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Beware of Lance Morrow quoting Chaucer...

By Lance Morrow

(TIME.com) -- Here is what the two young women told me.

They were sitting in an upscale bar in midtown Manhattan several weeks ago when they struck up a conversation with a man (well dressed, in his late thirties, alone at the bar, reading a book about Africa).

The man seemed nice -- interesting, educated. The three of them talked for a couple of hours. He said he had studied English at Harvard. At one point he recited a few lines of Chaucer.

The man said he worked for TIME magazine. He said that he had written articles in the past about Africa, and that he was about to leave on assignment to write another one.

He said that his name was Lance Morrow.

Hmmm. When I first heard the young women's story -- one of them sent me a jocular e-mail the next day, thinking she was e-mailing the man in the bar -- I burst out laughing.

It seemed to me pretty hilarious that a guy would think the way to pick up girls in a New York bar is to pretend to be Lance Morrow.

"Thay!" I spluttered, imitating Daffy Duck's voice of low cunning, "that'th a good idea! I think I'll try that mythelf!!"

Or I imagined a sort of "I am Spartacus -- No, I am Spartacus!" scene in singles bars all over town, legions of hopeful imposters insisting, "I am Lance!" I envisioned a barroomful of men wearing Lance masks like Groucho glasses and moustaches. Then I felt obscurely flattered: I thought, my charm is cloning itself -- franchising itself! Finding new host bodies!

I declaimed, "Who thtealth my good name, thtealth trash!"

Having entertained myself with this little circus, I began to get angry. Then I felt a sense of weirdness and unease moving in. This, as I e-mailed to the young women, is a very strange thing for a man to do -- to steal, or anyway to borrow for the evening, without permission, another man's identity. The young women and I exchanged a dozen e-mails. They are lively and intelligent; both work in media jobs in New York.

One of them -- through artful detective work (getting the bartender to sort through his credit card chits, among other things) -- found out who the fake Lance is.

This is even stranger. He turns out to have a very responsible job as a senior producer at a network television show in New York. The network might not be amused.

It seemed to me spooky that he knew things about me -- that I had gone to Harvard and studied English, that I had written articles for TIME about Africa. Did he do research? The main difference between us (other than the fact that he is he and I am I) is age: He is a good deal younger.

Well, I thought -- two possibilities. 1) He was out pub-crawling (though he was not drinking much that night and did not in any case get drunk), perhaps is married and didn't want to use his real name, and borrowed mine for the evening as a sort of private gag, a dumb, spur-of-the-moment stunt. 2) He makes a habit of this (how else explain what he knows about me?) -- he's a sick and mischievous character, a con artist with a personality disorder. Get out the bug spray.

I thought of a strange, sad story from years ago. The book critic at a large newspaper was discovered to have plagiarized a number of my essays from TIME -- not just a sentence here or there, but long paragraphs at a time. The man, thus exposed, committed suicide. I found out about this weeks after it had happened. The plagiarism was stupid and bizarre. The suicide was tragic; it took the case over into real darkness.

So what do I do about the fake Lance? I have talked to corporate security people about him. They have given their advice.

I have not yet called him up. One of the young women, acting on her own, has done so. He answered the phone, "This is ****." The woman said coyly, "Also known as Lance Morrow?"

There was a silence at the other end. Then a burst of hysterically nervous laughter. Then he hung up. And when she called back, she got his voicemail.

Oh, ****, you have been a naughty boy. I hope you are not also a sick one.

Copyright © 2000 Time Inc.