Ian Dryden

In any big city—and San Diego’s no exception—you can buy a phony driver’s license for $50 – $200.

Joe Livingston planned his getaway perfectly. The day that he stopped being Joe Livingston dawned as brightly and ordinarily as any hot Chicago summer morning. As usual. Joe dressed for his job as an advertising executive, gulped a cup of coffee, pecked his wife Janine good-bye, and piled with his briefcase into his Mercedes for the long drive to the Loop.

He never showed up at his office; never returned to the suburban nest. Later, Evanston police officers found Joe's car abandoned in a parking lot, and the motel manager in South Bend. Indiana, never even imagined that, two doors away, Joe had flushed into the sewer all the papers which proved his existence. Within two weeks, graying, bespectacled Joe turned up in San Diego as Benny Peterson, a youthful, raven-haired, clean-shaven job seeker. “Benny” even shyly told new acquaintances he was “born again,” and he chuckled, inwardly, at the joke.

How many Joe-turned-Bennys are there? People who seem to disappear from the globe and in fact leave behind their names, identities, and pasts in exchange for a totally clean slate don’t brag of their exploits, but they leave a few elusive tracks. San Diego police, for example, might see 600 persons reported missing each year, and only a dozen or so leave no traces. Multiply that number nationally, however, and you’ve got hundreds pulling the disappearing act each year.

Within certain limits, it’s even quite legal to do so. The Constitution guarantees citizens freedom of movement, so you break no laws by disappearing, per se. It’s also quite legal to start perfunctorily calling yourself by another name—as long as you don’t intend fraud. Still, anyone who tries to legally vanish without a trace is in a Catch-22 situation; you’re allowed to do it, but prohibited, practically, from succeeding at it. Societal bonds are sticky and many strands bind each individual. It’s easy to break the old bonds; in fact, it’s easy to spin new ones. But one soon runs into laws and regulations prohibiting the latter. Those who don’t mind the legal infractions, however, run little risk of being caught.

All this assumes that you’re not a major criminal trying to elude capture. (With the FBI on your tail, the game changes significantly.) You simply want to start over, to be a new person in a new place. You’ll still have to alert yourself for some chase, because even if the act of disappearing is legal, its consequences may not be. On the dodge, you can look over your shoulder for five major types of pursuers.

First, the police. They’ll take a missing person report from anyone who calls in; they’ll ask for a full physical description and a photo if available. They also ask about the missing person’s car, bank account, personal problems, suicidal tendencies, friends and relatives; and they routinely run through their victim and ambulance files. San Diego police say they’ll try to contact by phone those who might know a missing person’s whereabouts and they can teletype other police departments if they have a likely destination. The hunt for noncriminals doesn’t go much further than that, however.

Private detectives will start with the same leads, and their persistence depends entirely on how long they’re paid. Fees run about $15 per hour, plus expenses.

A different “hunter,” the child welfare authorities, will go after anyone who leaves behind children and breaks one of two relevant laws (it’s a crime both to fail to provide support and to abandon a child).

The family support division of the San Diego district attorney’s office warns it has access to all local, state, and federal records to hunt down such offenders, but the quarry are many. At any given time the office is looking for at least 2,000 errant fathers who are trying to cover their tracks.

The average American who disappears risks pursuit from bill collectors. Most of them will pay scant attention to anyone owing less than $25 to $50, but the collectors’ diligence increases directly with the amount owed. One local collector estimates only one (or even less) of every 20 of those who “skip’’ leave no trace whatsoever. “Very few people skip who you can’t locate at all. Depending upon how much money’s at stake, we’re one of the most motivated searchers around,” he mused. “Still, if a guy really wants to get lost and knows how to do it, it’s easy.”

The tax man is the remaining potential hunter. There’s no statute of limitations on failing to file state or federal returns, and ironically, the person whose withholding taxes have covered or exceeded his liability may face the most aggressive pursuit. That is, if the IRS owes a person money, it will look for him more vigorously than if the tables are turned, asserts one local IRS spokesman. Field agents will visit his home; they’ll check the department of motor vehicles: “You’d be surprised at the sources of information there are,” says the spokesman. Would-be missing persons are urged by the IRS to fill out the agency’s name-change form, which promises “a high level of confidentiality.”

But consider our fictitious Mr. Livingston, the mild-mannered, disappearing ad man. He’s stubborn, and he doesn’t want anyone— not even a government computer— to know his new identity. He plots his departure carefully for months.

Most crucially, he tells no one of his plans. Mentally, he chooses San Diego as his destination because he doesn’t know a single soul there. (Any other large city would do, since he doesn’t owe any money. Debtors, in contrast, usually flee to Florida or Texas because both states won’t garnish wages, should a debtor be caught.) The day before he disappears, he visits his bank and withdraws all his savings, converting the money into traveler’s checks at another bank across town. Tellers ask for no identification, and he buys the travel vouchers as Benny Peterson, the first step toward his new identity.

