Identity Theft

Lately I’ve been brooding about a public service announcement that featured a creepy character that was rejoicing in his stolen identity. Or that was what it seemed like. Maybe you saw it. I haven’t dreamed this up, have I?

Anyway I thought it had a valuable clue for me in searching for my “usable past” (this is a literary phrase I’ve been dying to work in for some time now). I’ve been looking for my self, or sometimes a former self.

I’m in the midst of my third mid life crisis, which seems to have something to do with identity, which come to think of it, was what my other two mid-life crises were about. (How did I resolve the previous two crises, you may ask. And that’s a darned good question, too. I got married at forty; I forget what happened at fifty.)

I’ve been trying to write a few memories of my early days—for example, an account of when the folks and I headed for the Oklahoma land rush in 1889. My scheme is if I can find the boy I was, it will indicate the man-child I became. Deep down I’m trying to figure things out. I realize that Trying to Make Sense Out of Things has ruined many a boy’s life, so I’m trying to tread lightly.

It occurs to me that my self or my identity has been stolen. Four days out of seven I don’t seem to be at home or at work for that matter. I’ve noticed a stranger at my workplace. He uses my coffee cup and sits at my desk. I know he’s an impostor, but I don’t say anything. (I try to get along with everybody.)

This would explain a lot. I can’t write about a missing person, somebody who is leaving behind a trail of credit card charges and is making tracks to an undisclosed location. My latest brainstorm on memoir writing is to interview my self, or my former selves. So far, it’s been a bust.

Whenever I do try to interview myself about the past, Self appears to be out of town. When I do locate him, he pleads memory loss. 1963? He can’t recall it. In other words, he hasn’t been very helpful. Self seems to be unclear even about the present. He gets up in the morning and can’t remember what day of the week it is. Maybe it’s the weekend, and he’ll sleep in. Wrong!

I guess I should have picked a better collaborator than Self. I probably need to find a good ghostwriter who has led an exciting life and wouldn’t mind sharing.

In the meantime I think I’ll work on the identity theft idea. I’m pretty sure I used to be somebody. (Sometimes I see an old customer who’ll ask: “Didn’t you used to work at the bank? How’s retirement?” Forgotten, but not gone, as George S. Kaufman once said of somebody.)

I think I’ll try calling the ITB (Identity Theft Bureau) again. They may have a record of me. I tried the number earlier today and got put on hold when I selected the option for Seriously Deluded People Who Think Identity Theft Means Somebody Stole Their Selves As Well As Their Credit Cards.

I can see this group waiting by the phone for a return call from the Bureau in which everything is explained. (“Your self is living in Mexico City and wishes you were there.”)

The lot of a memoir writer—ask General Grant—is hard.