The Contortionist’s Handbook. Craig Clevenger
histories for some of Jimmy’s people. One ounce into a bourbon, the carnival slot machine noise had dimmed and I was scanning—eyes left, down, right, and back—out of habit, the casino floor and the lobby entrance in my line of sight. Five sorority girls bounced from a primer-smeared Jeep and waved down a bellhop. They checked in, passing me on their way to the elevators, one of them said pool. I found them twenty-eight minutes later, all in a bronze, buttery row, sunning on ribbed lounge chairs.
I spent the afternoon keeping my eyes on them, playing two hundred dollars among the low-stakes tables with a poolside view. I’d run a halves count on a six-deck Twenty One shoe, watching the ebb and flow of the cards and betting small to stay off the casino’s scope. Winning is bad for anonymity. Being photographed and thrown out is even worse.
The girls ordered cheap drinks and tipped cheaper, keeping their arm’s length giggle from the orbiting packs of men—fraternity hounds, lounge lizards and tanned and leathery minor royalty dripping strange accents, coconut oil and gold jewelry—simultaneously playing them and blowing them off. I tracked them to the bar that evening, sent them a round.
“I’m headed back to New York for a business function.” I’m doing, Nervous but Sincere. “And my ex is going to be there. If I can ask a strange favor of you, I’ve got a hundred bucks and cab fare to wherever you want. I won’t bother you after that.” I fanned five twenties onto the bar.
Inside a Las Vegas Boulevard souvenir shop, Cindi-with-an-i sat on my lap in a photo booth. I pinched her, told her to smile at the camera. Four bucks later, the booth spat out two strips of black-and-white stills of Cindi and me laughing and snuggling. The rest wanted pictures with each other.
“You each take shots with me, first.”
Cindi had black hair and soft, rounded bones in her face. Skinny, small breasts and a deep tan. But Cindi was still in Raymond O’Donnell’s Nevada safe deposit box when the ambulance took me to Queen of Angels. Jen was in my wallet. Jen was also skinny, but with a sharper face, spiky blonde hair, grey eyes, and a neon smile. The back of her picture said Danny, we’ll always have Mardi Gras.–Karen. Thrift store texbooks are rife with handwriting samples. I picked one that suited the photo—bloated letters with bold flourishes on the capitals—and mimicked it with a pink ballpoint. When they left, I had twenty-four new romantic memories, and they never saw my hand.
Too many changers are too clean to withstand scrutiny. They carry brand-new wallets, empty but for a new driver’s license with a spotless record, and a new Social Security card. That’s when they start to blow it. Nobody carries his Social Security card.
My wallet: a DF monogram—three dollars from a swap meet vendor—mink oiled and left on my windowsill for a month, then run through the rinse cycle. Driver’s license, video rental card (I rent documentaries I don’t watch to go with the magazine subscriptions I don’t read—I have to change hobbies a lot), credit card, ticket stub (The Divine Horsemen w/fIREHOSE at the Variety Arts Center), receipts (ATM, liquor store, strip club, gas station), work ID, Jen/Karen’s picture, an unused codeine prescription and business cards (mechanic, used record store, dry cleaner). The cops went through it, forgot it.
My file: Paramedic’s report, ER chart. They ran my driver’s license, I know, because they want to know a criminal history to corroborate a diagnosis. John Vincent has been a ward of the state. My juvenile offender record is sealed, though they can still verify its existence. But Daniel Fletcher is a churchgoing taxpayer, minus the intentional parking tickets so I wouldn’t be a complete stranger to the System (if you’re too clean, they start digging deeper). And Daniel Fletcher has no medical or psychiatric history.
You present a birth certificate at the DMV, they want to know why you’re getting your first driver’s license at age twenty-whatever. I’ve grown up Back East, never driven in my life. Anyone good at placing accents would peg me for East Rutherford. Never been there. But the utility and phone bill with the Bronx address, the Columbia University picture ID all matching the name on my birth certificate, are painless to fake. Time, effort, patience and a sharp eye for typefaces are all that are needed, and I have every one of them. After the tedium of the written exam and road test, I’m Daniel Fletcher. No criminal history, no psychiatric record, nothing. Sounds good, but the downside is no credit history, which needs to be built (I have to put large cash deposits on new apartments), which means a separate drill for the Social Security Administration to procure a number, which has its own pitfalls.
No job history, so one has to be fabricated for a new employer. Most driving and courier jobs are less concerned with job history than with insurance, which makes them easier to obtain. All told, the process involves more than most people outside of the FBI ever know.
College kids propagate the folklore that gets them and other amateurs busted: You comb through a cemetery, find someone who died within a year of being born. One who’s your own age plus a few years. Counties didn’t used to cross-index birth and death records, so it was easy to fool the DMV. You write the state a request for a birth certificate, bring it to the DMV with a utility bill or picture ID, and you’ve got a driver’s license that says you’re twenty-one.
That might work, and I mean might, if all you want to do is buy kegs for some jack-off Monday Night Football party from a liquor store that’s never had its license suspended. That might work if, in a given year, two dozen people don’t all apply for driver’s licenses that all happen to share the same first, middle and last name. If they do, it might work if the DMV doesn’t notice the astronomical coincidence.
Keara, the sound of her showering in the morning, radio on—a half-second of being with her jumps into my brain, and all at once I miss her. I want out of here.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” the Evaluator says. “This is probably a little unusual for you. Now, what I need to do here is very straightforward. I’m going to ask you some questions in order to gather some background information from you. From there, I’ll assess your psychological health, and the opinion that I draft regarding that is the only disclosure of our discussion that I will make. Anything else you tell me, barring the divulgence of a crime or risk to yourself, is strictly confidential.
“This interview is mainly for insurance purposes, so that the hospital doesn’t release a person who’s a potential suicide risk. Is there any part of what I’ve just said that you do not understand?”
“I understand everything.”
Yes, I understand that he deliberately avoids the word routine because he knows that I know this is anything but routine, and he needs my trust. I understand that this is mandatory and therefore not an interview but an interrogation. If I forget that, I’ll never leave here.
“Now,” the Evaluator continues, “I’m not here to trick you into revealing some hidden secrets or get you to commit yourself. If I find something worth looking into further, we can arrange a visit at your convenience to discuss that issue. Is all of that clear?”
“It’s clear.”
“So,” the Evaluator smiles, eyes crinkling behind his glasses, “Do you know why you’re here?”
This is a variant of What can I do for you today? What brings you here? or How can I help you today? Read: Do you remember what you did to get here? Do you acknowledge and assume responsibility for your actions? A straight answer is best, then he’s going to want to come back to that later.
“The doctor thinks I tried to kill myself.” True. Eye contact, now.
“Did you?”
“No.” True. Keep the eye contact, but don’t stare. Even the most honest person doesn’t maintain eye contact for more than half of a conversation. Exceed that fifty-percent threshold and you trash your believability.
“Do you mind if I ask your opinion, then, of someone who actually does try to kill himself?”
“He needs help quickly,” I say it without a pause. “Something’s very wrong.”
“Why do you say