Identity Theft by Jon Wesick

Identity Theft by Jon Wesick

There were two, quick knocks on the door and a man in a white coat entered the exam room. He had a craggy face and gaunt body that was all elbows and knees.

“Mr. Bitumen, I’m Doctor Chipolata.” He opened my chart. “We got your tests back and the news isn’t good. The tumor is in a delicate part of your brain and surgery wouldn’t remove all the cancer. This is an aggressive malignancy that rarely responds to chemo. All we can do is make you comfortable.

“The best way to lift your spirits is with movie musicals. There’s a hospice that looks just like the Tyrolean village in Sound of Music. You can spend your final days enjoying a morphine drip along with tunes from Going My Way, A Star is Born, Oklahoma, Mary Poppins, An American in Paris, and Singin’ in the Rain.”

“Doc, I …” I reached for the pamphlet and stumbled into him.

When Dr. Chipolata caught me, I slipped his wallet out of his pocket and dropped mine.

“Sorry.” I pointed to the floor. “Is that yours?”

When he lifted the wallet off the floor, he squinted in pain and held his hands to his head. Now, I was the doctor and he was the patient.

“It’s the tumor,” I said. “Let me help you out of that coat and I’ll write you a prescription for Oxy.”

& & &

I rolled up the sleeves of my oversized, white coat before accompanying Mr. Bitumen to the waiting room where Edna sat next to young Becky.

“Mrs. Bitumen, your husband expressed interest in movie musicals.” I handed her the pamphlet. “Try to make Harvey’s last months enjoyable.”

I strolled to the reception desk.

“You’re not Dr. Chipolata,” a nurse said.

“This says I am.” I held up my ID card.

“Guess I was mistaken. June Scallion’s here again. I put her in room three.”

“Okay, I’ll take a look.” I entered the exam room and dropped the patient chart.

With her tattoos and piercings, June Scallion exuded the thrilling sexuality Edna never did. She kicked her legs back and forth atop the exam couch, offering me glimpses of the leopard-print panties beneath her miniskirt.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Scallion?”

“Call me June. It’s the pain, doctor. I need you to renew my Oxy prescription.”

“That’s a powerful drug,” I said. “It could be habit forming.”

“But I’m in such agony. See how my heart’s racing.” She took my hand and held it to her chest.

“That does seem serious.” I felt her breast through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. “Of course, to renew your prescription, I’ll have to perform a full physical.”

& & &

After renewing June Scallion’s prescription, I realized I could write one for myself, too. By the time I had to perform afternoon surgery, I was feeling no pain. How hard could it be? After all, I’d seen plenty of operations on TV.

“This is our new intern, Dr. Wyle Stopwatch,” the anesthesiologist said when I entered the operating room.

“Glad to meet you!” I reached out to shake hands.

“Doctor, I’m sterile.” Young Wyle backed away.

“Sorry to hear that. Tell me, Wyle. You ever perform brain surgery before?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present to start. What’s the first thing you want to do?”

“Open the skull?”

“Go for it!”

A crimson line formed on the patient’s shaved skull as Young Wyle sliced the skin with a scalpel.

“Good job, Wyle! You got this!”

He reached for the bone saw and I gave thumbs up. With my encouragement, Young Wyle did pretty well until he severed the internal carotid artery. Oh well, you have to make a few mistakes if you want to learn. With a little more self-confidence, Young Wyle would be fine.

After changing out of my scrubs, I exited the hospital wondering what kind of car I now drove. Would it be a Mercedes or a Ferrari? Whatever it was would be an improvement over my twelve-year-old Hyundai. I pushed through the revolving door and saw a blonde woman in a curve-hugging pantsuit standing on the steps.

“Dr. Chipolata?”

“That’s me.”

She handed me an envelope. “You’ve been served.”

& & &

“My advice is to settle.” Paddington Bludgeon, ESQ had a head shaped like a bullet and a body like a thirty-round magazine, the kind banned in California. He’d hung his suit jacket on the coat rack and sat at his desk in shirtsleeves and vest.

“But they’re asking for five-million bucks,” I said.

“You’re lucky they don’t ask for twenty” He twirled the tips of his handlebar mustache. “Your botched surgery left a kid paralyzed. If this case gets to a jury, they’ll take you for a hundred.”

“So, there’s nothing we can do?” I inched toward his jacket, slipped my hand into the breast pocket, and felt a sting. “Owe!” I jerked my hand away and shook off the mouse trap that had bitten my fingers.

“I’ve been in the game long enough to know a desperate client might be tempted to take my place. Their lawyers aren’t just going to take you to the cleaners. They’re going to soak you in perchloroethylene, put you in a big drum, and spin you around until all your cash rinses out. The job market’s tight but there are always openings in musical hospice. Try this one. It’s made to look like the shtetl from Fiddler on the Roof. Staff gets free rooming and all the matzo you can eat.” He handed me a pamphlet. “My advice is to take voice lessons.”

