My Planet: Finding Humor in the Oddest Places

I Gotta Be… You

I never used to worry about identity theft. If you were a thief seeking to get rich and live the high life, becoming Mary Roach was not the way to go about it. You’d have the money to paint the town red, yet you’d be compelled to drive across town to the store that sells paint 50 cents a gallon cheaper. You’d be a thief with an identity crisis.

But lately, owing to a spate of ads and news stories about identity theft, I worry. I recently threw away some ten years of old bank statements and tax forms. In the old days, I’d just toss them. Now, because I noticed that my Social Security number is at the top of every page of my tax forms and many of my old check stubs, I get out a Magic Marker and black them all out.

After about a minute of this, I get bored. The last time, as a distraction, I decided to call up the IRS and let them know they were putting Americans at risk of identity theft. A man named Jim answered. I suggested to him that they use people’s birth dates as an identifier at the top of the forms instead of Social Security numbers.

Jim replied that there are 270 million Americans, and that many of them have the same name and birth date.

“Well, something ought to be done about that too,” I said indignantly. “Think about how easy it would be for Peter Smith, 5/13/66, to steal the identity of another Peter Smith, 5/13/66.”

Jim was quiet. Maybe he was thinking about it. More likely, he was jotting my name down on IRS Form 498872: Request for Audit of Irksome Journalist. I thanked Jim and went back to my stack of forms and my Magic Marker. To make the time pass more quickly, I pretended I was a World War I counterespionage specialist, censoring troops’ letters home lest Allied information fall into enemy hands. Shortly after taps, my husband, Ed, arrived home.

“Good evening, Colonel,” I said. It’s possible the marker fumes were affecting me. “Something of a backlog here. Looks like I’ll be at it till reveille.”

Ed blinked. “You’re getting black marks on the rug.”

Ed doesn’t worry about identity theft. He has his own security protocol, which is to cut expired credit cards in two, throw one half away, and put the other half underneath a yellow bowl in the kitchen. “The next time I use the bowl,” he explained, “I throw away the other half.” I had come across these snippets of plastic and been perplexed. It was as though our house was infested with strange banking squirrels, stockpiling credit for the winter ahead. Financial statements and tax forms aren’t a problem for Ed, as he has yet to throw one away.

I decided I needed a paper shredder. I drove over to our local office-supply store, which sold several models. “Did you want the cross cut or the strip cut?” said the salesman, whose identity had obviously been stolen by a butcher. He said he was a fan of the cross-cut model that “turns eight sheets at a time into confetti.” Perfect for the Allied victory parade, I thought to myself, adjusting the cuffs on my imaginary uniform.

I was ready to hand him my credit card. Then I stopped. “How do I know you’re who you say you are? I can’t give you my credit card number. That’s top secret information.”

“Okay,” he said, and turned to the next customer.

I put the paper shredder back on the shelf. In the end, I gave my old tax forms to a friend’s fourth-grader, to line the bottom of her hamster cage. If you see a rodent with my name on its checks, let me know.