Bruce, the Braniff Pilot (Or So He Said)

Hi Frank,

Some stories are just too bizarre not to be true. Wait’ll I tell you this one!  

I was in my mid-20s, living alone for the first time in a bright, beautiful Dallas apartment, and loving my single life. I had a great job at a well-known commercial real estate firm in the Turtle Creek area, surrounded by polished people, skyline views, and all the energy of young independence. It was a season of learning, working, dressing up, and going out — full of possibilities and the occasional misadventure.

Bruce, as it turns out, would be one of those.

I’ve always been fascinated by human behavior — the way people present themselves, what they reveal without realizing it. On occasion you’ll meet someone whose stories hint at something deeper they’re hoping you’ll believe.  So, while I wasn’t remotely interested in Bruce romantically, I found myself curious. I could already tell he was the kind of man who built castles out of stories — and I watched, wanting to see how long it would take before the moat dried up. This was so intriguing!

Bruce showed up at the restaurant wearing a toupee, a thick mustache, and thick glasses — so much face coverage I could hardly tell what he looked like. He was self-conscious, yet oddly full of himself. What a combination. He told story after story, most of them clearly crafted to impress. By the time the bill arrived, I’d learned he was a Braniff pilot and the son of true jetsetters — one parent worked at Dun & Bradstreet in New York City, the other was a financial advisor to the stars in Los Angeles. Very glamorous.

I wasn’t attracted to him, not even a little, but I agreed to another date. 

One day he took me to Sanger-Harris, a beautiful Dallas store known for elegant clothing and designer furnishings. He casually mentioned that he’d hired their home designers to fully decorate his luxury apartment — which, conveniently, turned out to be in my high-rise building. (He moved there after we started dating. Looking back, I suspect he knew the building was full of wealthy tenants and thought he could find ways to blend in and latch on.)

A few weeks in, Bruce asked if I wanted to fly with him to Colorado to visit friends. He’d take us in a private plane — a Piper Cub. Of course I said yes. I packed a darling travel wardrobe, and off we went.

But midair, things got tense. It was cold. The skies felt a little off. Suddenly, a voice came over the radio — an airport control tower barking his tail number, clearly angry. They ordered him to land immediately and meet with the tower staff. When we touched down, Bruce was escorted off the tarmac like a teenager caught sneaking out. He came back pale and rattled and told me we’d have to leave the plane behind and take a bus to our destination.

Naturally, I asked for more details. He gave some odd, scrambled story that I gave up trying to understand.  

When we arrived, his friends greeted us — and to my surprise, they had come on two mammoth motorcycles. The man drove one, Bruce drove the other. The plan was for Bruce to ride with the man’s wife seated behind him, while I rode on the back of the other motorcycle with her husband. As we cruised along the winding Colorado highway, I found myself chatting with this friend. To make conversation, I brought up Bruce’s impressive-sounding parents — their high-powered jobs in finance, the jetsetting between LA and New York. He laughed so hard I thought he might lose control of the bike. “His dad’s a handyman,” he said. “His mom’s sick and doesn’t work.”

That was when the wheels really began turning.

Back in Dallas, I didn’t hear from Bruce the night we’d planned to talk. I went up to his apartment to check, and as I stood outside his door, two women from Sanger-Harris knocked — the very store he had bragged about. They were trying to collect payment for $30,000–$40,000 worth of furnishings he’d ordered. Nothing had been paid. They asked if I knew Bruce. I said I did… for now.

Eventually he called. We went to Javier’s, the chic Mexican restaurant with divine food and low lighting. Bruce showed up in full Braniff pilot uniform, explaining he’d head to the airport right after dinner. As we ate, I noticed a group of clean-cut men nearby, frowning in our direction, whispering, glaring. As they left, one of them slipped a cocktail napkin onto Bruce’s side of the table.

Bruce glanced at it, went ghost white, started to sweat, and said nothing. Just muttered a story I didn’t believe. Then he excused himself to the restroom — and, thinking he was being clever, crumpled the napkin and tossed it into the planter beside us.

Of course I fished it out.

The note was scathing. It said Bruce was a fraud, that he had no right to wear the Braniff uniform, and that he ought to be reported. I slipped it into my bag, smoothed out my expression, and waited. I didn’t mention it. Not yet. The sociologist in me had taken over. I had to see how this played out.

The final chapter came when I was preparing to tell Bruce it was over. He was an hour and a half late to our date. When he finally arrived, his clothes were torn, his knee was scraped, and his forehead was bleeding. He looked a mess and claimed he’d been in a terrible car accident. An ambulance had come, he said, to check on both him and the woman who’d hit him.

I was concerned, of course. I fetched a cloth, made him comfortable, and tried to get more details. He was jumpy, disoriented — until suddenly, he burst out laughing. He doubled over, howling with delight. “There was no accident,” he said. “I made the whole thing up. Just wanted to see how you’d react!”

And that, Frank, was the end of Bruce. I never saw him again. But I’ll never forget him either — the toupee, the mustache, the fake pilot wings, the luxury apartment he never paid for.

Some people lie to impress. Bruce lied as a lifestyle! 

Postscript

I think we’ve all had at least one date we later describe with the phrase, “Wait — you’re not going to believe this…”

Looking back now, I don’t feel embarrassed, Frank. I feel grateful to my younger self for staying curious, staying smart, and knowing when it was time to close the door and walk away. The story makes me laugh — and it reminds me how much I’ve always trusted my instincts, even when I let the play run a little long just to see how the scene might end.

Besides, life would be awfully dull without the occasional impersonator, wouldn’t it, Frank!  
Love,

😘

Jane