You Probably Haven’t Heard Of Me

I heard on the news this morning that a woman passed herself off as singer, Alison Krauss, and married a 75-year-old man in Arkansas.  She then ripped him off to the “tune” of $40,000 and is currently believed to be hiding in New Mexico.

They showed her mug shot on the newscast from some prior arrest, I assume.  Now, either this 75-year-old Arkansawyer is blind, or is just from Arkansas.  Is anyone familiar with the Interstates in Arkansas?  (We won’t go there.) This woman looks NOTHING like Alison Krauss.  Maybe it’s the lack of makeup?  She has blonde hair, maybe.  She has two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.  How does anyone mistake her for Alison Krauss?  Like I said, you’d have to be blind…or …..  Her name is Sue Evers, and she allegedly told the old man that she changed her name to escape the paparazzi.

Anyway, I’m on the lookout for someone who doesn’t look at all like Alison Krauss, in a vain attempt to help a 75-year-old man in Arkansas recover what is left of his $40,000.  And, I imagine, helping to extradite her to Arkansas to face charges for fraud and abuse of an endangered or impaired person. 

I pretended to be a singer once.  Well, I pretend to be a singer every time I attempt to sing, but I meant it in the more literal sense.  I was so convincing, I made a Southwest Airlines flight return to the gate to let me on.  I mean it was already being pushed from the jet way. 

One of my favorite things to do in bars and on public transportation, like airplanes, is pretend to be someone I’m not.  I usually pick lawyer, or rancher, maybe doctor, or horse breeder, sometimes writer, reporter, columnist, even poet.  I become an artist, director, talent agent, drummer; you know, just about anything I’m not, all those more glamorous walks of life.  I‘d make up a story for whoever interrupted me from the book I was trying to read, and lead them on down a path.  Sometimes it backfired, but most of the time the person was left wondering if I was really telling the truth.

I was in a Love Field bar watching the Denver Bronco game, which I was missing because I was traveling on a Sunday, in between connecting flights.  I knew what time the flight to Albuquerque was leaving and I was just down from the departing gate.  At the appointed time, I left the bar with Denver safely ahead of the Oakland Raiders, and headed briskly to the gate.  I had earlier obtained a boarding pass. 

I should mention that I arrived at the gate in full Western regalia, loud paisley cowboy shirt, boots and a black Stetson.  A 4X’r to be exact.  If you don’t know what a 4X’r is, you’re not a cowboy and you don’t own a Stetson.

When I got to the gate it was empty.  Everyone was on the plane, and glancing out the window, it was obvious the plane was moving away from the gate.

I rushed over to the counter and spat out to the gate attendant, “Wait, why is the plane leaving?  It’s not two fifty yet.  I can’t miss this plane!”

The attractive brunette behind the counter looked up from her paperwork and said, “I’m sorry, sir, the plane has boarded and is departing.”  Then she saw what I was wearing and sort of smiled.  Maybe it was a smirk.

“I can’t take a later flight.  I can’t miss this plane. The departure time hasn’t even passed!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she repeated.  “We are ahead of schedule today.”

 “I can’t believe you can leave before the departure time,” I whined, but I nailed it with, “Besides I have a boarding pass.”  I flashed the colorful laminated card with the B and a number on it.”

“I have a boarding pass,” I said again, and that seemed to be a problem, because she immediately got on the intercom phone and spoke rapidly into it.  Looking out the window I saw the plane stop and then slowly move back towards the jet way.

She took my boarding pass and said to follow her.  We stood at the end of the tunnel and she guided the jet way back towards the unopened door of the plane.  When it opened and I walked in, I was met by the stares of about 60 people who wondered who the hell I was.  What was I going to say?

And when I sat down on the plane in the first available seat I spied, I said to the person next to me, who said “Are you important or something?” in an indignant tone, “You probably haven’t heard of me, but my name is Glenn Nelson.  I missed my tour bus this morning and I’m due for a concert in Albuquerque TONIGHT.”

I don’t think she bought it for a second.

“You’re right, I’ve never heard of you,” she said, and put her nose back in her paperback.