I suspect that there more than a few guys in this world who would lie, cheat and steal to be me. I’m not sure whom or where they are, but sometimes when I walk out my door I expect to discover a long lost friend or acquaintance camping out in my yard, begging for the secret to my blithe approach to life. Now before you thumb your nose at these kinds of people, lets give them credit for at least recognizing the sheer fluidity with which I slither through all social situations. You can’t blame them for striving to press their finger on the very pulse of style. And frankly, if they are camped outside my cabin, all the more reason to admire them. These are the go-getters, the guys with gumption.
But I’d like to inform you of another strain of copycat that I do not care for so much. This man is not at all interested in mimicking or embodying the essence of me. He doesn’t care about how to make friends and influence people or how I carry my broad shoulders. His only interest is in pretending to be me. And with the help of my lost driver’s license, my social security number (555-55-5555) and current address. Another Scott Keneally lurks among us.
The proof came in the mail, in the form of a mysterious Verizon bill with lots of unfamiliar calls to Compton. For a moment, I entertain the thought that I’m being Punk’d. Compton? I’d say aloud, just as a camera crew rushes into my kitchen. My startled (but still sexy) expression will be immortalized on MTV’s new show. The one where they punk peripherally famous folks. But when Ashton doesn’t burst through my door and scream Ha, ha! and jump on my back, I phone Verizon.
Apparently, I’m not being Punk’d. Not by Ashton anyways. Surprise, surprise. According to the rep, I walked into a NYC branch of Verizon with my long since expired NJ drivers’ license, gave them my social security number and new Cali-address, and walked away with a new phone and plan.
As the glow of imminent fame subsides, a surge of panic rushes forward and fleeces my sanity. Not only could he apply for credit cards and loans and more phones and whatnot, but he could also rack up a police record in my name. A police record! Next thing you know, I’m splashed all over the six o’clock news because Mark Furhman found my license at the scene of a failed-burglary-turned-triple-homicide right next door to me. And I’m on the line for it, of course.
My tummy churns and turns and for the first time I’m seasick. Sure, I knew the techno-pirates were out there, preying on the unsuspecting, but I always assumed that identity theft was the fate of other people, much like kidney stones or colostomy bags. After my doomsday scenarios run their course, a smirk wipes across my face.
He clearly picked the wrong guy to fuck with.
What he doesn’t know is that Scott Keneally has one of the lowest credit scores in the country. Ha! Only 5.3% of the population has a worse rating than me. Take that, sucker! Whereas my 515 credit score used to be a source of deep personal shame, I’m now titillated by the thought of the grip of rejected credit applications this dope has coming his way.
He’s hotwired a lemon.
Like a junkie who celebrates small feats, like only shooting up seven times in the past hour, I’m struck by the genius of my fiscal irresponsibility. Of course I’d muck up my credit all these years. All those unopened credit card statements and unpaid tuition payments were all part of an elaborate scheme to screw over this wannabe me, imposter man.
Google ushers me to various identity theft sites and per protocol, I place a fraud alert on my credit report. I’ll supposedly be personally contacted whenever my doppelganger tries anything fishy but predictably I never receive any calls from the lenders. Instead, I’m frequently hit with credit rejection letters from companies like Best Buy and Home Depot and Lexus. I don’t even qualify for the three hundred dollar Capital One Pre-Approved Platinum Card. But as an ever-opportunist, I easily locate the platinum lining in my delinquent dilemma. Now, when I beg my credit card companies for a credit limit increase I have a reasonable excuse for my low standings in the fiscal area code. I know my score is low, but some jerk has been running around with my identity, I say.
Finally, give it up for the 515!
posted by Scott Keneally @ 11:07 PM
1 Comments:
well, well, you actually do work? i figured this whole time you been doin these blogs (what the fuck is a blog) you were applying mascera or trying to sell yourself door-to-door ( not a bad idea, but not much of a market for that eh?). anyway, good story, way to represent the 500 block. clever use of pegging yourself as a lemon. quite comical throughout. besides good show of style, you also nailed a much less appreciated asthetic in that the essay flows well and is not to lengthy. keep up the good work.
p.s. oregon rains alot
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