Something about a con-artist. This needs editing I think.
In a town far away from home, you can be anyone you want to be, anyone you please.
I stretch my legs as we queue for immigration. The flight into JFK took six hour, from when it took off. Five hours of bad films and plastic food, another hour of ascent and descent. I am yet to meet anyone that actually likes flying. The usual question-answer dull conversation occurs at immigration, asking mundane questions in the hope I slip up and start to exhibit guilt. All the same, I feel the guiltiest man alive. Stamp stamp and I am in. “Have a good day, sir” in that overly polite, crystal clear American tone.
There is the usual hustle in Arrivals funnelling people through into the outside world. People book cabs, renting cars or shuttles, the lot. On a far end there stands a line of men holding signs with names on in large, clear letters. I choose one at random.
Today, ladies and gentleman, I am Donald Sawyer. Sorry, Mister Donald Sawyer. I throw away my passport, my only tie to my earlier life.
So it turns out I own a nice attic flat on the East Side. How convenient. Better than all of those fake grand hotels with bellhops and porters constantly demanding tips. The driver was kind enough to remind me where my spare keys were kept. Kind man. I top him fifty bucks and tip the doorman of my building the same.
To a lot of people, money never lies.
I pour myself a scotch on the rocks and start to find out whom I am. Even though this apartment is not mine, I cannot help but feel at home. Seems I am a well of advertising director for a pretty reputable firm. Not quite as low key as I had hoped. Pays the bills, and them some. No debt. No enemies. My journal says clients buy me lunch and dinner regularly, that I rarely go into work and I seem to spend most of my time convincing clients that my agency is the one for them. I do not have a wife or fiancé, which means slightly less baggage, though I am seeing a beautiful girl who may or may not be a model. Either way, the pictures on my desktop suggest she has not much dignity.
The phone rings an hour or two after I arrive. “Mr Sawyer, there is a man here claiming to be you. Of course, this is ridiculous. Do you want me to inform the police?” the receptionist speaks down the phone, her phone smooth as sweetener. The police are called. I watch from my window on the fifth floor as he is dragged away. Should buy some more time. I find myself fascinated by the window, caught between staring through the glass to the cold city outside, and trying to catch the half reflection of myself. I do not even know what to look for anymore. Even I cannot see myself clearly.
She drops by, the model, and we fuck. Through out she tells me she loves me, and after she asks me for four hundred dollars for a taxi home. I get the score, hand her the bills and send her on her way. Some taxi fare. I am no fool. I leave the flat in the morning into the monster that is a rainy New York City, into a crowd of black umbrellas, and disappear into the day. Perhaps never to return. At least for a time I am away from all the drama on the far side of the Pond, blood on my hands and a noose of lies around my neck.
I was always told I could be anything I wanted to be.