BLITHERING, BUMBLING, AND RAMBLING #21

DUDLEY DO-RIGHTS

1961- Tony Curtis made a movie called The Great Imposter.  It was a mildly humorous film about a guy who from a very young age learns how to impersonate people so effectively that he manages to travel globally, assuming fake identities and job titles, which he convinces a lot of people to believe.

1997-Rocklin-I stopped a guy for jaywalking.  He told me a story about being in the military and staying at the local hotel awaiting assignment overseas, which was imminent.  So I asked for his ID.  He had none.  So I asked for his name ,DOB, and personal info and did a records check on him.  None listed anywhere.  He spoke sincerely about his job, where he used to live , and how he needed to get back to the hotel and a phone because he was expecting a call from the Air Force telling him when and where to report to ship out.  Hmmmmm.  

I took him  down to the Police Dept.  I called  military authorities. They never heard of the guy, he wasn’t listed as even being in the military.  So, he was booked into the jail on an ID hold.

Now, the way an ID hold works, the prisoner is not supposed to be let out, until proof of identity is obtained.  But, the jail was under court order to relieve overcrowding, so one of the first released, before his ID had been obtained, and before his prints had come back with results, was this guy.  GAAAAAHHH!!!  Right?

After he was released, he disappeared.  It turned out he was wanted in about five other states on all kinds of theft, fraud, and impersonation charges,  under different names, and different addresses.  He was wanted in a few places in Canada too.  What I still didn’t know yet- WHO WAS THIS GUY?  He had been booked under more than 20 aliases.  Nobody knew what his real name was.  This had been going on for almost 5 years, before I ran into the guy.  The movie about the Great Imposter came to mind.  I was beginning to wonder if this guy had seen it.

So I called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  Uh huh, really.  It was, as they say in Texas, a real hoot.  The first guy I talked to was in Ottawa, in the records section.  He told me he would trace the guy’s criminal history back to the first arrest and find if there ever was a definitive confirmation of his real name.  Wow.   He did that Mountie thing, where he said “Don’t worry, we ALWAYS get our man”.  Tee hee hee - couldn’t help but chuckle.  The Canadians, it turned out, were some of the friendliest, and most helpful folks in the business.  

As the months went by, we found over 40 aliases for our guy, and still counting.  We also tracked him across the U.S. as he managed to elude us through 7 more states, racking up a LOT of brushes with the law. I talked to a Mountie in the Fugitive branch, who spoke with a French accent, and he assured me, we’ll get him, we ALWAYS do.(this time when I  heard it, with the French accent, I chuckled again). I  also was contacted by a Mountie in the Nova Scotia Questionable Documents section (long title, I know).  He found out, researching back to the very first arrest and booking photo, who the guy really was, even confirmed it with birth certificate, school records, and the family member corroborating.  Wow x 2.

And his real name, the Canadians found out, was Basil.  “Like, the herb?” I was asked at the next briefing by curious co-workers.  Yes, I replied, the Great Imposter, is Basil, and he’s Canadian.  And after nearly 9 months of waiting, I got a call from Illinois.  Basil was in custody in the infamous Cook County jail, in Chicago.  And by the time I went to court on the case, his total number of aliases had reached 48.  And still counting.

Basil did  time in California  and some in Washington after he was shipped up there. And after that?  Well, as luck would have it, Washington borders Canada, and a couple of very patient Mounties were waiting at the border to welcome him back.  They ALWAYS do.  

🇨🇦🍁.  Oh, Canada, you define the image of go-getters.

ONE SHINY CAR

I met my wife when I moved in the apartment right next door to her in Roseville.  Our designated parking spaces were side by side.  Although I had spoken to her in passing a few times, it was a while before we dated.  I got the idea to ask her out by making sure I was outside at her usual arrival time home from work.  She was pretty predictable on time, and I figured if I struck up a conversation when she got out of her car, I’d steer it toward a possible date. Simple.

So, I went out and and started washing my car 15 minutes before her usual arrival time.  My parking space was exactly in the middle between her space and her front door.  I took my time, knowing it could be a little while if she was running late.  After half an hour I began to wonder.  I dragged it out and washed the interior windows, wiped off the dashboard, cleaned the floor the floor mats, killing another half hour.  Still, nothing.

