Becoming Jayne

Editor's note: Betty has graciously reminded me of a fifth rule of fake names . . . thanks, chica!

Road trips are as good a time as any for social experimentation. On one of our long drives through the park, Betty and I had a healthy discussion on the pros and cons of having a fake name. When and why you'd use it. The pitfalls of using it.


Rule 1: You have to remember your fake name. So it can't be too far out or weird, and you have to be paying attention all the time.


Rule 2: You have to have a fake last name, too. Everyone has two names. So its a whole persona.


Rule 3: Your fake identity has to have some basic background. Like where you are from. A job. Etc. Betty suggested that if I were going to adopt a fake name, I'd have to think carefully about my background. She suggested not straying too far from the truth. I guess its easier to tell a lie when its grounded in truth. Especially when you have to tell it repeatedly.


Rule 4: Vague and obscure work well. Such as with your job. "Writer" . . . could be anything. I think I'll have to go with "finance".

Rule 5: Anytime you are faced with a question that you don't have a fake answer too, "It's complicated" will frighten the curiosity out of about any man.

Armed with these new rules, we decide that I will try my new fake persona.

Meet Jayne. That's Jayne, with a "y". Jayne Chako. I'm in finance.

Jayne first showed up at Bullwinkle's Saloon on Wednesday evening. She ordered a table for two - her and her friend Betty. "Jane? Your table is ready." Jayne responded instantly. When Jayne and Betty left, the hostess said "Thank you, Jayne." Without missing a beat, Jayne said "Thank you," as she grabbed a toothpick and headed out.

Too easy. So the next day, we decided to give it another try at the ranch.

Steve, our bartender, was trying to match our dinner reservation with the room reservation so that we could charge dinner to the room. Apparently Betty Underground was difficult to find. I said "just put it under Jayne". He seemed happy with that. So the rest of the night, when anyone asked, I was Jayne. Jayne to the other guests. Jayne to our waiter. Jayne to the staff.

Funny thing is, the ranch had a way of making you one of its own. The gracious staff adopted me into their ranks as we sat around the bonfire, and later at the saloon. "Jayne, can I get you something to drink?" "Davey, this is Jayne . . . " "Jayne, want to see the article on the ranch?" "Jayne, come meet David . . . " "Jayne, want to head down to the Half Moon with us?" "Carney, this is Jayne . . . " "Jane, want another margarita?" " . . . Jayne!"

I left the next day, still Jayne. No credit card evidence to the contrary. No business cards, no numbers, no e-mails. If I am remembered at all, I will be Jayne from Seattle, who spent a day on a ranch in Montana.

I kind of liked Jayne. She was a laid-back, fun-loving girl with no worries.

Maybe I'll bring her to Vegas this year.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife