IMPOSTER! As many of you know, I moved to the Los Angeles area about 6 months ago, driving cross-country with my friend Paul. I've got a new job and Paul has been making money hustling both chess and divorcees. Well, everything's been cool until a month ago when my leasing company called me and asked me why the car hadn't been registered yet. "Um, well, do I *have* to?" It turns out, I do. The lease was in my dad's name and because it was just transferred I had to register quickly. Now, the DMV's here are nightmares, plain and simple. There are about 8 million people in LA county and I think about 12 million cars. First time I went a two hour line had formed an hour before the DMV was even open, so I was not looking forward to registering. I get there, sliding past all the people in line(make an appointment, they told me. Yup, it helped.) and going straight to my window. The computers were down. Okay, I'll just sit here and wait. Hey, I have an appointment; I can relax. I sit at a table across from an elderly Korean woman and her husband. She says, "You go first. We're old, we don't mind waiting. When you're young there's always something to do." Ignoring the fact that the woman had cut right to the chase of aging and possibly life itself I said, "Thanks, I *do* need to get back to work." "Where do you work?" She had a kind face and I liked talking to her. "Long Beach," I said. "Live there too." "That's far," she said. "Only 15 minutes on 22." "Oh, we don't take the freeways," she said, in that way that is unique to Southern California. "You live nearby?" I said. "Fountain Valley." It's only 5 minutes. It's nice. "I lived in Orange County for a few weeks before moving to Long Beach. I was in Seal Beach. In fact, I'll probably be looking to move in a few months." She perked up and said, "Which church do you go to?" Yipes. "Um, the local one." Sometimes I just kill me. "You should pick up a copy of the Marketplace there..." "--Yeah," I lied. "I think I've seen it." There are always Christian families who rent out rooms in their houses to nice boys like yourself very cheaply. Maybe $300 a month." Okay, I'm paying $850 right now and I'm thinking, What *if* Paul and I talked our way into one of these deals? Two Jewish pothead womanizers who'll be after the family's daughters. Pretty much, their worst nightmare. Before I could get more info from the woman, the computers were back and I was up. Cost me $800 to register(emissions, late fee, the 'being a prick' fee) and then I decide I want a vanity plate. I fill out the form and I want RICHH. "Sorry," the DMV woman says after entering my choice into the computer, "there's already a RICHH in LA." Right now, I'm thinking, Has anyone asked him if he's THE RICHH. Just *how* big has the net become? But I need more info. "Really, I say to the woman. "In LA?" "Yes. Richard Hanlon. Do you have a second choice? Yes! A name. Coolness. I decide to get a dorky RICHH 1 plate and rush to work to make some calls to find this Richard Hanlon guy. I call directory assistance and find two R. Hanlons in LA, one of them an attorney. I think, that's the one. I get both numbers and call from work. "Law offices," says a woman. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Hanlon." "Hold on, I'll see if he's free." A man's voice. "Hello?" Now what do I say? "Hi. Is this RICHH?" Click. Bingo! He's the one. I call back later in the day. "Mr. Hanlon, I know you must get a lot of calls that waste your time asking if you're the RICHH from the net, but--" "You're that same guy who called earlier, aren't--" "Wait, don't hang up. I'm him. He, actually." "He actually what?" "No. I'm he. It's that whole grammar thing." "*You're* RICHH?" His tone was disturbing. "Yes. Honest. I just moved out here..." I started to explain the story but he interrupted--" "I know, I know. You got a new job and you drove out here with Paul." He really *did* know. At this point I realized he knew a lot more about me than I did about him and I was on the defensive. "So you've read--" "Yeah, yeah," he said, wearily. "You know you ruined my life." I guess there's a part of me that's just plain evil but my first thought was, "That is SO cool." I said, "Huh?" "Listen," he said. "Why don't we meet? You live in Long Beach, right?" "Yeah." He knew EVerything. I was starting to like this guy. "How