Sunday, November 8, 2020

"Wackos Create an Identity Crisis"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group


To be or not to be — that’s not even a question for all the people in the world who don’t want to be me. That’s why my identity has never been stolen.


I can’t say the same for my wife, Sue, who recently noticed suspicious activity on one of her credit cards, received a mysterious box containing junk she’d never ordered, and had to go to the bank to straighten the whole mess out.


I accompanied her to see what it was like to be wanted by somebody other than the police.


The drama, sponsored by a company named for a river in South America (sorry, you’re wrong, it’s not the Orinoco), began when Sue saw a charge for $54.28.


“Did you buy something?” she asked me.


I professed my innocence and said, “I wouldn’t know how.”


A few days later, a prompt parcel person plopped a package on our doorstep, made a beeline back to his truck and sped away.


Sue took the box inside and saw that her name had been misspelled.


“How could anyone misspell ‘Sue’?” I wondered.


“No,” she said with a sigh. “I mean the last name.”


It was spelled “Zezmimia.”


“Sounds like either a small country or some kind of unpleasant ointment,” I said. “Either way, I couldn’t spell the name until I was in high school.”


Sue tore open the box and discovered the contents: a fake spider’s web, five wishing lights and an insulated lunch bag.


“If someone’s going to send stuff,” Sue huffed, “they could have ordered something good.”


That prompted a call to the aforementioned company and a conversation with a very nice customer service specialist named Chanel.


“This is what they do,” she said, referring to the fraudsters who attempt to steal the identities of law-abiding citizens and, it should be noted, online shoppers like Sue. “They’ll send a package to your house using your credit card information and then take the package back before you have a chance to bring it in.”


“You were too fast for them,” I told Sue.


“Speaking of fast,” said Chanel, who cleared the charge at her company, “you should go to the bank and get a new card.”


Before you could say “Chapter 11,” Sue and I were sitting with a helpful financial solutions adviser named Daniel.


“I’m going to freeze the card,” he said after taking it from Sue.


“It’s safer than incinerating it,” I said. “You might burn the bank down.”


Daniel politely ignored the remark and said, “It’s disconcerting, to say the least.”


“If not less,” I added.


Daniel called the fraud department and spoke with a claims specialist named Max, who then spoke with Sue.


“He canceled the card,” she said after hanging up.


“I guess it was Maxed out,” I commented.


“I hate when this happens,” Daniel said, presumably referring to identity theft, though he could have been talking about my stupid jokes.


“Nobody wants my identity,” I told him.


“I can relate,” Daniel said. “I have yet to find a person who wants mine. I’m working on it.”


He looked at the computer screen and noted that Sue and I have joint banking.


“It’s so we can afford to stay in our joint,” I explained. “But after this, if I tried to get into Sue’s account, would I be arrested?”


“Yes,” said Daniel. “The cops would take both of us out in handcuffs.”


After telling Sue that she’d soon be getting a new card, Daniel warned us about credit thievery.


“It’s happened to me,” he said. “There are a bunch of wacko ding dongs out there.”


“That means I’m safe,” I said.


“How so?” Daniel asked.


“I’m a wacko ding dong,” I answered. “That’s why nobody wants my identity.”


Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima


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