He burst in through the door looking like a man who just found out his sister had been taken advantage of. I looked up from my monitor when the door slammed against the wall curious. I'd seen the man mad but never like this. The guy was breathing heavy, in and out, and for a second I thought he might have been hyperventilating as I watched his nostrils flare over and over again. His eyes were wild. I brought something work related up over the email I was composing.

"You're a fake and a liar," he screamed at me with a pointed finger. "You don't know a god damned thing about anything."

I wheeled back in my chair and crossed my fingers in my lap. I had to admit, the man had a point. I felt a vague sensation at the thought of finally being found out that was similar, but not exactly like, guilt. Overwhelming that was curiosity at how he discovered the awful truth. Rehashing the past two months in my mind, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd let some information slip that I might not be who I said I was. I showed up everyday at 9:30 and left around 5:30, making my rounds to say goodbye to everyone before I headed out and to wish them a good evening.

Something had clued him in, though, or he wouldn't have been standing in hysterics over me like he was. The poor bastard. The interview had gone so well too. Like most interviews, it started out formal where he peppered me with questions about my resume and the places I had supposedly worked, but by the end of it he was buying me a cup of coffee and telling me that he liked me because there would finally be someone on staff who he could trust. Sure, I said. You can trust me. Whenever I interviewed I usually forgot that I really didn't have the qualifications I said I did and the experience my resume claimed, but then, it's always so easy to get wrapped up in the moment.

He was clutching something tightly in his left hand and I wondered if that was my severance check. It didn't look like it. It looked like, shit, it looked like lab results. Inside I laughed a little at the idea that it would be the second time I was fired for one of those. The first time was the standard hair and urine drug test that I needed to take at some bank when hired for their Emerging Markets Senior Analyst position. No big deal, I thought, I didn't do drugs. I didn't even drink. The most I did was two and a half packs a day, but no one cared about that. What got me was that the sneaky bastards did a DNA test on my hair fibers and found out that I wasn't the guy who's resume I'd submitted. Live and learn I suppose, though it did creep me out that they had that kind of information on file. Not too big a deal, I thought. I wasn't in the database since they kept asking me my real name and therefore clearly didn't have it.

The next time, I thought I had been more careful. Computers sounded like a good profession to enter into and I started going to the socials at bars around the city. The material wasn't hard to read up on. They were also easy places to decide who I wanted to be. When I'd found my make, I followed him around until he finally got a haircut, picked up a sample and started interviewing. What bothered me was how they found me out. Last I heard, DNA wasn't transmitted through a stool sample so it was safe to say I was baffled.

"So," he nearly screamed at me. "Say something!"

I picked up my bag and reached for my coat. Say something? I didn't have anything to say. It had been almost two weeks since the last paycheck and I did want to know if I was going to get that, so I posed the question.

"Last check?! Last check!? You want your last check," he laughed. I was convinced he was about to get violent. I detested violence. He started laughing wildly, kicking the desk and pounding the surface as though it, in some way, had caused his current state of hysterics. After the desk had taken a brief, but harsh pounding, he relinquished and sat down in the chair behind it, closing his eyes. I had been a good employee, but this seemed to be hitting him harder than it hit everyone else.

I inquired about my check again as I put on my coat.

"Do you really live at the address you gave us," he asked and I told him that I did. "Is it in your real name?" I told him no. "Well, it'll be mailed out in a day or so. Call HR if it doesn't arrive."

I thanked him and, taking my bag with my CD's, discman, and headphones, left the building to walk home. I felt a little sad, mostly because I'd liked that job and hoped to hold onto it for a little while, but he was justified in letting me go. After all, I'd never programmed a computer before in my life until two months ago.