Last night during my run, I stopped by the train station to buy my weekly pass. I handed the ticket guy a commuter credit card.
He said: “This is not your card. Can I see some ID?”
I calmly replied: “It is my card. I’m in the middle of a run, and I’m not carrying ID. If you don’t give me the pass, I’m screwed for tomorrow’s commute.”
The guy looked down at the card again and asked skeptically: “Your name is Matthew?”
After thinking for a split second as to what answer will get me the pass, I casually replied: “Yes.”
Guy repeated in disbelief: “Your name is Matthew?”
Me: “Yes.”
I could see the guy mull it over, and watched as he formulated a plan in his head to disprove my identity. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper, flipped it over and slid it under the call window.
Guy: “Ok then, sign this.” At this point, I knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to see if my signature matched the one on the back of the card. Little did he know, it’s actually my signature on the back of that card. I happily signed—my cursive "MC" matching perfectly—and slid the piece of paper back through the slat in the window.
He leaned back in his chair and, thinking I couldn’t hear him because we were separated by a thin piece of glass, said to his colleagues: “Huh, what do you know. Her name is Matthew.”
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