& & &

Singing Nazis? Jewish ghettos? No thanks! I needed to swap identities fast but word had gotten out that I was radioactive. Women clutched their purses and men stayed out of arms’ reach when they saw me coming so I headed down to the Jaundiced Rabbit on skid row.

“Give me a bottle of Montrachat Grand Cru!”

“We don’t have that kind of drink here, mister.” The bartender spit into a glass of two-dollar wine and slid it a woman in a mangy, fur coat.

“Then give me a bottle of your best whiskey!” I laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

The Jaundiced Rabbit catered to day drinkers and alcoholics. Today’s clientele included cast members from Cats and the Wizard of Oz in their motheaten costumes. I left my wallet halfway out of my hip pocket but there were no takers. A news story on the TV over the bar explained why.

“Students at the Rutherford B, Hayes Middle School are staging a musical about the paralyzed second-grader, Jimmy Tortellini. I’m speaking with homeroom teacher, Madeline Inkblot. Madeline, what motivated students to perform this story?” The reported pointed a handheld microphone at a middle-aged woman in a peasant dress.

“One of my students’ best friend’s cousins knows Jimmy. When the children heard about Dr. Chipolata’s criminal negligence, they decided to take action. Jimmy’s case is a cause célèbre in Hollywood, so Andrew Floyd Webster wrote the music. Even better, we’re taking our play on tour, visiting sixteen cities in five countries.”

“Amazing! We can only hope that other students follow your example of civic engagement. This is Amanda Postal-Scale for KNOT News. Back to you, Ron.”

& & &

“Hi, honey. I’m home.” I hung up my coat and joined my trophy wife by the lava lamp.

“How was your day?” With her Lycra clothing clinging to breasts that could have been designed by a horny, boy genius in a teen, sci-fi romcom, Irma was my one consolation.

“Exhausting.” I embraced her. “How about a nice, romantic evening at home?”

“But I promised to meet Jen at Pilates.” She wiggled out of my grasp. “I’d better freshen up.”

I didn’t know why she needed to put on makeup to go to the gym but her absence gave me an opportunity. I grabbed her purse and left my wallet in its place.

On my way out the door, the smart phone buzzed with a text.

“Best Western on Commerce. Room 304. Gerry.”

& & &

“You look different,” a man with sandy hair said after opening the motel-room door. He had a square jaw, elliptical face, and hyperbolic grin.

“This says otherwise.” I held up my ID.

“Can’t argue with that.”

I followed him into the room where a bottle of prosecco cooled in an ice bucket next to the microwave oven.

“I’ve been thinking.” Gerry slipped behind me and kissed the nape of my neck. “Bumping off your husband now would cause too much suspicion. If we wait until after the lawsuit, the life insurance money would still be enough for us to escape to Belize.”

“I’m not spending my life in some mosquito-infested jungle!” I slipped out of his grasp. “Maybe that’s enough for you because you only care about one thing.” I pouted. “How come we never do anything?”

After more guilt tripping, he took me to a restaurant. I ordered tuna tartare and wagyu beef. The tartare glistened with soy, sesame oil, and shaved scallions. The wagyu was butter tender and rich as I would be if we murdered my husband. Delicious as they were, it was even more delicious watching Gerry pay the bill after I ate only three bites and left the rest on my plate. Later at the nightclub, I barely noticed the bottle of Montrachat Grand Cru because I was too busy dancing with a motorcycle gang under the disco ball. Exhausted and a little drunk, I let Gerry take me back to the motel.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time.” I ran a finger down his belly. “Why don’t you take a shower? Then I’ll give you a nice massage.”

Grinning, he dropped his pants before entering the bathroom. When I heard the water running. I swapped my purse with his wallet.

& & &

My new name was Gerry Combstalker. Despite owning a hydrogen-powered car franchise on Franklin, I lived in a dingbat apartment because most of my salary went to child support. The next day, I parked my Miata in the dealer lot, entered my office, and gazed through the picture window at the showroom. The Zeppelin 5000s reminding me of footballs with tailfins. Just like panzers, they came in two colors, dunkelgrau and dunkelgelb. I examined the books. Business was abysmal so I called a meeting of the pompadours and polyester jackets that made up my sales team.

“I’m announcing a sales contest for Novemberfest. First prize is a new Cadillac.” I held up the keys. “Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is you’re fired. Any questions?” Having motivated the sales team, I returned to my office. The receptionist opened the door minutes later.

“Excuse me, Mr. Combstalking. These gentlemen wish to see you. They say it’s urgent.”

Two men with leather jackets covering their T-shirt pushed past her and closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Nitty wants his money.” The first sunk his fist into my gut.

