Eliza or Till Death Do Us Part, page 15
– Yes, I have.
– I’m sorry, can you follow me, and we’ll straighten things out with the bartender.
He then firmly seized my arm and led me to the bar again. The guy there calmly told me I had paid for my beers and my salad, but not for my three gin and tonics, for which I owed ten bucks fifty. Instead of answering, I suddenly lifted a stool and, before anybody could do anything, hurled it toward the huge mirror behind the bar, breaking it into hundreds of pieces and, in the process, knocking down a bunch of bottles and glasses. Immediately, the big guy and a waiter jumped on me and threw me to the floor where they restrained me while the bartender called the police.
I was glad to see the police arrive because the big guy was badly twisting my arm to keep me from moving and because two dozen people, some lured from outside by the excitement, were gathered around me, staring at me as if I had just assassinated the president of the United States. One cop took me inside a car with flashing lights and asked me what had happened. I pretended to be too drunk to be able to answer. He then handcuffed me and waited for his partner who was hearing the bar people’s version of the incident. After ten minutes or so, we all headed toward the police station.
There, different cops tried again to interrogate me, but soon gave up, thinking I was too drunk to answer. After a while, they took my wallet and searched my pockets where, to my dismay, they found the extra ten thousand dollars intended for David. I had completely forgotten about that money and became very worried but, obviously, couldn’t say anything. I wondered how I was going to justify having ten grand in cash in my pockets. I was also afraid the cops might not mention the money again and keep it for themselves. At any rate, they suddenly became more interested in me and realized my case might be more than a story of disturbance caused by excessive drinking. However, the fact that they had found the money turned out to be a blessing in disguise because only then did they decide to take my picture and fingerprint me. For all I know, they might not have fingerprinted otherwise. Then they led me to a cell where two black guys were sleeping. I sat down on the free bunk, getting ready to spend a sleepless night and worrying about the money. After that, I don’t remember what happened. I imagine that, despite everything, I soon fell asleep, probably because of the booze.
I woke up with a splitting headache when a policeman opened the cell door. I thought he was going to ask me to follow him, but he had come for the two black guys. As they were leaving the cell, I don’t know why but I remembered the Woody Allen movie and told them: “keep in touch,” but nobody paid attention. A little later, the same cop entered the cell and asked me to come along. He took me to a small bright room where some kind of inspector was waiting for me.
– Feel better this morning?
– What happened?
– You don’t remember?
– No.
–You created quite havoc in a bar last night.
He then told me what had taken place. I pretended not to remember anything and asked him what was going to happen now.
– Let me first ask you a few questions.
He asked me for my name, birthdate and so on even though he had my wallet with him. Of course, I had carefully memorized all the information about David and recited it to him. When he asked me for my address, I told him I had moved and gave him my real address at the apartment. I also told him I was presently unemployed. I was relieved to see he didn’t seem to doubt the fact that I was the guy whose picture was on the driver’s license. Then he let in a cop and two other guys: one was the bartender and the other one, I was told, was the owner of the bar. The bartender identified me and gave his version of what had happened, which was basically the truth, except that he made me meaner and more threatening than I had been, but of course I couldn’t say anything. When he was finished, the owner turned to me and said:
– I won’t press charges if you agree to pay for the damages you caused. It should be around three thousand dollars. I understand you have the cash with you.
– Sure, I’ll pay for it. I really apologize for what I did. It’s the first time I’ve done something like that. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what got into me. When I get my money back, I’ll give you three thousand dollars.
But the main cop said: “Not so fast” and asked the two guys from the bar to wait outside the door. He then turned to me and inquired about the origin of the money. I didn’t know what to say.
– It’s my money.
– You’re unemployed and you have ten thousand dollars with you?
– Until last year I worked in a bank on Wall Street. You can check if you want.
I had hardly said that when I realized I had forgotten to ask David for the name of the bank he had been working for. Fortunately, the cop ignored my offer.
– Why did you have so much money with you in cash?
– Because I live in a bad neighborhood and don’t want to leave it there.
–Why don’t you have it in a bank?
– Because I don’t trust banks.
– I see, you used to work in one, but you don’t trust them.
– Right.
– What do you take me for?
– You think I stole that money?
– Maybe. Or it could be drug money.
– That’s ridiculous. I don’t do drugs. You can test me.
– You don’t have to be an addict to sell drugs.
– I swear I’ve never sold drugs in my life.
He then told me to wait a minute, took his phone and asked somebody to come in. By that time, I had become really scared. Even though they had only the money and no other evidence against me, I was afraid they could charge me with something terrible and send me to jail for a long time. I could see in a flash that my explanations were pathetic and that I was on the verge of losing everything I had been working so hard for and maybe of never seeing Eliza again. Then a cop I had never met before came in and told the inspector he had indeed seen me in various drug-infested neighborhoods that he named. I didn’t know whether he was lying, whether he had seen the real David Smith there or whether he had seen me when I was looking for homeless people, but I became terrified and started to shake uncontrollably.
