy airline that flew me into Florence for a frighteningly cheap price. Upon landing, a friend of mine told me to meet him at Dolce Vita for an early afternoon drink. I hopped in a cab, my mission of passing Ivan’s evil fake 50 off into the universe hanging over me like an axe. My taxi pulled up by the Arno, I handed over the 50, and the cabbie began making change. I had done it.

Wait.

The cabbie was holding the 50 up to his windshield to catch the light.

“This isn’t a real bill,” he informed me in Italian. His voice emitted sympathy for me, a poor American who’d been swindled (which made me feel even worse for having tried to pawn it off on him).

“Really?” I feigned surprise.

“Where did you get this?” he asked with genuine concern. The answer to that question was WAY too long a story to get into. This cab driver was being FAR too nice. I paid him with other cash and took Ivan’s disgusting bill back, loathing its fake orange color and all it represented.

I poured out the story to my friend (we’ll call him Ape) over vodka tonic. Ape’s codename is extremely fitting since while he IS a very good-looking guy, he tends to walk/stagger kind of like a Neanderthal (especially when drunk) and has a voice scratchier than most dedicated two pack a day Marlboro smokers. With men’s voices there’s sexy gruff and gorilla gruff. My friend Ape was borderline, perhaps a little more the gorilla gruff, and often unintelligible (especially in English). The charm is that he sounds adorable and shit-faced ALL the time.

Anyway… he examined my bill against a real 50…

“Of course this is fake! It’s so obvious see the xx color, xx texture and xx markings.” Clearly he didn’t understand the bill was SLIPPED to me in the DARK. Now I was beginning to feel like a victim. A stupid, trusting, airhead who actually expected Ivan to pay her in REAL money (I mean, he always had before…) This adds further testament to my thesis about how Milan has gone seriously downhill in the past 5 years.

I accompanied Ape to get his hair cut by his childhood friend/barber. I forwent the scissors (those who’ve read my hair sensitivity entries will understand why) and opted only for a wash. Ape dropped me off at San Maria Novella train station where I’d catch a train to the Florence suburbs to meet my one of my best friends and number one partner in crime, Bartok. We’d spend the night at her boyfriend’s place outside of Florence and leave the next morning for August vacation.

After I bought my train ticket, I stood having twenty minutes to kill in the Florence train station (which is an epicenter for petty crimes, pit pockets victimizing foreigners etc.) and knew it was now or never. I didn’t want to carry Ivan’s fake bill with me into the August vacation period. This was my last chance to spend it. Before my train left. Now.

For those of you who don’t know, Italian cell phones function on a pay as you go system. At a Tabacchi (a kiosk which sells candy, cigarettes, and newspapers) you can buy a plastic card worth up to 100 euros. By entering the digits on the back of this card into your phone you activate your credit.

There is ONE Tabacchi in San Maria Novella. The line is long, and transactions are made frantically at lightening speed. I got in line. When I finally emerged in front of one of the many rushing sales men, I asked for a 50 Euro ricarica which he immediately slapped down in front of me. I took the card, slapped down my fake fifty (which he took) and fled the scene. As I ran off, I could see the salesman holding the bill up to the light with one of his co-workers, suspecting its ineligibility. Had I waited a moment longer, they would’ve stopped me.

I hurried into another area of the sweltering, crowded station panting. Would they come after me? The horrible fifty fake Euro girl? Just in case, I changed my hair style, put on a sweater and booked it to my train which thankfully arrived on time. Once I boarded, I knew I was safe.

I had the twenty minute train ride to the suburbs to think about what I had done. During the ride, I entered the card’s digits into my phone and listened to the TIM operator woman inform me that my credit has just been topped up by 50 euros. I remember feeling smug and victorious. I look back on this memory and cringe.

Bartok met me at the suburban station and as we lugged my bag to her place, I recounted this story. Bartok, who always encourages and rationalizes my unethical behavior, told me I was going to Hell.

I console myself with the fact that the owners of the ONLY Tabacchi in San Maria Novella (undoubtedly the busiest and touristy-est train station in all of Italy) have a monopoly on the best Tabacchi location in the planet, and are most likely rolling in dough. I wish I had concrete stats on this, since to this day, the fact that I stooped to Ivan’s level of pawning fake bills is a source of shame.

Guilt Over Fifty Fake Euros: Part I

It all started with Ivan. Ivan ran an operation in Italian known as “immagine.” Basically he got paid for stocking Milanese club’s VIP sections with female models. Don’t be fooled. This was an effective and lucrative business. Clubs wanted their VIP sections to look alluring/like a place that models would willingly hang out (rarely the case) and men who purchased bottles wanted beautiful women to share their champagne with. Everybody won. The clubs felt they looked good, the men got female company, and the models got paid anywhere from 50 – 150 euros a night depending on their agency and how far away the club was from the city (clubs an hour or more outside of Milan paid 150, the logic being that the model wouldn’t get home until 6 am the next morning).