well do you know LA?" he asked. "I can find the airport, although I still get lost getting back to the 405." "Oh just take the Imperial Highway..." "What's that, the 110?" "105 East to 405 South. From there I would hope you can make it to Long Beach. Regardless, you want to come up here for lunch or something." "How about Santa Monica," I said, having driven there to meet Josh Geller and knowing I could find my way home from there. "All right. I'll meet you at that first cafe, on the pier. What time's good for you?" "How about seven?" he said. "Okay. I'll cut out from work early and go straight from here." "How will I recognize you,' he said. "I'm RICHH, remember." "God, I hate you." I could tell by his voice that he really did. This was too cool. "Seven, then?" "Yeah." "So I really ruined your--" Click. I got to the cafe at 7:30. Walked inside. Saw him immediately, and he saw me at the same time. We were both thinking exactly the same thing: *You're* RICHH?! He was one of the best-looking men I'd ever seen in my life: about 6'3", blue eyes, jet-black hair, a face like Tom Cruise's and with his sleeves rolled up I could tell by the muscles in his forearms that he was in damn good shape. He wore a double-breasted Armani suit, jacket on back of chair, and was sipping an espresso and reading the Robb Report(I kid you not). I ordered an Americano and joined him. "Damn, you're good-looking," I said. He motioned for me to lean in and with his face close to mine whispered, "Fuck you, RICHH. Fuck you." I leaned back. "What? What are you talking about?" "You really wanna know? God, I can't believe this. You. You cretin, you ruined it. It was always you...you..." He was near tears and people were looking. Luckily, we were in Santa Monica so people didn't look TOO long. "Tell me, Rich," I said. "What happened?" "Look at me," he said. "Tell me what you see. Honestly." "All right. I see a guy who's obviously doing well and should have everything going for him." "Yeah, so do you want to know why I'm still in therapy? Do you want to know how many times I've called the suicide hotline? Do you--" "Yes! Now fucking tell me." "I'm an entertainment lawyer in LA. Went to Harvard law school. Moved here because at the time I didn't know whether I wanted to be an actor or a lawyer." "Makes sense." "Well, I discovered pretty quickly that it takes more than a pretty face--" "So you got smart and you probably make 7 figures a year now." "Well, I'm not starving." "So what's the problem. Can't be sex. Girls must adore you. Boys too." "I'm straight," he said. "But no, I don't suffer from a lack of companionship." "So what's wrong?" "You, you bastard. About a year ago, I bought a 325I." "Nice car." "Yeah. I decided I wanted a vanity plate. Hell, I know it's all bullshit but I'm genuinely doing very well so why the fuck not, right?" "Sure." "I thought about some dumb ones, but realized I just wanted my name there. That was who I am, and that would be fine. Well, I hadn't counted on you." "Wait, don't tell me. People asked you if you were the guy from the net." "Okay, yeah. Now, last year, I had way too much to do to be dicking around on the internet, but I did have my Harvard account still active and would read a few groups when I got the chance. No big thing." "You read any of my stories?" "Shut up," he said. I did. "At first, it was cool. I'd so, No, I'm not THE RICHH but I am A RICHH and how about dinner?" "That work?" I asked. "Hell yeah." "Cool," I said, already counting the days until my new plates arrived. "Except you must have pissed someone off because one day I heard a noise outside my apartment and caught these kids about to tag my car." "No shit." "Yeah, they were wearing their colors and had their spray- paint cans ready..." "I yelled at them and they got scared but they yelled back, 'Man, I bet you think that math test was just sooooo funny. It's not. I can count." He pulled out a knife and yelled, "How many flat tires does this car have..." "Fuck. I didn't write that. That was one of Carasso's. They can count but they can't read." "Well, you're both assholes. Hey, you met Carasso yet?" "No." "Well, if you do tell him he owes me for a tire." "Okay, so you got a flat. Big deal." "Yeah, well here's the thing. After I realized that I was meeting some interesting people because of this mixup, I wanted