Stolen Identity

“May I see some identification?” asked the salesman, suspicious because she was writing a personal check, something he’d never seen before. No one writes a check – not for a Lexus. She handed him her driver’s license. He looked down at it, and then up at the aging woman seated across the table, and then down again, puzzlement scrawled across his face. “No disrespect,” he said, “but this doesn’t look like you. It doesn’t look like anyone born in 1945.”

 “But I identify as that woman in the picture,” she said smugly.

He looked down at the license and then up at her again, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “The person in this picture is a teenager.”

“Well, I feel like I did when I was in high school,” she said. “My knees hurt a little, but I certainly don’t think I’m that old. 1945? I’m sure that many years haven’t gone by.

“It says you weigh 110 pounds.”

She sat up a little straighter in the narrow chair and lifted her double chin. “I’ve always seen myself as a thin person, tall and willowy, and I’ve never much appreciated being contradicted about it.”

He ran his hand through his graying hair, shook his head, and smiled. “OK, OK,” he said, “but I need to verify this check. You can understand that.”

“Oh, there’s no problem about money,” she replied. “ I identify as rich. I’ve never had any aptitude at all for being poor; I tried it for a while, but it didn’t take.”

He leaned back in his black leather chair and tented his fingers, looking at her intently over his manicure. He took a deep breath. “Look lady, I’m a busy man and I don’t like people wasting my time.”

“Well, for goodness sake, let’s get this done then.” She went back to writing out the check; it was a lot of work writing out $65, 970.

He watched her for a moment. “That check will have to clear before I can give you the keys. You understand that.”

She stopped writing. “How will I get home? And how can I give you a check for such a huge amount and not get anything in return? You could just run off with all my money.”