I’m not the best at looking after “plastic money” but the “other me” has no problem splurging out at my expense, writes Darrel Bristow-Bovey.
“Ooh,” I said to my partner the other day. “You can buy things by swiping with your cellphone now.”
“You can’t,” she said pointedly. “The more new ways you have to pay for things,” she said, “the richer the criminals get.”
It’s true that I can be a little careless with my wallet, although I have improved. When I was younger I had my own dedicated teller at the bank because I was back so often for a replacement card. Once I picked up a new card and the teller said jokingly, “I don’t want to see you back here for at least a week!”
“Ha ha,” I laughed obligingly, although I didn’t really see what was so damn funny. I walked out of the bank, drew cash at the ATM, then strolled off, leaving the card behind. One hour later the teller looked
up to see me standing there, gnashing my teeth.
“Ha ha,” I said bitterly.
Just recently I lost my debit card again, but it was a Friday and I didn’t notice until Monday, and then it took me till Wednesday to check all my pants pockets, then till Thursday to look down the sides of the couch, and then I found my credit card in my sock drawer so I forgot about my debit card until the next Monday. By that time some gentleman had been using it to purchase items and services all around my neighbourhood. This gentleman was not me, but he was doing a better job of being me than I was.
First, he indulged himself to the 90-minute deluxe special at the House of Silk massage parlour on Main Road, then he had a nice lunch at the gourmet burger joint with a pint of craft beer, then popped into the spa on Regent Road for two sets of moisturisers and had them gift-wrapped. One was for fair skin, the other for darker skin.
I asked the cashier at the beauty salon about him. She said he was tall, bald, handsome and black.
“Does Darrel Bristow-Bovey sound like the name of a tall, bald, handsome black man?” I asked.
“I don’t judge,” she said.
Then she looked me up and down, and said pointedly: “He was dressed better than you,” which somewhat gave the lie to her claims of non-judgement. I had the strong impression of all the Darrel Bristow-Boveys she had encountered that week – I was by no means her favourite version.
After buying moisturiser, my other self went to the movies and bought three tickets for Where The Crawdads Sing. I became obsessed with the thought that I was living two lives – one as a snappily attired, smooth-talking Lothario who knows his way around skincare products and has terrible taste in movies but two ladies to watch them with; and another, far more disappointing life, as me.
I started wondering what I would be doing this weekend. Did I have a surprise planned for my two special ladies? A helicopter flip? An elephant ride? An orgy?
“Have you cancelled your card yet?” demanded my partner suspiciously. If I was the other me, I thought resentfully, she wouldn’t talk to me in that tone of voice.
“I just want to see what he does next.”
“WHAT?!”
“I’m learning things. Hey, if I was to get you moisturiser, would you want darker skin or lighter skin?”
“Cancel that card RIGHT NOW!”
Maybe she’s right and it’s just as well I don’t have SnapScan or whatever it’s called. I have enough trouble trying to keep control of one life at a time.