“It…” **I struggled to catch my breath. “It’ll take a few days to liquidate my assets.”

“You got till Friday.” The second brained me with a 2015 Motor Shaft Turncoat Award. “Or else, we’ll liquidate you.”

I lay on the floor for what seemed like hours and struggled to my feet when I heard a commotion in the showroom. Looking through the glass, I recognized a woman with a square face and pink-tinted pigtails. She was Marjoram, the only member of the Herb Girls to parlay their success into a post-breakup career. Borage’s and Epazote’s solo albums didn’t sell and Bay Leaf never did anything. I exited my office.

“It’s an honor to have Marjoram in our showroom,” I said. “I just love your duet with Placenta Domingo If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“This just might work.” Marjoram ran her hand over a Zeppelin 5000’s fender. “I’m starring in a remake of Guys and Dolls. The director’s an AI computer, trained to emulate Werner Herzog’s films, and this car has the retro vibe we’re looking for.”

 “Wonderful.” With Marjoram as a customer, I could pay off my debt in time. “We at Zeppelin 5000 will be proud to be part of your film.”

“Great.” Marjoram waved as she walked to the exit. “I’ll have my producer stop by to go over the details.”

& & &

 “No doubt product placement will boost your sales.” Warren Zanheimer wore pajamas and slippers everywhere he went just because he could. He lit a cigar despite the no-smoking sign. “Got an ashtray?”

“Sure.” I slid my coffee cup across the desk.

“Here’s the deal. Pay us eight-hundred-thousand dollars and I’ll put your cars in our movie.”

It was Friday morning and things were looking grim. After the visit from Nitty’s goons, my sales staff had sealed their pockets with safety pins and the receptionist had chained her purse to a pit bull named Cuddles.

“I’ll have to ask corporate,” I said.

“I’ll give you until close of business, Monday.”

There were no pockets for an identity card in Zanheimber’s pajamas.

& & &

The punches to my kidneys erased all thoughts of stealing the identities of Mr. Nitty’s goons. That would have been impossible, anyway, because I was manacled to an overhead crane.

“What is it about the words Friday and deadline you don’t understand?” Walter Nitty asked while observing from a folding chair. He wore a golf shirt, polyester pants, and white shoes but no one dared tell him the fashion was fifty years out of date.

“I got you a deal,” I muttered.

“A deal? The only deal I’m interested in is you paying the money you owe.” Nitty nodded to a goon who kneed me in the groin.

“Not even if it means being in the movies?” I grunted.

“Movies?”

“I lined you up as a producer on a Guys and Dolls remake.”

“Why should I care about a musical I can watch at a nursing home any night of the week?”

“Because Marjoram is playing Sarah Brown and the casting director wants authentic actors to play Sky Masterson, Joey Biltmore, and the gamblers.”

“Another set of stereotypes, you mean.” Nitty walked over to me. “I’m fed up with Hollywood’s representation of hard-working businessmen who offer services to customers the banks refuse.”

His henchmen nodded in agreement.

“That’s the beauty of it. Being a producer will give you leverage.”

Nitty stroked his chin and gave a nod. His henchmen unshackled my hands.

“There is a small matter of the million-dollar buy in,” I said.

& & &

“Pull! You are weaker than ninety-year-old grannies with flat feet.” The AI director spoke with a staccato, German accent through the laptop’s speaker. “In our musical, songs must come out of nowhere like a puff adder that waits in ambush and strikes sudden and hard, injecting its prey with cytotoxic venom. We will toss the burning car over a waterfall to show the absurdity of humanity’s reliance on machines in a cold, uncaring universe. Then our earworms will burrow into the audience’s minds just like the Toxoplasma gondii parasite that fools mice into embracing their own demise. I find the tunes quite snappy.”

What demon from hell planted the idea of filming Guys and Dolls in the Amazon rainforest in that AI’s neural network? Even though the rope tore my calloused palms, I pulled with the others to haul steel girders, bottles of hydrogen, and a Zeppelin 5000 up the muddy slope. Swapping identities would be pointless because we were all trapped in the same godforsaken misery. I’d sweat through my pinstriped suit and lost my fedora hours ago. Walter Nitty had it the worst. Feverish with malaria, yellow fever, dengue virus, leishmaniasis, schistosomiasis, and Zika, he plodded, numb as a zombie with chronic fatigue syndrome. A caiman had taken one of his goons. The other’s leg was swollen to the size of a Doric column from a giant centipede’s sting. Having only to carry the laptop, Marjoram fared the best but she limped after breaking a heel on her Manolo Blahniks. To think, I could have been dying in hospice or singing the theme from Oklahoma in a nursing home.

“Look out!”

The rope snapped and I dodged an avalanche of steel girders. Walter Nitty did not move in time. He was one of the lucky ones.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Jon Wesick 2025

Image Source: glasskid50 from Pixabay