The next morning he follows the urban freeways to Evanston, where he phones his office announcing that he is ill. Then he abandons the car; he’s decided selling it would draw too much attention to him, plus he figures this way Janine will get it back. He takes a bus straight downtown, then buys a bus ticket for South Bend, where he arrives in the early afternoon. Within an hour, he finds a pawn shop where he can buy a battered suitcase. At another, he pawns his watch and wedding ring. From there, he moves from shop to shop, buying faded blue jeans, a wallet, a work shirt, other odd pieces of clothing. He picks up the hair dye, a toothbrush, and a razor to shave off his mustache and goatee. He rents a motel room as Benny, saving the room receipt, then he carefully starts altering his appearance. Later, he’ll buy a pair of contact lenses, and leave the bundle of his old possessions at the closest Salvation Army drop-off bin. For the moment, he concentrates on scuffing up his billfold, and disposing of his old wallet’s contents.

The next day, he’s ready for the road and catches the train to St. Louis. From there, he mails a postcard and letter to Benny Peterson at San Diego general delivery and catches a plane to San Francisco. There he signs Benny up for some junk mail, once again giving the San Diego address, before he takes the final bus ride down the coast.

If Joe/Benny were consciously trying to throw someone off his track, he might mail a change-of-address card to the Chicago postmaster, asking him to forward the mail to general delivery, Syracuse, then at two or three week intervals he might forward the Syracuse mail to Daytona, the Daytona mail to Washington, the Washington mail to Houston, and so on in a circle back to Chicago.

So Joe/Benny has alighted in San Diego without breaking any laws, sporting a new appearance and bearing a new name. He’s settled into a rented room. Now the tricky part begins.

It’s easy enough for anyone to walk into any sport fishing store, plunk down four dollars and buy a fishing license under any name. One also might consider applying for admission at one of the community colleges, since the ready acceptance brings a student ID card. Armed with items like these, a fistful of hotel receipts, some cancelled mail, and the traveler’s checks, anyone can get a city library card. Even that collection of identification won't get you very far, however. Unless you’ve got unlimited funds, you’ll have to work, and to work you need a social security card. Applying for it is the first major hurdle.

The social security administration makes it easy to change your name on its records, but doing so directly ties you to your past. The application for a new card not only asks for the full name that you’ll use in work or business, but also the full name given at birth (and whether you’ve ever had a number before). The agency doesn’t require any proof and they really can’t catch offenders, but the form warns that anyone who lies “with intent to falsify his ... identity” is subject to a $1,000 fine, a year in prison, or both.

Despite the sanctions, the social security card isn't a valid ID, and few places will accept it as such. One certainly can’t use it to cash a check, a luxury that’s hard to avoid today. In fact, you can’t even use it to open a checking or savings account, for local banks uniformly demand at least one solid ID. Here one finally runs into that linchpin of modern identification, the driver’s license.

The trauma of taking the driving test often blocks out other memories of what’s involved in the application process, but in California, if you want to drive a car, you have to prove who you are to the department of motor vehicles. Besides the birth certificate itself, the department will accept a baptismal certificate, an old driver’s license, a military or military dependent ID card, an immigration form, passport, naturalization record, a secondary school record, or a certificate from a secondary school driver training class. Almost all of those relate back to the birth certificate, however, and there’s the rub.

Of course, in any big city—and San Diego’s no exception—you can simply (and illegally) buy a phony driver’s license. Street prices for an entire ID package range from $50 to $200. But for those too nervous to do their shopping at the local black market, there is a sneakier, equally illegal alternative.

Birth certificates are a matter of public record. In San Diego, you can get a copy of anybody’s birth notice simply by mailing the county two dollars and the relevant information (name, date of birth, and city are all that’s needed). If you use someone else’s birth certificate to get a driver’s license, you’re committing a crime, but the DMV almost certainly won’t catch it, even if that person’s already applied. Getting a passport might be slightly tougher.

The government usually doesn’t check to see that no one else has ever applied for a passport using the same name and date of birth, but passport authorities say they sometimes investigate if they’re suspicious. Consequently, the apprehensive disappearer should make sure he gets a birth certificate from someone who’s never applied before, preferably someone who never will. The local vital statistics department won’t let you go breezing through their records of dead people, but like the “Jackal” of book and movie fame, any reasonably resourceful person can find such information elsewhere; newspapers are one example.

Armed with the birth certificate and driver’s license, you’re set; other forms of identification come like fruit from the paper tree. Of course, you may have to write up a false resume listing your past work and education, but many employers never check long-distance records of this sort. To lend veracity, you might concentrate on listing either small companies which might well have folded, such as telephone sales offices, or large companies which really do exist (many directories in the library give complete information on these). With a job and a well-documented identity, you can begin racking up local credit, and with a wallet full of plastic money, you're well on your way to becoming a pillar of the community.

Of course, with no past, a phony identity, and an open future, you're also likely to have a case of existential indigestion which would make Sartre’s nausea look like a picnic. Breaking all ties to the past is a frightening, disturbing thing; the inability to do so completely is what usually gives people away, according to Rich Johnson, who runs a Clairemont collection agency. Johnson has tracked down errant debtors for years, and he says several patterns recur.

“People tend to retain certain characteristics, even while they change things. They might change their name, but they'll pick a new name which will give them the same initials. Or they’ll keep their first name, but take on a new last name. Another thing that happens a lot is that they’ll go to their hometown or to some other place that they know.

“If they do go to a new town, and get a new name, a new social security number, and a job, there’s probably no one who’s going to find them. But chances are they won’t be able to change their lifestyle. A high roller is always going to stay a high roller, for example, regardless of whether he has any money.” Johnson said. “It’s pretty tough to turn yourself into a totally different person."

If you succeed, you may just have earned your privacy. And if you don't like it? You can always change back.