The Register Citizen (Torrington, CT)
A 10-year-old spy stole my identity
Facebook flashed the 7-year-old video memory at me like a taunt.
It captures The Kid sitting at my office desk in Stamford, his ears turned into flippers by a 1950s New York Giants Willie Mays cap. This Say Hey Kid has a firetruck sippy cup at his right elbow and a toy James Bond Aston Martin at his left. He seems to be in a nest of paper, much of it speared on a message spike that was not designed to be anywhere near a 3-year-old editor.
He picks up the landline. “Hi, it’s John Breunig,” he declares.
I should have read that devil grin as a warning.
As I write this, The Kid is steering a virtual version of the same Aston Martin on a Forza Horizon 5 game (I had to look that up because I think of it by his handle, “Forizon 5,” which is actually a better name). It’s not the only “JB” that stuck. Whenever he sees an opportunity, he goes undercover as ... me.
A few examples from his/my case file. Your mission is to keep up with our identity swaps (I failed):
TEXTING
⏩ He snatched my phone one night and texted the school bus aide (in my name) that he would not be going to school the next day. Oblivious, I waited the next morning for a bus that never arrived.
⏩ He set up a play date with a friend who lives a couple hours away by texting his buddy’s mom in his secret identity as me. She suggested meeting at a park in Wolcott. “I” responded that The Kid “has been to that park and loves it.” It was the first time he’d ever been in Wolcott.
⏩ While he and I were at Walmart, “I” texted Mom that we had bought him a TV.
“Suckah,” Mom texted back.
This time he blew his cover because he couldn’t resist revealing she was a suckah too.
⏩ I live in perpetual terror he will grab my phone and start texting the last person I was in contact with. On one occasion, I confessed to a judge that I’d just spared him from receiving a flood of emojis.
The judge answered my interview questions, then added, “Now have your son send me the emojis ...”
They proceeded to communicate via emojis. I had visions of a court stenographer’s avatar trying to keep up.
⏩ I caught him referring to himself as “The Kid” in a text to a friend. I still haven’t cracked that one, as no one in the family actually reads this column.
PASSWORDS
I am suspicious The Kid does read the column written by one Colin McEnroe, who has mocked me as John “I hate exclamation marks” Breunig. Whenever I catch The Kid changing my passwords, I grill him for the new one. He’ll eventually reveal the secret word with the zeal of Groucho Marx. “It doesn’t work.” “You forgot the five exclamation points,” he’ll explain.
I suspect Colin is bribing him with Reese’s Pieces.
⏩ If anyone needs a Twitter watchdog, I highly recommend Greenwich Time reporter Ken Borsuk.
Ken has flagged me at ridiculous times of day to report my Twitter account has been hacked by my son. Ken sends up a flare if I’m suddenly bawling in emojis about the offline status of Roblox, sharing of Hot Wheels videos, or simply because I’m spelling like a fifth-grader.
One dawn I got this text from Ken: “Did you mean to start a live stream on your Twitter?”
Henceforth, The Kid referred to Ken only as “The Rat.”
⏩ On Super Bowl Sunday, “I” tweeted a photo of a spread in front of the TV that consisted of cupcakes, Doritos, Kool-Aid, Doritos, a six-pack of Cokes, Doritos and various suspicious
He snatched my phone one night and texted the school bus aide (in my name) that he would not be going to school the next day.
“dips.” It immediately drew a “like” from my publisher. I suspect he’s a little worried about my diet.
⏩ My birthday is missing from my Twitter account, so the platform estimates I’m somewhere between 12 and 54. I’ll take any of those ages.
Left to my own devices, I’d probably change my profile picture about as often as my column photo. But The Kid keeps turning it into a checkered flag, a 2006 Subaru hood, vintage Hess trucks or a video luring people to his YouTube channel.
My profile also keeps changing to suggest I was born in Miami and work at Daytona International Speedway (oh look, they just hired me again). Every time it happens, he Tweets that he’s snagged a job at the Stamford Advocate. Hmmm, he wants my desk again.
AMAZON
My endorsements are no longer limited to political candidates. After buying him a new game controller last week, I noticed that “I” gave five stars to the product with the blurb, “My son loves it.”
Just as I was prepared to surrender my identity or my phone and social media accounts, I got a Father’s Day gift.
It was late Thursday night, hours before the sun rose on the final day of the school year. I just couldn’t convince The Kid to go to sleep. After I finally did, he circled back downstairs, declaring he had forgotten something and was in urgent need of blank paper, a pencil and stickers.
“I give up,” I yielded. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’m going to bed.”
The next morning, his backpack was filled with cards he made, each bearing messages to classmates and teachers.
“I will miss you over the summer ...”
Each one was decorated with stickers, drawings (aka, analog emojis) and, most importantly, his signature.
He had claimed his own identity. Turned out all he needed was a pencil and paper.