"If I get caught, my parents are gonna kill me." I had never done anything illegal before. Actually, that's a lie. Technically, speeding is illegal. So is drinking before you turn twenty-one. Alright, so is smoking pot, but not for long.
"It's no big deal. I did it last year in Detroit, and I never got caught."
"Oh, of course. That means here in Miami, I'll never get caught." Great logic. I looked at my roommate and saw the face of John Bender in Breakfast Club. "Being bad, feels pretty good, huh?" But I was not Molly Ringwald, and nothing about this felt good. As a teenager I did a pretty good job staying out of trouble, avoiding peer pressure. Why now? Why less than a year before my twenty-first birthday had I decided this was it?
Allison turned the engine off, I took a deep breath, and we got out of the car prepared to spend a couple of hours at the DMV. With a crackdown on fake ID's around the college bars, this was the only way to guarantee full access. Gone was the old school art of peeling back the melted plastic layers of drivers licenses and altering the date of birth to make the holder legal. No longer was it good enough to find someone legal who kinda looked like you, and beg them to lose their license so you could find it. It was go big or go home.
***
By the second week of sophomore year, Allison was bragging to everyone around campus how she got her unchallengeable fake, but not-so-fake ID. She took the papers of a relative, went down to the DMV and convinced them she lost her license. She got her picture taken, they gave her a new license, and she walked out the door. No biggie. "It was easy," she insisted. Back before digital photos and ID cards, there was no permanent record of what people looked like at the DMV. As long as you had the right documents there was no disputing you were who you said you were. At least that's what my roommate told me.
There was only one person I could ask to let me do this, and if I got caught there would be a world of hurt brought down on both of us. If I was going to take a risk this big, it had to be someone who was as close to me and I could get, someone whose persona I could wear believably. I called my sister, Jamie, and asked her to help me commit fraud. That's not actually what I asked. It was more like pleading a case. I repeated all the things my roommate said to me. "It's foolproof!"
"What are you stupid? You don't even really drink." She was right. I hated beer, and I needed control. Staying sober while out with my friends helped me stay away from the bloated feeling of barley and hops, and insured we all had a safe ride home. "So what the hell do you need a fake ID for? You'll be twenty-one in less than a year." She thought I was nuts. Heck, I thought I was nuts. But I pressed on.
"I don't even need it to drink, I just want to be able to get in. All the best bars are 21 and over." I said it so matter-of-factly as though it was actually a good argument. I really never did drink much. I would stand around talking to my friends, smoke a half a pack of Marlboro Lights, and watch everyone get drunk. But dammit, I needed the ID to do it. It was simple. All she had to do was give me her Social Security Card and birth certificate, and then run down a list of anything and everything that might appear on her driving record. "And you have to swear you'll never tell mom and dad. Even if you're pissed at me for something." Somehow she agreed, maybe because she doubted I could pull it off and wanted to see what would happen. Who knows. But she gave in, with one caveat:
"If you get caught, I'm playing dumb and you have to tell mom and dad you stole my stuff."
"Deal."
I spent about a week memorizing her social security number, and learning all the things on her driving record. Her tickets, Dad doesn't call her leadfoot for nothing. The fact that she held a license in three different states, that she's had this car and that registered in her name. I was ready.
***
If I could suppress the rising vomit in my throat and the guilty look in my eye, I would be 21 in a couple of hours. I took a last studious glance at my sister's Social Security card and gripped the documents in one hand. Allison opened the door and a chilling gust of air blew over my face. The Florida air conditioning would guarantee I stayed chilled and on edge. I took a number and we sat down. I continued to repeat the social security number in my head and tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I'm not sure I had ever been more nervous in my life, except maybe the night I lost my virginity. But at least that wasn't illegal. I thought about leaving, but I was too scared to move. My number was finally called, and I stepped up to the counter trying to act nonchalant.
"Hi. Um. I need a new license."
"What happened to your license?"
"I lost it."
"Do you have any photo ID?"
"No, all I had was my license." I swallowed. The lump in my throat continued to rise. I tried not to look nervous. "But I have this." I showed her the birth certificate and Social Security card. She had really long, dark, brick red nails. She placed her hand over my papers and slid them over to her side of the counter. She clicked around, flipped through the papers, and never made eye contact. For this I was grateful.
"Have you ever had a vehicle registered in your name?" I was relieved because I knew the answer.
"Yes. A Nissan Sentra hatchback." I let out some of the breath I had been holding.
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Was it ever in an accident?" Shit! I didn't study that, but I remembered.
"Yes." This was the reason my sister was a good choice for identity sharing. Many of her memories were also my own. The inquisition continued.
"Have you ever been licensed to drive in another state?"
"Yes, in New York and New Jersey." The questions continued and I banged them out one by one. My confidence rose and I was pretty sure I had gotten through the toughest part of this ordeal. She gave me my papers back, and pointed with her long red nail across the room.
"Take a seat over there and wait to be called for your photo." I waved over my friend and we sat waiting to be called for my photo. I was almost finished. It's funny how guilty you feel when you know you're doing something wrong. I was relieved because at this point I had passed for my sister. I had recalled the important facts of her identity and her driving record.
As soon as I saw them, I thought I was caught. They would have no way of knowing what I was up to, but they walked in and I froze. Three uniformed police officers came in talking and laughing. They stepped up to the same counter I was waiting to be called to. Here they are, I thought. I didn't fool the lady with the long nails, like I thought I had. She called them and they're here for me. I could feel the fear and the flush in my cheeks. I looked at Allison and we looked like two stoned teenagers running into cops at midnight in Dunkin Donuts. Like two deer in the headlights. My number was called and we stepped into line right behind them. The lump in my throat was back, and I thought I was going to puke.
"Go ahead." One of the officers waved me in front of them. I didn't dare say no. I nodded and proceeded to the counter in front of them, wondering why they had waved me on. It turns out they were there getting their photos retaken for new police ID badges. I took another deep breath, and I handed another woman my papers. She pointed me toward one of those background screens. I stood as calmly as I could and fixed my eyes on the spot where she directed me to look. Click. Flash. Done. I walked in Sharon Daniels, 20 and walked out Jamie Daniels, 23, Stone Cold Outlaw.
I never read this until now.
ReplyDeleteFiction based in fact, eh? ;)