Coming home from curling

Well. I'm returning from Windsor last night after my Monday night curling league. And I cleared customs more easily than I cleared the toll booth, which is where you pay the Ambassador Bridge toll between Detroit and Windsor after the Department of Homeland Security has graciously allowed you to return to your own country. I should be scott free by then, right?

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.

"No, honestly."

"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.