Misstaken Identity

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Wanted by drug dealers, can he hide in plain sight as a girl?
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As I write these memoirs, my deeply tanned legs are stretched out before me on a lounge chair on my lanai. My pink toenails provide a nice contrast to the aquamarine sea visible in the distance, framed by swaying palm trees on golden sands. I brush a strand of hair from my forehead, and tug my sundress a few inches towards my knees.

Looking back, it's hard to believe that a mere month ago, I was a hunted man with a price on his head. How I got from there to here would be a front-page story on every newspaper in America, and would land me in jail if it became known to the authorities. Which explains why I intend to seal these memoirs in bottle and throw them into the sea, for discovery long after I have lived out my life as a beautiful, wealthy woman.

* * *

It all began when Oregon legalized marijuana in 2014. A recent graduate of Oregon State, I landed a job in IT with a start-up which applied for one of the licenses to sell marijuana, and at first it seemed like a legitimate business. However, before long it became clear to me that my employers had been growing and distributing marijuana illegally for years, and their prospects of securing a license became dim after an expose on KOIN, the Portland affiliate of CBS.

Unfortunately, shortly after the negative news story on my company came out, I was observed by our Director of Security having lunch with a college friend, who happened to be an intern at KOIN. He came to the wrong conclusion that I was a snitch, which to the company's owners justified the death sentence. I learned this by chance when I was working late one night (from my home, thank God) and after I came across some worrying email traffic, I penetrated the CEO's email address and quickly learned my intended fate: I was to be assassinated the next morning while waiting for my TriMet train!

Stunned at the realization that I had less than twelve hours to live, I tried to survey my options. At first I thought about going straight to the police or the FBI, but I quickly realized that would only confirm my employers' suspicions and mark me for death sooner or later. No, I had to get far away fast, and with that realization, the germ of an idea came into my mind: these were bad people who had made millions of dollars illegally pushing drugs, so why not relieve them of some of it on my way out the door? It didn't take me long to hack into their bank accounts, which sure enough I found to be loaded with cash, waiting to be laundered. With a few keystrokes, I transferred three million dollars into my own bank account.

So I'd be rich, if I could afford to spend it. It was early spring, and a news story I'd seen that morning popped into my head: hiker disappears on Mount Hood, intensive search underway. Up on the mountain, it was still winter, with weather conditions that could change drastically from minute to minute, feet of snow still on the ground, and another snowstorm on the way. After a few moments of thought, I tapped out an email to my boss, informing him that I'd decided to take the next day off for a hike on Mount Hood.

One final email before I packed my hiking gear into my car: I told my friend at KOIN to watch his back! Then I loaded up my Subaru and pulled away from my apartment a few minutes after midnight. I drove to Government Camp, paid for a motel room with my credit card, and spent a restless few hours waiting till morning. After breakfast at a local café, again paid for with my credit card, I walked over to the local branch of my bank and shocked the branch manager by withdrawing three million dollars in hundreds. I took my time jamming the bills into an oversized backpack, which weighed over 60 pounds by the time it was full, and headed for the mountain.

I parked my Subaru at the trailhead for a climb that was notoriously treacherous, heaved my backpack onto my back, smashed my cellphone and threw the bits into a ravine, and did the exact opposite of what my pursuers and the authorities would expect: I started hiking down off the mountain. It was a lovely spring day, and I hardly felt the burden on my back as I made my way down towards the road which led to the freeway. When I got close to the highway, I pulled a ski cap low over my ears and forehead, and pulled the collar on my jacket over my chin. With my wraparound sunglasses, my facial features were now extinguished. I stuck out my thumb, and before long I was sitting beside the friendly driver of a logging truck, bound for Idaho.

* * *

Without fake ID, leaving the United States was out of the question, but it's a big country. As we rolled east, I closed my eyes, and while pretending to sleep to avoid conversation with the driver, I tried to think of the safest way to set myself up with a new identity. Faking my death had been the easy part: when I did not come off the mountain and my car was found at the trailhead, a massive search would undoubtedly ensue, and when no trace was found of me, I'd be chalked up as just another luckless hiker who'd been caught in the blizzard that was bearing down on the Cascades. It wasn't uncommon for bodies to simply vanish, to be found years later when the snowpack melted.

