Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

His parents had promised to pay the insurance if Jerry kept up straight A’s all through grade ten, and Jerry had. They weren’t going to pay for a car, itself, but Jerry had two grand in his bank account—he liked the sound of that: two grand. Now if he could just find something halfway decent for that price, he’d be driving to school when grade eleven started next week.

Jerry was a realist. He wanted a girlfriend—God, how he wanted one—but he knew his little wispy beard wasn’t what was going to impress … well, he’d been thinking about Ashley Brown all summer. Ashley who, in his eyes at least, put that Sunshine Girl to shame.

But, no, it wasn’t the beard he’d managed to grow since June that would impress her. Nor was it his newfound biceps. It would be having his own set of wheels. How sweet that would be!

Jerry continued scanning the ads, skipping over all the makes he knew he could never afford: the Volvos, the Lexuses, the Mercedes, the BMWs.

He read the lines describing a ’94 Honda Civic, a ’97 Dodge Neon, even a ’91 Pontiac Grand Prix. But the prices were out of his reach.

Jerry really didn’t care what make of car he got; he’d even take a Hyundai. After all, when hardly anyone else his age had a car, any car would be a fabulous ticket to freedom, to making out. To use one of his dad’s favorite expressions—an expression that he’d never really understood until just now—“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

Jerry was going to be royalty.

If, that is, he could find something he could afford. He kept looking, getting more and more depressed. Maybe he’d just—

Jerry felt his eyes go wide. A 1997 Toyota, only twenty thousand miles on it. The asking price: “$3,000, OBO.”

Just three thousand! That was awfully cheap for such a car … And OBO! Or Best Offer. It couldn’t hurt to try two thousand dollars. The worst the seller could do was say no. Jerry felt in his pocket for the change he got from buying the paper. There was a phone booth just up the street. He hurried over to it, and called.

“Hello?” said a sad-sounding man’s voice at the other end.

Jerry tried to make his own voice sound as deep as he could. “Hello,” he said. “I’m calling about the Toyota.” He swallowed. “Has it sold yet?”

“No,” said the man. “Would you like to come see it?”

Jerry got the man’s address—only about two miles away. He glanced up the street, saw the bus coming, and ran back to the stop, grinning to himself. If all went well, this would be the last time he’d have to take the bus anywhere.

* * *

Jerry walked up to the house. It looked like the kind of place he lived in himself: basketball hoop above the garage; garage door dented from endless games of ball hockey.

Jerry rang the doorbell, and was greeted by a man who looked about the same age as Jerry’s father … a sad-looking man with a face like a basset hound.

“Yes?” said the man.

“I called earlier,” said Jerry. “I’ve come about the car.”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “How old are you, son?”

“Sixteen.”

“Tell me about yourself” said the man.

Jerry couldn’t see what difference that would make. But he did want to soften the old guy up so that he’d take the lower price. And so: “My name’s Jerry Sloane,” he said. “I’m a student at Eastern High, just going into grade eleven. I’ve got my license, and I’ve been working all summer long on the loading dock down at Macabee’s.”

The bassett hound’s eyebrows went up. “Have you, now?”

“Yes,” said Jerry.

“You a good student?”

Jerry was embarrassed to answer; it seemed so nerdy to say it, but … “Straight A’s.”

The bassett hound nodded. “Good for you! Good for you!” He paused. “Are you a churchgoer, son?”

Jerry was surprised by the question, but he answered truthfully. “Most weeks, with my family. Calgary United.”

The man nodded again. “All right, would you like to take the car for a test drive?”

“Sure!”

Jerry got into the driver’s seat, and the man got into the passenger seat. Not that it should have mattered to whether the deal got made, but Jerry did the absolute best job he could of backing out of the driveway and turning onto the street. When they arrived at the corner, he came to a proper full stop at the stop sign, making sure the front of his car lifted up a bit before he continued into the empty intersection. That’s what they’d taught him in driver’s ed: you know you’ve come to a complete stop when the front of your car lifts up.

At the next intersection, Jerry signaled his turn, even though there was no one around and took a left onto Askwith Street.

The bassett hound nodded, impressed. “You’re a very careful driver,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Jerry was coming to another corner, where Askwith crossed Thurlbeck, and he decided to turn right. He activated the turn signal and—

“No!” shouted the man.

Jerry was startled and looked around, terrified that he’d been about to hit a cat or something. “What?” said Jerry. “What?”

“Don’t go down that way,” said the man, his voice shaking.