‘Identity Theft and the Vanity of Your Worth,’ a poem by Jimmy Cvetic

By March 5, 2019 No Comments

Editor’s Note: Over the years, I think I’ve read more than 100 of Jimmy Cvetic’s poems. In my opinion, no one piece captures who Jimmy was more than this piece. Jimmy lived his life for other people, it’s who he was. And he was the only guy for the job.

Jimmy Cvetic (Photo by: Duane Rieder)

      Identity Theft and the Vanity of Your Worth

By Jimmy Cvetic

A guy called me with a foreign accent,

I think he could have been from India or

maybe from some country in Africa

that has tigers and hippopotamus’

and he sounded like he was

from a place that I probably couldn’t pronounce

a Godforsaken place where children play in raw sewage

where the men probably stone women for adultery …

“I’ve stolen your identity.”

I said, “You want to be me?

I don’t even want to be me!

How’d you get my phone number? It’s unlisted.”

He said, “Nothing is unlisted,

haven’t you read Orwell’s book 1984?

I said, “But that was over twenty years ago,

nobody reads that book anymore, except maybe some professors

that used to be hippies in the 60’s

and probably swam in Walden’s Pond.”

He said, “You only have $22.00 in your checking account,

would you like to borrow some money?”

I said, “No, you can keep the money,

I would only use it to buy tofu,

or maybe a Bukowski or Twain book.”

He asked, “You don’t care about your identity?”

I said, “Not really,

I’ve reached the age when I get up to pee

at least three times a night,

and sometimes I stub my toe

which hurts,

but I’m too old to even jump around in pain,

so you can keep my identity.”

I hung up the phone,

went to the refrigerator

and found a piece of yesterday’s pizza.

I thought of my father … how he’d go to the bakery and

buy yesterday’s doughnuts.

It was good except he’d make powdered milk,

which was not really that good,

and I don’t even want to mention the government cheese,

but in a strange wino way it was all good.

I lost my balance the other day

and I felt like I’d been drinking,

so I went to the doctor.

I found out it was because my inner ear

had to be cleaned,

which had me feeling almost drunk.

Anyway, the guy calls me back,

“I want to give you back your identity.”

“You can keep it,” I said.

I hung up the phone

and felt all the pain in my body and

looked up at the ceiling, because that’s

where God is usually hiding,

when he’s not punishing someone

or curing them from some terminal disease,

and I said, “God, you only punish my vanities.

I should have never danced naked on the bar,

because, truth be told, it wasn’t pretty then

and it sure ain’t pretty now.”

The next day at 5 in the morning

the phone rang.

“Please take back your identity.”

I said, “You stole it, you can keep it.”

He cried like a sissy who just had his

gym shoes flushed in a toilet,

“But there’s nothing in your wallet.”

I said, “I told you that.”

He said, “But now everyone thinks that I’m you

and I’m getting calls about how a kid was shot

or how a guy beats his wife

or a mother that needs money for her teeth,

another called because her daughter is whoring

and is on heroin,

or needs this or that

and needs help with a ticket for driving the wrong way

on a one-way street.

I now go around sweeping cigarette butts

off streets in Pittsburgh.

I don’t even smoke.”

I said, “It makes good practice if you can

find the Tao in sweeping up the butts.

It’s almost like Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,

actually, more like becoming an Archer

or studying the Art of War.”

“I don’t want your identity,

you’ve seen stuff that I don’t want to see,

besides, your manly

hangs too low,

and when I sit on the toilet it presents a problem.”

I said, “Alright, I’ll take it back on two conditions.

He said, “Anything, please.”

“Promise me you will not vote straight Republican

or Democrat, and when you go to church

you will not stare at women’s backsides.

Also, one more thing,

you must read all the teachings of Buddha at least twice.”

He said, “Agreed.  Thank you, and may the fleas

of a camel never alight on your privates.”

I hung up the phone and it rang again,

“Dog, you don’t know me

but my son is smoking crack

and stealing Granny’s bingo money.

Can you help me?”

I asked, “How did you get my number?”

She said, “I found it in the toilet stall at the bus terminal.”

I said, “Alright, you got the right guy.

But try to hurry, I’ve got to sweep up some cigarette butts.

Go ahead and tell me the sad story anyway,

I need a fix.”


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