Introduction
Burn After Reading!
Hey, good to see you again! Saul Goodman, here—your captain of the Good Ship Reasonable Doubt, very happy to welcome you aboard for voyage numero dos! Perhaps you once knew me as Jimmy McGill (or maybe even “Slippin’ Jimmy” if you met me before the spirit of the law swept me under her noble wing). Call me what you will, as long as it’s not late for happy hour.
For the purposes of our chat today: names don’t really matter—Saul, Jimmy, Flippity, Flappity. These days, there’s a totally different name on my state-approved identification. That same jejune moniker adorns the rental agreement to my humble fifty-shades-of-beige, extended-value apartment—not to mention a number of other very important documents of record, including a birth certificate with conceivably accurate information. And while I mentally and spiritually remain a New Mexican bar-certified legal eagle … we’re not quite there anymore, Toto.
Once upon the not-too-distant past, I got into a bit of a jam that led to a bit of a rabbit hole and long journey short, here we are—ready to rumble in the jungle of smoke screens and pseudonyms. For the purposes of discussion, however, it’s just fine if for the duration of our conversation you still think of me as your old friend-at-law Saul.
Last we met, I detailed a variety of crazy wrinkles in the law that might bring clients to my office for a close encounter with moi; I then shared how I would give them my all and send them back into those refreshing (and scorching) Albuquerque rays of freedom. What you are reading now is a very different sort of legal guide, one that law enforcement officers might even consider extralegal. This is a unique map to aid those of you in need of getting the hell out of Dodge. Or Cicero. Or pretty much anywhere, if your fate du jour isn’t treating you right and you need to make a drastic change, tout suite.
In this hyperconnected age, with everyone’s pay stubs and grocery lists and double rainbow photos flying around the cyber world at the speed of a click, there’s one thing that simply feels impossible to do: disappear. Sure, there are wild-eyed hermits in the Appalachian woods with Unabomber beards and big hearts who will tell you they’ve disconnected from the Matrix. They’ll say they aren’t just off the grid, they’re actually invisible. And H.G. Wells, eat your heart out: they’re probably correct … to some degree. There are men and women who have shed, shredded, and destroyed all connection to the hive mind.
Changing your ’do and floating off on your own like a balloon fleeing an absentminded kid’s fingers toward a lonesome, deflated death in a tree is one way to disappear. Granted, not paying taxes for a while sounds great, but what if you’re jonesing for a fresh start that can’t be satisfied by a top-notch dye job from your local barber or barberess?
This is my guide to getting off the grid, but it’s not just a wistful account of my own vanishing act. I’ll tell you about folks from all walks of life who attempted the same, to varying degrees of success. There are many valid reasons to prefer the less bloody side of “fight or flight,” and there are just as many ways to start flapping those wings to get airborne. I was Jimmy, then I became Saul, and now I’m another guy entirely. I’ve got a new job, a new “look”—and, perhaps most importantly, a new outlook.
I know what it’s like to need to get gone. It was pretty great to be Saul, right up to the point when things were no longer “All good, man.” And I know you’re thinking that a good-looking, intellectual man-about-town like myself probably charmed my way into First Class on that Invisibility Flight, but I had to pay a figurative arm and a leg for my ticket. Probably my left kidney, too. Part of the fee went to the people who helped me remain completely anonymous. They don’t know me; I’ve never heard of them. So I won’t be naming names, here—you’ve only got the legal artist formerly known as Saul to contend with now.
And I’m here to help you figure out if, why, and how you might want to do what I did. Then again, it might not be your cup of tea. I’ll put you through a little boot camp in covering your ass before your assets. I’ll be your travel alarm clock waking you up with an ear-splitting “BEEP” to all those little details of disappearance you never even knew you had to worry about.
This is a guide to living life like a spy in the midst of polite society—except with no covert mission on which to hang your rakish black hat. You’ll learn to put on the (legally) stylish thinking caps of both James Bond and whichever handsome English devil is playing him now. Fact is, it all comes down to that instinctual question asked by spies and soldiers and anyone who’s ever found themselves in a scrape since we were facing down saber-toothed tigers with pointy sticks: do I want to get out of this alive?
Obviously, this is all purely for your entertainment. Of course you shouldn’t attempt to run from the hungry, fear-smelling, trouble-monster that is your life. No way should anyone ever try to dodge creditors, tax collectors, or the police (and, in some cases, temperamental former amours). I’m still a sworn officer of the court on the inside, my friend, and therefore cannot seriously encourage you to do anything that is illegal in any way.
But if you’re going to devise a back-up plan (a purely hypothetical one of course)—do it right. I hope you get inspired and run with it, build a happy little yurt on a remote farm and live your life goat herding safely away from the madding crowd. As long as you haven’t committed any crimes worth prosecuting, it’s perfectly legal for adults in these blessed United States to vanish whenever they wish. There’s no legal gravity holding you down, keeping you punching time cards and voting for whomever’s won the he said, she said city council majority this year.
Make no mistake: rebooting your life is a job in its own right. A life is a gargantuan canvas with a lot of cracks and corners to fill. Flipping one upside down and giving it a new coat of paint with a different name and a location far away from the one it knew requires invention. It takes sacrifice, and you’re going to get tired eyes and sizable calluses along the way.
The time is now! Pull on those work mitts. Maybe layer some surgical-style rubber gloves underneath. Grab a long-sleeved shirt, too, because welding your life into an attractive new shape puts off a lot of invisible UV rays, and you don’t want to be surprised by second-degree burns when you wake up the next morning. Plus, you don’t want to leave too many skin cells behind if you can help it—think about all of that easily sampled DNA.
Okay. I see you’re ready to hop aboard with your protective gear and bindle. Let’s get this New You Show on the road.
Copyright © 2017 by TM & © 2017 by Sony Pictures Television, Inc.
Cover photograph © 2017 Sony Pictures Television, Inc.