No, the bigger problem was how to disappear with three million dollars and never be found. As fate would have it, both of my parents had predeceased me in separate automobile accidents, and my only sibling - a sister - had gone bad and run off with a creep somewhere in California. I had a few college friends who might mourn me briefly, but no responsibilities and no ties to speak of.

Where shall I live and who shall I be? Could I make myself unrecognizable and pass through life as a totally different person? Keeping alive and staying out of jail - for surely it was a crime to steal three million dollars, even from drug dealers - depended on it.

* * *

Two days and many trucks later, I found myself on the outskirts of Chicago. I hitched a ride into the city with a traveling salesman, and paid cash for a dreary room at a no-tell motel near O'Hare airport. After sleeping for fifteen hours, I walked to an all-night diner - it was almost dawn - and bought a Chicago Tribune to read while I waited for my bacon and eggs. Sure enough, buried deep in the first section I found this article:

MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING HIKER

PORTLAND - The U.S. Forest Service and the Oregon State Police have resumed their search for XXXX XXXXXXXXX, who disappeared during a record-setting snowstorm while hiking on Mount Hood. The search was temporarily suspended during the height of the blizzard, which dumped over three feet of fresh snow on the already snow-packed mountain. XXXXXXXX's car was found at a trailhead leading to a popular hiking trail two days ago, and his cellphone has presumably run down. Volunteers from Sandy and Government Camp are assisting in the manhunt.

I felt badly about the volunteers, and the expenses that the government must be running up, but these feelings quickly vanished when I came across another, shocking story:

NO CLUES IN MURDER OF KOIN INTERN

PORTLAND - Police remain baffled by the cold-blooded killing of Andrew Moffatt, a twenty-two year old intern at KOIN who was shot to death in broad daylight two days ago when he walked out of the station's broadcast studio in downtown Portland. Moffatt, who was on his way to pick up coffee for fellow staffers, was shot five times in the back, and died on the sidewalk before an ambulance could arrive.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the newspaper. Poor Andy! He didn't even know about the drug dealers who were after me, and now he was dead. Why couldn't I have given him a better warning? What did I say to him when I tried to tip him off? "Andy, watch your back, some bad people may be out to get you." When the cops got ahold of that, would they connect the dots with my disappearance and speculate that I'd been murdered too? My whole life was turning into a nightmare!

One thing was certain: the people who gunned down Andy were looking for me, and if I was foolish enough to go back to Portland to tell the police what I knew, they'd undoubtedly kill me too. There was no choice for me now but to lose myself forever, and with three million dollars in cash I had the means to do it, if only I could figure out how to hide in plain sight for the rest of my life...

My breakfast came, and as I listlessly played with my scrambled eggs, another article in the Tribune caught my eye. It was about Caitlyn Jenner, and how her revelations about her gender transition had become a topic of national conversation. It was an Aha moment: why couldn't I turn myself into a girl? That was the last thing my killers would suspect, and unbeknownst to them, or anybody else who knew me, I already had some practice: my older sister used to dress me up in her clothes when we were kids, and after she ran off with her loser boyfriend, I used to fool around in her closet when nobody was around. I was fascinated by the way I looked in a dress or skirt, and I loved putting on her nylons, which was a strange turn-on for me...

Until I went off to college, I'd never gone outside the house as a girl. For my first two years, roommates made it impossible for me to even think about crossdressing, but my last two years I lived alone in a small apartment, and I found myself tempted to get back into it. By then my sister had disappeared, and when my mother asked me to help her clear out her closet while I was home for summer break, I surreptitiously stashed a small wardrobe including lingerie and tights, and even some of her makeup, in a large box which I hid until it was time for me to go back to college.

I never shared my secret with anyone, which was easy since I made very few friends. A geek majoring in computer science, I pretty much kept to myself, and the few girls who agreed to go out with me always seemed to have other plans when I asked them out again. So I'd get my kicks dressing up in my sister's clothes, although I rarely left my apartment like that, and I wondered if I'd really be able to pass as a woman? I was lucky with my physique: 5'8" tall, a mere 145 pounds, a full head of long brown hair and skinny arms and shoulders. Instinctively, I pushed my breakfast plate away as I began to think: you'll have to lose at least ten pounds to be truly believable as a girl, I told myself, and you'll have to start putting together a look.