I started moving stuff back by my front door, staying outside where I could see her pull in the lot and stood next to my car for several minutes, trying to look busy.  Time passed.  I decided to hang in there, and wax the car.  I moved slow, purposely, taking my sweet time and waxing and buffing every inch.  Time dragged on.  I thought of several possibilities- stuck in traffic, stopped for groceries, held over at work, car broke down, etc.  Yeah, after two and a half hours past expected arrival time, I had waxed and buffed to an absolute sparkle, and I was tired.  I threw in the towel and went inside to make something to eat.  Turned out, she had gone to a softball game after work, then out to eat with some friends.  Crap.

Later that week, I tried the direct approach and went up and knocked on her door.  Not the smooth talker I wish I was, I got straight to the point and asked her out, gesturing awkwardly, stammering a little bit, trying to smile.  She accepted. Whew! Awkward as it was, the direct approach was 2 hours and 29 minutes less effort .  

On our first date we went to the Coral Reef restaurant, which we went back to every year on our wedding anniversary, until it finally closed . And when we headed off towards the restaurant that first time, the conversation flowed nicely .  She was easy to talk to, and made a nice comment about how nice my car looked.  There was a gleam in my eye, and a slight grin on my face as I said thank you.  I waited a few weeks before I told her the story behind it.  Definitely, worth the effort.  I had that car for another 5 years, and when I sold it, the guy who bought it made a comment about it’s smooth shiny look.  I got that gleam in my eye again, and a slight grin on my face.  He’s probably still wondering about that.

MUPPET II

When my daughter Kari was born, she acquired several stuffed toys. Her favorite, for the first few years, was Ernie the muppet.  She took him with her in the car, she tucked him in next to her at bedtime, he sat next to her in her high chair.  And, of course, she watched Bert and Ernie on TV.  They were close.  In less than a year, she got another one, this one a hand puppet, a gift at a birthday party, from a friend unaware of the duplication.  No problem.  Kari named him “other Ernie” and when she and the two Ernie’s had a conversation, that was how she referred to them, Ernie, and other Ernie.

When she was small and learning how to talk, I was the ventriloquist-in-training keeping up the muppet end of the conversation.  The two Ernies taught her new words, told her to watch Sesame Street, and of course, to be nice to her parents.  Every night she said good night to both, and told “other Ernie” to tell Ernie good night too.  There were even a few times when she asked one Ernie if the other one had told him what she told him to say .  Yeah, you kind of had to keep up, if you were two of the three voices in the conversation.

And when my second daughter, Erin was born, well, of course Kari introduced them both to her.  Because Ernie told her they wanted to meet her.  And, as usual, other Ernie agreed.  Kari explained to Erin that they were a lot less talkative when Dad wasn’t around.  Both Ernies nodded in agreement.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU WEAR

Growing up on the farm, you could not survive without a hat.  A day in the fields, or on the tractor, made you realize this.  Some  went without in the cooler winter months, but every farmer knows your tan line is defined by your outfit.  It’s not so much about style, but practicality.  But, of course, there is always someone who wants to try a different approach.

On the farm there were baseball hats, Stetsons, straw hats, sombreros, ranger hats, pith helmets, gardener hats, sun hats, fishing hats, and the list goes on.  Some protected your whole head, but most just protected your forehead and eyes.   Sun burned ears, cheeks, and noses were common, along with backs of necks that looked like leather.  Every feed store, farm co-op, tractor outlet, and hardware store in the county used to hand out baseball hats with their logos on them.  It was rare to see a picture of a farm family where at least half of them weren’t wearing hats.  Still is.

So what was my headwear of choice?  Wait for it…………….a Gilligan hat.  I know, whaaaat?  I liked that it bent down around the ears, protected my nose and eyes, could be stuffed in my pocket, rolled into a ball, and survived years of dust, dirt, sweat, water, grime, crud, and thrown into the wash and be renewed.  After three years of abuse, mine finally disintegrated in 1974.  And, 40 years later, at my high school reunion, somebody reminded me about how they remembered it.  Probably because there was a picture of me in that hat at a football game in high school, that’s in my yearbook. Good times.

So a few years back, my wife and kids asked me what I wanted for Christmas.  I said a Gilligan hat.  Whaaaaat?  Noooooo, uh uh, they said.  Yeah, well I got one.  And 40 years from now, God willing,  we’ll be reminiscing about it again.  Brace yourself, I may start a club.  We’ll be easy to spot.  You’re picturing the group photo in your head now, aren’t you?