It's a wonderful telemarketer
A telemarketer tries to sell me identity theft insurance, but WHO will buy it?
“Is Vanessa Bailey there?”
I should tell the caller the truth, they have the wrong number. But I’m pretty sure the person calling me at seven in the morning is a telemarketer, and when it comes to telemarketers, I just can’t help myself.
“This is George Bailey,” I say.
“Mr. Bailey—”
“Call me George.”
It’s early, and I haven’t had my coffee yet, so it takes me a beat to place the name I gave the telemarketer. While she launches into a spiel about why I need to buy identity theft insurance, I do some quick Googling on my phone. Turns out George Bailey was the main character in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. I was a teenager the last time I watched that movie, and I don’t remember much about the film except that it airs on TV every Christmas, and it stars Jimmy Stewart. I’ll have to wing it.
“Hang on a second,” I interrupt. “I think I need to file an identity theft claim.”
“Have you been the victim of identity theft?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I can’t take your claim, but I can help you purchase a policy.”
“But I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you I was George Bailey, but who is George Bailey? I get the feeling like he’s a fictional character.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Frankly, I don’t understand either. When I went to bed last night, I was Michael Estrin. But this morning I’m George Bailey, whoever he is.”
“Um…”
“Have you ever seen this happen?”
“No.”
“But you work in the identity theft industry. I would’ve thought this kind of stuff happens all the time. Isn’t that how identity theft works?”
“Identity theft is a serious crime that affects millions of Americans every year.”
“I know, I think I’m one of them! Someone stole Michael Estrin and replaced him with this George Bailey guy. I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m dealing with a full-on body switch situation.”
“What?”
“Freaky Friday. Dream a Little Dream. 18 Again! Any of this ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Let me paint a picture. On my good days, I used to look like a young Francis Ford Coppola. On my bad days, I looked like a middle-aged Jerry Garcia. Once, a judge in LA County said I resembled Allen Ginsberg, the poet. Everyone howled with laughter. Anyway, today I look like Jimmy Stewart. Hang on. Let me check my driver’s license.”
I pause for a second, pretending to fetch my wallet.
“By god, my driver’s license says I’m Jimmy Stewart! Do you believe that shit? Even the state of California is in on it. Hell, the IRS is probably in on it too. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to replace Michael Estrin with Jimmy Stewart. But they didn’t cover their tracks. Case in point: Jimmy Stewart didn’t have a beard. Someone stole my beard! If that’s not identity theft, I don’t know what is.”
“Identity theft is when someone steals your social security number or other financial information.”
“Well, at least there’s a silver lining to this case of identity theft.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, whoever stole Michael Estrin and replaced him with Jimmy Stewart isn’t very savvy when it comes to money stuff. See, Michael Estrin is a writer, and while he’s managed to make a living selling stories for about twenty years, he hasn’t exactly been crushing it, as the kids say. But Jimmy Stewart, on the other hand, was a big-ass movie star. Translation: I’m rich as fuck boi!”
“That’s not how identity theft works.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I just logged into my bank account, and I’ve got a million bucks in there that says you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Michael Estrin never had that kind of dough, but Jimmy Stewart is rolling in it.”
“Sir, I think you’re playing a terrible joke. Identity theft is nothing to laugh about.”
“Damn straight. Now, that I’ve leveled-up from Michael Estrin to I’m Jimmy Stewart, I’d like insure this identity because I hear it’s a wonderful life.”