You must think I'd lost my mind. Fooling around in girl's clothes in my spare time was one thing, but did I really want to live the rest of my life as a woman? Did I even think that I could fool people if I put on some makeup and wore a dress? Maybe not, but at that point, the hassles and humiliation of trying to turn myself into a girl paled in comparison to the fate which awaited me as a man. It might not be the life I wanted, but I'd be alive, and with three million dollars to play with, I could afford a life of luxury if I was able to complete my transformation.

I had a lot of work to do, and for the moment, my flophouse motel would serve as my base of operations. I was a little concerned about leaving my backpack stuffed with millions of dollars in the room, but that was a risk I'd have to take. I removed a few thousand dollars and jammed the backpack between the dust bunnies and cobwebs under the sagging bed. Only a desperate thief would even think about looking there...

I walked a few blocks to the Blue Line, and assembled my thoughts on the way into downtown Chicago. My first stop would be at a large drugstore, then I'd try to find an Internet café, before I could start thinking about hair, clothes and makeup. The train pulled in to the Washington Street station, and I soon found a Walgreens, where I purchased a prepaid Visa credit card in the amount of $500 and a throwaway cellphone.

Then it was off to a FEDEX office store, where I hunkered down at a personal computer and swiped my new Visa card. After a quick scan of the Portland headlines - the hunt for the missing hiker on Mount Hood had been suspended again after another blizzard moved in - I created a new Internet address for myself using an androgynous name: Kim Drake, screenname kimdrake. Next, I scanned the Craigslist pages for Chicago, looking for the cheapest reliable used car that I could find. I spotted a 2007 Ford Focus SE Sedan, asking price $1,950, for sale by owner in Elmwood Park. I sent a message, using my new email address, then turned my attention to creating a fake Illinois driver's license.

I'm ashamed to say it didn't take me long. Downloading a sample from the DMV website, I used it as a template, duplicating the multiple typescripts with various fonts, inventing a date of birth and address for Kimberly Drake, sex female, finding a copy of the state seal, uploading an old picture of me with long hair that looked just girly enough, and printing the whole thing on some watermarked paper. Once I signed it in a girlish hand, sealed it between two sheets of laminate and trimmed the edges, it would fool anyone on visual inspection, although it didn't have a bar code or other security features so it would be useless at an airport. One final touch: a dab of whiteout over the letters FE, to be brushed off later...

Before I left, I checked for email messages at my new account. The owner of the Ford Focus had replied, leaving her phone number and asking me if I was still interested. I called her with my new cellphone immediately, and we made arrangements to meet at a strip mall near her home in half an hour. I flagged down a taxi to Elmwood Park, and killed some time browsing at a Payless shoe store until she showed up with her boyfriend, who was driving another car.

They both looked like meth addicts, and under ordinary circumstances I wouldn't have had anything to do with them. After a cursory inspection of the beat up Ford, I asked them if they had the pink slip, and the lie which the boyfriend stammered about being unable to find it was so transparent that I was certain that the car was stolen. That didn't matter to me: my plans were to take it on a one way trip out of Illinois, as soon as possible. The boyfriend launched into a sales pitch, but I cut him off when I handed him two thousand dollars in cash and told them to keep the change. Before they could think of anything else to say, I took the keys and drove off.

Back to my crappy motel, where I parked the car and returned to my room. My stolen millions were still under the bed. I called the front desk to tell them I was checking out, threw my backpack in the trunk and headed for the freeway.

* * *

I drove south, stopping only for gas, for over a thousand miles before I finally pulled over at a luxury hotel on Tampa Bay. No more fleabag motels for me: hotels like this required identification, and my new driver's license passed easily. Would its owner be able to pass as easily as a woman? Tomorrow would tell, but tonight I spent my last night as a man, drinking a little too much red wine with my steak dinner before I staggered off to bed.

I slept in the next morning, arising just before noon. After a light breakfast, I drove my beater to a nearby "mile of cars" and parked it on the street. With my backpack on my back, I surveyed the lots of the luxury car dealers before I found myself drawn to an Audi S5 convertible. I was inspecting the sticker when a car salesman approached me, probably assuming that I was a kid hitchhiking back to college. Before he could run me off, I told him I wanted to take it for a test drive. He started to laugh, until I told him that I was prepared to pay cash if he could have the car prepped and ready to drive off the lot in an hour. The test drive was a formality - what a machine! We haggled a bit on price, I showed him my fake driver's license, the paperwork was completed in record time and I drove off the lot with the top down.