to play it off, so I started reading you." "You're a man after my own heart, Rich." "Shut up. I read you. All of you. All your tedious porn and--" "Tedious?" "Porn is so cheap. You should only write about your family. Those are your best stories. They're the only ones with any guts." "What about this one?" I said. "Huh?" "The one I'm already writing in my head about our meeting." "Wow. You really are "Yeah, and you're some character." "Hungry?" one of us said. "Starved." We grabbed some sandwiches and more coffee and it continued. "So I start studying you. Your writing styles, your family history. I really do my homework. I decide I'm going to convince one of these people I really AM you. Figure it'd be fun, what can it hurt?" "Cool. I like the idea. Good, if hackneyed, premise." "Hackneyed? You wanna talk hackneyed? How about your--" "Yes..." I said. "Oh, what's the use?" "Go on." "So I'm finally ready. I know all about Karen and Maria and your brother Howard and butt-harps and your kinky tendencies and how you use the net. By the way, I really like those things you do to bad sex stories. They're good. Damn good!" He really *had* done his homework. "But I thought you said the ones like 'Searching for Eyes' were the best." "Panning," he said. "Huh?" "Panning for Eyes. That one's called Panning for Eyes. Sweet story." "Thanks." "Well, as you can see, I know my stuff." "*My* stuff." "Yeah, whatever. Well, come last year, I'm finally ready. I'm at a light on Wilshire when this gorgeous blonde in a convertible Le Baron pulls up alongside of me and pops the question." "And you went for it." "I figure, I could have had her as me but I've done that. I wanted to see if I could really be you, if I could pull it off." "So I told her, that yeah, I was THE RICHH and would she like to eat some dinner." "Cool." "Angela," he said. "Angela." "What happened?" "I fucked up. We fell in love. Big time." "Ouch." "Barangus," he said, "I think you hear me knockin'." "Hey, cut that out. You're good." "Not good enough. She left me. I'm *not* you. I'm not...I'm not..." He was crying again. "Rich," I said, "look at me. *I'm* not even me. I make a terrible me. In fact, I like the idea of you as me better than me as me." "It doesn't work. I don't say things like that." "Like what?" "That whole I make a terrible me thing." "Yeah, so?" "So, I couldn't do it. Angela was no idiot." "Neither are you." "I had to read so many groups in fear that you'd post and I'd miss one and she'd see one I started kiboing for RICHH. Do you know how long that takes?" "Yeah." "It was the only way." "I can see the trouble." "So I knew I'd have to tell her the truth." "You're right," I said. "You're not me." "You're a bastard." "Although I like the whole pretending to be me to get laid angle. Wish *I* could pull that off." "I thought--" "Yeah, I'm just fucking with you." "You see," he said. "I don't say things like that. I'm clever, sure. I'm smart. But I'm just not that quick. Being you takes more than just studying up." "You really *are* a Harvard boy." "Shit, you did it again." "What?" "You know damn well." He was right. I was no longer living. I was writing. "My life just sucks, Rich. I don't know who I am." "Hey," I said, attempting a combination Marlo-Smalley, "Just be yourself. You're allowed, you know." "I make a lousy me." He looked up. "Hey wait. I did it." "Huh?" "That whole I make a terrible me thing. I was right there. I felt it. I could have gone off." "Oh yeah? It's *that* easy? Besides, that's *my* line." "It's not so hard." "Go for it, then. Show me something, you Shasta-drinking, Hydrox-eating, Toughskin-wearing, Club Med-vacationing, confusing Penn State with Penn, preferring Richard Grieco to Johnny Depp, 250 series driving mo--ther--fu--cker." "250 series my ass. But you're right. I'm none of those things and yet I have no comeback." "Sure you do," I said. "Bust on my nose, my hair, some fucking thing. I'm a computer geek. It should be easy." "You're no computer geek. If you were it would be easy. I just wouldn't care. But that's not the point. The point is, oh fuck it, my life just sucks, and it's getting worse." "Relax. I don't think your life could possibly get any worse than it is right now." "Do you always talk like this? How does anyone stand you?" "I temper myself." "Ah." RICHH --it ain't easy being we