I offer the toll to the toll taker. She doesn't take it. Instead she asks, "You're the curling guy, aren't you?"
"Uh, I curl, yes", I respond uncertainly.
"You're the coach. You're Mike" she says, with a certain triumph in her voice. I did not correct her that I am the skip.
"Um, Marty", I corrected her instead. I did not mention that I had lost to a curler named Mike last night, though her words fanned the flames of defeat and I burned inwardly at her mistake.
"What? No. I have you down as Mike." She began then to look over some papers in front of her.
"Uhhh, you take notes on the people who pay you tolls?"
"Sure. I like to know who they are, so I can talk to them friendly".
That's okay, I guess. I in truth remembered her, and as gregarious and friendly. I really believe her to be innocent enough. Only not enough to take notes about. "You're not Mike?" she asks.
"Then you have a twin you can frame for a crime."
So all I have to say is, Mike, who and where are you? Just in case I have to pull off grand larceny and need a fall guy.