What in the Scam Hill?

I love a good euphemism. Before I launch into the matters at hand today, let’s dive into the legend of ‘ole Sam Hill and try and ascertain, as Cotton Eyed Joe would say, “Where did he come from? Where did he go?” Yes, I know the title reads Scam and not Sam. We’ll get there. It’s as clear as mud, right? In the center of downtown Prescott, AZ, there stands a building on Montezuma Street. These days, it’s a wedding venue, but back in the early to mid 1800s, it was a mercantile owned by….yep, Sam Hill. Oh, but the oddities Sam sold. The town folk were so enamored of Sam’s strange wares, he became an expression! See an animal you’ve never seen before? “What in the Sam Hill is that?” Get stuck waiting for your husband to pick you up from town in the horse and buggy? “Where in the Sam Hill have you been?” So, Sam Hill hails from the old west, then, as American as the OK Corral or a journey toward a gold rush. But, wait. Maybe the meaning is far more macabre. Essayist and journalist Henry Mencken swore the expression stemmed from the name Samiel, the character of the devil in a German opera, Der Freischutz, performed in NYC in 1825. The popularity of this opera had everyone and their momma proclaiming “What in the Samiel” on the streets of the big apple. See, back in 1825, one dared not use the term devil, for fear of an actual summoning. Samiel, probably once it hit Texas, land of adding all vowels to words whether they need them or not, turned into Sayom Heiiul. So, Sam was a demon. Here’s the real truth. Who knows? See, Sam Hill was also a legislator in colonial Connecticut from 1727 – 1752. Also, he was a famous Michigan surveyor AND a Pacific Northwest millionaire in the roaring twenties. What he wasn’t, however, so far as I can tell, was a guy with a fake office set up in his living room who called around and threatened folks for money. Let me tell you about my run in with a scam artist.

It was a sunny day in July. It’s not that I remember the day. It’s just that it didn’t rain for 3 months, so it had to be sunny. I was probably outside with the dogs. Maybe I was watering the flowers. Perhaps I was taming tiny feral cats. These are the things I do most days. Anyway, upon reentry to my house, I checked my phone and saw a missed call and a voicemail. The voicemail said, condensed version, “We are looking for Dina Moon (spoke my address, age, birthday, and the last 4 #s of my social security number) in order to serve critical legal documents for a criminal case. Ms. Moon, if you will not be home today during these hours, you must return this call as this is not our first attempt to serve you on this matter. Your cooperation is critical to the negative or positive outcome of these proceedings.” GULP. What did I do? I called Mr. Moon at work and gave him the scoop. He decided to both call the man back and call his own brother, the actual attorney. What ensued was an afternoon-long deep dive into Scamsylvania. The “gentleman” told my husband he could not legally confirm any details about the criminal charges. The attorney brother confirmed with me that I had not been in any automobile accidents, nor had anyone been injured in any manner in my presence or at my home. My credit report looked way better than I expected, as catastrophic medical expense fallout from things like a child’s death or cancer tend to follow your forever. Finally, attorney brother said I should call the other “attorney” (that is how he represented himself to my husband) and ask some specific questions. So, armed with a list of questions and a secret 3-way call with my husband listening in, I entered into the attacker’s lair. He answered, but not with any firm name. He just said, “Hello.” I picked up on a short, clipped cadence, elongated O sounds, and dropped Rs – definitely a northeast accent. I talked slowly and very politely, explaining that I was returning a call and wished to understand the purpose of the matter. I was placed on hold to be transferred to “that department.” There was hold music, but it was Nickelback ‘s Photograph and the sound quality was odd. (Aside: what in the Sam Hill was on Joey’s head? I’m, literally, so funny sometimes.) Moments later, another employee picked up the line, except (cue Law & Order dum dum noise) IT WAS THE SAME MAN! I recognized his accent immediately. I was instantly berated. He couldn’t talk to me because I had already, through my husband, imposed my attorney/client privilege. I had promised myself no sarcasm, but I cracked. “I think you’re confusing whatever this is with an SVU marathon.” He said, “Oh yeah, well I think you and your husband are liars. You don’t have an attorney at all.” That’s when texts from my husband started popping up on my phone.

Ask him for his website. Ask him for his street address. Ask him for the name of the server that is supposedly heading to our house right now. Like a modern-day Nancy Drew, I dug into this guy with vitriol. Again, I was placed on hold. I told my husband, over the same Nickelback song, “He will hang up now.” He did. He also hung up on the brother attorney later in the day. Still, his anger and his use of the word criminal had me watching the walkway to my front door like a hawk for the rest of the afternoon. Had he caught me unaware, he surely planned on offering me a sizeable monetary deal to make it all go away. The moral of the story is twofold. Scammers will twist their words tighter than the mysterious origin of a euphemism. Also, process servers typically don’t phone ahead to tell your they’re coming.