All morning long, the inspector and other cops interrogated me, asking me the craziest questions, in the presence of a bogus lawyer. They first assured me they would let me go if I told them the truth, then they threatened me by promising me twenty-five years if I didn’t confess, occasionally screaming and hinting not so subtly that they could become violent, but I stuck to my version even though I was scared to death. However, at the same time, it became increasingly clear to me, to my huge relief, that they had no record on the real David Smith and that they couldn’t do anything to me, that they would have to give me my money back and release me. That is exactly what they did later that day, after they recalled the bar owner to whom I had to give three grand.
After recovering from my fear, I spent the next few days in a state of pure elation. I had become David Smith for good and nobody could ever prove I was lying. Even the law was now on my side. Whatever happened in the future, I could never go back to my old identity. I was stuck with David’s and that was it, for better or for worse. I still felt a little uneasy about being somebody else, but I was now used to the idea and was starting to get comfortable with it. After all, even if Eliza had not been involved, I had no reason to miss being Gary Jenkins. In fact, I became so excited that for a week or so I ate like a pig, as I used to do in the old days when I felt good about something. Fortunately, I was now exercising and running every day and didn’t gain one pound.
During that time, using David’s name, I took the Graduate Management Admission Test to be able to apply to business schools. I did reasonably well mainly because, since I had been back in New York, I had taken a special course to prepare for it. I also renewed David’s driver’s license. Everything went without a hitch. They took my picture, copied the information from the old license and didn’t even have to modify the height and the weight as they were approximately right (actually, the height, six feet, was now accurate, which was not the case on my real license that wrongly indicated I was five feet ten). They just changed the address after I told them I had recently moved. Indeed, a couple of days earlier, I had settled in a new apartment in my new name, located in the same block as the previous one and just as squalid.
Only one thing still bothered me, the possibility that David had lied when he had told me he held a college degree, although I couldn’t imagine any reason why he would have. I took care of the matter a few days after the incident in the bar. I called the registrar’s office at Rutgers University and asked that a copy of my transcript be mailed to me. They informed me that I had to request it by letter and send two dollars along, which I did. A few days later, I received the document. David had not lied: he did have a college degree, but his grade point average was not very high. It was bad news because I had thought about applying to the MBA programs of Stanford and Berkeley, which was now out of the question. I would have to content myself with lesser-known universities in the San Francisco area, but I found it preferable in a way since I could no longer really afford Stanford or Berkeley. A few weeks before, I had sent for and received the application material from six or seven colleges and universities and now had to fill out the forms. I had a resume professionally made that included both factual and totally invented information. Among other things, it said I had held various jobs, first in a bank and then in the import-export business, since 1979, the year I, or rather David, graduated from Rutgers. I went to two import-export companies in Manhattan, used my looks and a convoluted story to obtain letterhead paper from secretaries working there and wrote on it glowing letters of recommendation for myself, using the names of real people working there. I then called the career center of Rutgers University and learned that they still had a file in David’s name, which included letters of recommendation written years before by his professors. When I asked for those letters, they told me they couldn’t give them to me because they were confidential but added that they would be glad to mail them to whatever place I wished. After I mentioned the new letters and the new resume, they invited me to send them to their office; they would put a new file together and mail it to the schools of my choice. That’s exactly what I did.
I stayed several more weeks in New York during which I decided to grow a mustache to look even more like a cross between Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck. I spent that time exercising, running, having touch-up work done to my hair, taking more dancing lessons, drinking, making up diary entries, practicing writing right-handedly and, mainly, waiting to hear from the schools I had applied to. The first answer was a letter of acceptance. It came from San Francisco State University, Eliza’s alma mater. I decided not to wait for any more answers. I wrote back saying I would enter their M.B.A. program in the fall. All I had to do now before moving to San Francisco was spend a few days in St. Louis to take care of various business. It was now only a matter of days before I saw Eliza again, and I couldn’t wait.
9
I spent only three days in St. Louis, arriving on March 22nd and leaving for San Francisco on the 25th, but they were three very busy days. I first paraded in front of various neighbors and store clerks to check whether anybody would recognize me, but of course nobody did. However, I had to make sure that no one would see me enter what was for them Gary’s condominium because I didn’t want anybody to associate us one way or another. So, if I had to go out, I would leave the place early in the morning or else check to see whether anybody was around. Likewise, I would go back home only late at night or only after assuring myself I wouldn’t be seen. During those three days, I was caught about to enter the condo only once, but it was bad news because the person who saw me was my next-door neighbor, Nancy Simon.
Since I don’t believe I have mentioned Nancy Simon yet, I should say a few words about her. When I moved to the condo in the fall of 1981, Nancy already lived there. She was then a rather plain-looking single woman in her mid or late twenties, an accountant by profession, who was, I sensed it immediately, desperately looking for a man. On learning that a single man was going to move next to her, she must have become very excited because, when she saw me, her jaw dropping with disappointment, she never finished her welcoming phrase that had started with the words “Welcome to St. Louis, if you ever need anything...,” turned her back to me and went straight back to her place. Obviously, she had expected somebody at the very least decent-looking and couldn’t believe what Fate had brought her. As she never forgave me for not being more handsome and as I never cared much for her, that was the extent of our relationship until Eliza moved in. Then, probably to protect her from the monster she had married, Nancy tried to take her under her wing and befriend her, but Eliza never liked her and never did much with her. Once, however, after a bad fight with me, she went to her place to spend the night. Nancy pumped her about our relationship and ended up saying: “I can’t understand how a nice and pretty girl like you married such a mean ugly fat pig.” Eliza agreed with her at the time and even repeated her remark to me, which didn’t improve what little relationship Nancy and I had at the time. After Eliza left, we essentially ignored each other.