Americans often find this concept confusing, assuming that “immagine” (which means “image”) girls are the same thing as escorts or prostitutes. This just isn’t the case. In fact, “immagine” girls are required to return home in an agency vehicle at the end of the night. Your agency paid you for your time spent in the club, never men. Interestingly enough, the clubbing system in New York works exactly the same way (only no one’s aware of it, and models are only compensated with free liquor). A close New York PR friend described to me (we’ll call him Scruff) that the going out world consists of rabbits and carrots. The carrots are the eye candy (i.e. the models) that the PR brings to a club. These people get a centerfold table and to drink for free. The rabbits are everyone else around the carrot table, paying for bottles in order to be near the carrots. Scruff told me that there was this chess-like configuration going on everywhere I went in the city. You may be oblivious to the fact, but the promoter taking you out is working carrot and rabbit tables simultaneously in one big profit making scheme.

Same scheme in Milan, except a PR like Scruff wouldn’t just have hot girls with him (I guess in America free booze is considered compensation enough), he’d have a crew of paid models who worked the VIP room like geishas, making sure everyone was having a good time and drinking as much as possible (so more liquor could be ordered…I often subtly dumped my cocktails into plants or down the bathroom sink.) In my opinion, the Milanese system is more honest and upfront. Milan’s such a superficial city that no one feels the need to keep the carrot/rabbit game on the DL. Models get paid for their image by the club (Ivan or an agency being the middle man), and men looking to impress colleagues are pleased to pay extra to be in the VIP with hot girls. Pretty clean and simple, right? And great deal for the models. Not only were you being paid to party (literally), but it was a stable source of income (yes this was going on every night of the week, not just Fri, Sat). The majority of models in Milan hiked around the city all day from casting to casting, desperately trying to book a job. It was nice to know that no matter what, you could pay your rent at the end of the month just by smiling and downing a couple flutes of Crystal.

Several agencies did this type of work, the most well-known being Trend, Luca Casa Dei, and Scaglioni, as well as individuals like Ivan. I preferred working for Trend, an agency that paid less, but had an actual office (unlike a free agent like Ivan) so I could pick up my money every week on payday, no questions asked. This segways into my story about the fifty fake euros.

Ivan was a short, tan, crow-nosed, American-obsessed Italian whose signature look was a bandana tied around shaved head. He always had an entourage of mainly Bulgarian and Romanian models behind him (although occasionally some Italians and me) and he did so well in this business that after only one year he was able to get himself a nose job and an enviable Mercedes. Since Ivan didn’t have an office or keep track of who was working for him when (although I saw him scribbling on the back of receipts sometimes) you basically had to bug the hell out of him to pay you. One of my biggest fears was getting stiffed by Ivan, and I used to give him a tantrum when he wouldn’t pay me at the end of the night (payments for the same night you worked took place over “breakfast” after closing down the club at 5 am in a 24-hour Pasticceria on Via Monte Nero. Note: Since you were working for the club, you ALWAYS had to stay there till closing (4 or 4.30 am). Consequently, breakfast afterward was pretty frustrating. At that point in the evening – i.e. almost dawn – you really didn’t want a brioche, café and to chat with Ivan and his partner – you wanted to get your money, get driven home, and pass the fuck out!)

It was the end of the summer and Ivan had stiffed me on two nights work. I was therefore thrilled that while working for Trend at an especially retarded outdoor Milan club called Merry-Go-Round that I bumped into him. We did the casual small talk and cheek kisses before I told him politely to hand over the cash. It was late, we were outdoors, and it was dark. Ivan slipped me some Euro bills and I left him to return to Trend’s tables with a victorious grin splashed across my face.

The next day, I handed one of Ivan’s 50 Euro bills over to the grocery store check out girl who promptly informed me that the fifty Euro bill was fake.

FAKE!?

Goddamn Ivan. I became filled with rage, and in a quasi-spiritual moment I suddenly realized that the only thing that could fix this horribly unjust situation would be me passing the fake fifty onto someone else. Was this the high road? No. But I certainly wasn’t going to get ripped off with fake Euro notes from a guy like Ivan. Had it been anyone else scamming me, I might have been able to be a bigger person. But by Ivan in his little American sneakers and red bandana using the poor lighting in Merry-Go-Round to his advantage – no f-ing way.

My next task: To try and pawn the note off on someone else…

To Be Continued…