Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)
Episode 23
Enid gave Rich directions to a contact in Chicago who could provide a fake ID and birth certificate. Rich drove into the city, near Comiskey Park. The White Sox were playing a doubleheader. Neighborhood residents rented out their backyards for parking. Kids stood in the alleys with signs, waving cars in.
Rich pulled down an alley into a yard. As he stepped out of his truck, a man in a floral shirt approached him. The man had two gold teeth.
“That’ll be three dollars,” the man said, grinning.
Rich handed him a twenty. “Do you know someone who can get me an ID?”
“Right now?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Rich said.
The man pointed south. “Go to Thirty-Eighth and turn right. Walk four or five blocks to a place called Happy’s. Tell the bartender the guy with the gold teeth sent you, and tell him what you need. He’ll take it from there.”
Half an hour later, Rich walked into Happy’s. It was a dive. He spoke to the bartender, who pointed toward a door with stairs leading to the second floor.
An older woman sat in a living room chair watching television. She wore a heavy nightgown and smoked a cigarette.
“Have a seat beside the desk, fella,” she said in a raspy voice. “I’ll be right with ya.”
Rich sat down. She walked over and took a seat behind the desk.
“We do good work here,” she said.
“I wouldn't know,” Rich said. “I’m from out of town.”
“What state?” she asked.
“Indiana,” Rich said.
She leaned over, pulled a folder from a filing cabinet, and flipped it open. “Only two left. I'd better order more. Sure you don’t want a different state?”
“Can I transfer a vehicle title in Indiana with an out-of-state license?” Rich asked.
“Don’t let this gruff veneer fool you,” she said. “I know the state laws. You're in good hands.” She picked up the phone. “Excuse me a second.” She dialed. “Nick, it's Betsy. Send me fifty Indiana blanks. Tomorrow is fine.” She hung up. “Nick can print anything. A real artist. I’ll give you twenty-five percent off if you take Wyoming.”
“Wyoming works,” Rich said.
She pulled a Wyoming driver's license from the cabinet. “What name do you want?” she asked. “You don’t look like the usual scum in here, so I’ll give you some advice. Pick a name that sounds like something else. I assume you want people to forget it.”
“Exactly,” Rich said. “Can you give me an example?”
“Nobody picks Jewish names, not even the Jews,” she said. “Mexicans stick to Mexican names. Black guys pick names like Reginald. Women want pretty names—no one ever chooses Matilda or Gertrude. Here’s a good last name: Caves. A good first name would be Michael, or Mike. People forget a name like Mike Caves. It's common, and it rhymes with so many things people get it mixed up.”
“How about Roland for a middle name?” Rich asked.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she said. “That’s a solid choice. Mind if I use it for someone else down the road?”
“Would it do any good if I objected?” Rich asked.
“See?” she said. “I’ve already forgotten it.” She slid the license into her typewriter and began to type. “How tall?”
“Six-two.”
“Weight?”
“One eighty-five.”
“You aren't changing your hair color, are you?”
“No.”
She finished with a few quick pecks and pulled the card from the carriage. “There you go, Mr. Graves. Or was it Crane? See what I mean? It’s already working, Dave.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“A birth certificate,” Rich said.
“For a clean-cut guy, you must be in deep doo-doo,” she said. She opened another cabinet. “You don’t mind being born in West Virginia, do ya?”
“None of us has a choice where we're born,” Rich said.
“You sound like a college man,” she said, rolling a certificate into the typewriter. “You don't look like an embezzling accountant. Let’s get down to it. What was that middle name again?” She asked questions as she typed, finishing in five minutes.
“Here’s some advice,” she said. “Fold them up or tear them a little. Make a half-dozen copies—not of the original, but a copy of a copy. Use the worst legible copy to prove who you are. It looks older that way. Got it?”
“Yes,” Rich said.
“That’s fifty dollars,” she said.
Rich handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“You must really be in deep doo-doo,” she said.
“Maybe I just didn’t like my name,” Rich said.
She chuckled. “Not unless your name was John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” She handed him the documents. “If you have a real driver’s license, burn it immediately,” she said. “If you get picked up a block from here, you don’t want two IDs on you.”
Rich pulled out his wallet and removed his real license. He folded it and went to toss it into the wastebasket.
“No,” she said. “Don’t trust me. I might look at it.”
“Thanks,” Rich said. He stuffed the wadded license into his pants pocket and slid the new one into his wallet.
On the walk back to his truck, he stopped for a slice of pizza. He ate as he walked. When he returned, the man with the gold teeth was leaning against the truck's front fender.
“Get your business taken care of?” the man asked.
“I did,” Rich said. “Thanks.”
“Fourth inning of the first game,” the man said.
“Who are they playing?” Rich asked.
“The Angels,” the man said.
“If it were Detroit or Cleveland, I might be interested,” Rich said. “I’ll be on my way.”
Rich climbed into the truck and started the engine. He rolled down the window. “Go, go White Sox!”
“1959!” the man replied.
“Aparicio and Fox,” Rich said. “Best leadoff and contact hitters in the game.”
The man waved. Rich grinned and drove down the alley and onto the street.