The second day of my brief St. Louis visit, as I was coming back from some errand and was about to open my front door, after carefully looking left and right to make sure nobody was in the vicinity, I suddenly heard, coming from behind me, Nancy’s voice:
– Hi! May I help you? Are you looking for somebody?
I turned toward her and could now see her jaw dropping with disbelief this time as she realized that finally Fate had brought an incredibly handsome man who, what’s more, seemed to need help. I was extremely upset at having been caught, and especially by her, who was still probably single and looking for a man, but I retained my composure:
– No, thank you, I’m here for Gary Jenkins. He’s a friend of mine.
She evidently had a hard time believing Gary could have such a gorgeous friend because, for a while, she couldn’t say anything. I then felt compelled to say something:
– Hi, my name’s David Smith.
It helped her find something to say:
– Oh hi, mine’s Nancy Simon. It’s extremely nice meeting you. You know I haven’t seen Gary in a long while and I don’t even know if he’s around. You may have to wait a long time, you know. Why don’t you come to my place in the meantime. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee and we’ll talk. What do you say?
The bitch! However, I stayed calm and said:
– Thank you very much, but I know that Gary is around because we just spent three days together. And I don’t have to wait for him since he gave me his keys. Thanks anyway.
– But I’m sure a cup of coffee would do you good.
– I’m sure too but I’m busy. Sorry. See you around.
I opened the door, but she was clinging to me:
– Where’re you from?
– Philadelphia, but I now live in New York City. Bye now.
– Is it your first time in St. Louis?
– Yes.
– Do you want me to show you around?
– I’d love to, but I’m visiting Gary for business reasons, and I don’t have time to fool around. Thanks anyway.
– When are you leaving?
– Tomorrow. Bye now.
As she was now practically in my hallway, I had to push her outside as nicely as I could to get rid of her and closed the door in her face, I’m afraid. After that, I could hear her still talking to me through the door, but I went inside, rather disturbed by the incident, especially by the fact that I had been stupid enough to give her my new name. I was also afraid that she might try to spy on me that evening and the following day and that she might discover something about my scheme.
But I had other things to worry about, Aunt Margie for instance. Each time I had come to St. Louis in the past twenty months, I had found a message from her on my answering machine, nicely asking me to call her back. I had always ignored her messages, hoping she would get tired of phoning in vain and being reasonably sure she wouldn’t visit unexpectedly after the June 1987 incident at her house. However, when I realized this time that she had called again, for the umpteenth time, I decided to do something about it. I didn’t want to worry about her in the coming months in California. I thought for a while about calling her to insult her and to ask her to leave me alone, but I didn’t really feel like arguing with her, especially since I would have to counterfeit my new voice, and thus chose the cowardly way: a letter. I wrote to her, with my left hand, that I was sick of her messages and that I couldn’t believe she had not understood, after all those months, that I didn’t want to have anything to do with her anymore. I also accused her of being interested in me only for my money, adding she had been after it since day one and so on. I concluded by informing her that I didn’t want to hear from her anymore and that I firmly intended to hang up on her, ignore her messages, throw her letters into the trash without opening them and, if she ever came down, never open my door to her. I felt extremely bad writing such things to her, but I had no choice. It was the only way to keep her out of my life.
I also had all kinds of decisions to make about the condominium. Because I had spent more money than I had thought for my transformation, I started having second thoughts about keeping it but obviously couldn’t sell it in three days, especially since the market was then very bad for condos in the St. Louis Central West End. In addition, it was out of the question to make Gary’s move coincide with David’s arrival in San Francisco. I thus decided to keep the place for the foreseeable future, knowing that, if I had serious financial problems in California, I could always go back to St. Louis to try to sell it. Besides, having a refuge could come in handy since I had no idea how I would fare in the future. Eventually, however, should everything go fine for me on the West Coast, I would try to sell the condo and officially move out, without, of course, leaving any address behind. Meanwhile, since I no longer intended to visit St. Louis as regularly as I had done in the recent past, I had to do something about my monthly bills, the condo fee, the gas, the electricity, the telephone and so on. I obviously couldn’t have them forwarded to California or ask a neighbor to take care of them. After spending a sleepless night worrying about that apparently minor problem that could potentially ruin all my plans, I called my bank, anonymously of course, and asked the lady who answered for guidance. She immediately informed me that I could solve my problem easily by having my bills paid electronically; it meant they would go directly to the bank which would then withdraw the money automatically from my account. All I had to do was write to my condo association and all the utilities, tell them I wanted my bills to be paid electronically, and give them the name of my bank and my account number.