My first stop was another Walgreens, where I loaded up on prepaid Visa cards and took the first tentative step in my transformation: an old fashioned double edge razor with plenty of blades, and a mangroomer with a long handle so I could take the hair off my back. I returned to my hotel, and while the mangroomer was charging up, I filled the bathtub with hot suds and patiently shaved my arms, legs and chest. It was a nasty process, and I cut myself several times, but when I was finished, my body was already looking more feminine, and it felt that way too after I smoothed my tender skin with the hotel's body crème. After I took care of my back with the mangroomer, I dressed myself as a man for the last time, and drove my new Audi to a nearby outlet mall.

I'd made a shopping list at breakfast that morning. If I was going to live as a woman, I was determined to be as pretty as possible, and to try to get away with the same undergarments that real women wore. It was April in South Florida, and soon it would be hotter than hell, and I wasn't about to bind myself and pad myself for the sake of a few inches. I had a girlish waste, and slim arms and legs, and I'd count on them to help me cross the bar.

I've kept my list, and it brings back bittersweet memories every time I look at it. My success in avoiding assassination and imprisonment would come at the price of my manhood:

Skirts

Tops

Sundresses

Shorts or capris

Sandals

Heels and/or flats

Purses

Wallet

Panties

Wonderbras

Pantyhose

Bling: clip earrings, rings, necklaces, watch

Nightgown

Robe, slippers

Makeup: lip gloss, eye liner, eye shadow, brow pencil, blush, foundation and powder

Moisturizer

Nail polish

Cologne

Hairbrush

I scratched pantyhose off my list: this was Florida, and this was for real, not some crossdresser's fantasy. It was exhausting just thinking about the challenges which lay ahead, but the alternative was an early grave. The sooner I buried the man that I was, and started thinking of myself as a woman, the better my chances of survival. Fortunately, from my days as a closet crossdresser I knew my sizes (the same as my sister's) so there was no mystery involved. The first step would be the hardest.

* * *

Hours later, I collapsed onto the bed of my hotel room after dragging dozens of shopping bags from my car. What an ordeal! Two skirts and one pair of skimmer shorts, three tops, two sundresses, a couple of wonderbras, several packs of panties, a slip, some cute jeweled sandals, white espadrilles, two pair of strappy heels, three purses, a small pile of fashion jewelry from Claire's, and a darling nightgown with spaghetti straps and a matching robe. To each of the sales clerks, I'd explained that I was shopping for presents for my girlfriend, and except for the shoe store, they might have believed me. Getting the cosmetics was not as embarrassing as I feared: at a nearby WalMart, I filled a basket with everything I needed and waited for an opening at the self-service checkout line. I got my quota of embarrassment at my last stop: a Supercuts, where I asked the girl to try to recreate the boyish bob that Caitlyn Jenner styled when she was still Bruce...I'm sure the girl saw right through me, but she played along, and every time she asked me a question about which way to go, I went with the more feminine alternative.

From now on, I told myself, it'll be a lot easier, since you'll be shopping for yourself as a girl. With a sign of resignation, I pulled the tags off a skirt and top, tore off my guy clothes, and went into the bathroom to shave my face and legs again. After a long, hot bubble bath, I was ready to start in on my makeup. I used to be pretty good at this, using my sister's hand-me-downs, and I was pleasantly surprised by the natural look I was creating, using the bare minimum of each product.

After I'd filed and polished my nails, I returned to the bedroom to snap on a Wonderbra, which instantly gave me the illusion of female breasts. Next, I slid on a pair of panties, and when I did, for the first time I felt a trace of arousal. Oh oh...down boy, I said to myself as I stepped into my skirt, a billowy confection of eyelet lace which felt delightful against my legs. Those forbidden feelings intensified...not now! I scolded myself while I dropped my sleeveless top over my head, and the wicked sensations momentarily eased while I busied myself tying a bow behind my back. Then I stepped into my espadrilles, which made my feet look so cute!