Ted Barris

Last Sunday, about 1 o’clock in the afternoon, I disappeared. I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t trying to escape. In fact, I’d just returned home from a getaway-weekend hockey tournament in Bancroft – an annual event my oldtimers teammates and I enjoy.

As I arrived home, however, I felt my pocket, noticed my wallet was missing. I began retracing my steps. One of my hockey buddies and I had stopped for coffee. I’d paid the cashier, picked up the coffee cups and pastry and promptly forgot my wallet at the cash.

“Did anybody turn in a wallet left on the counter?” I asked an employee over the phone.

“Not that I know of,” she said.

I asked her to check with a supervisor or manager. But the answer was the same. Nothing in the lost-and-found. Nothing on the counter, the floor, anywhere. The wallet I’d absentmindedly left behind was gone. Whoever found it was not about to return it. Consequently, my debit card and my credit cards were gone. Worse, my health card and my driver’s licence and other ID cards, all gone. At least on paper and plastic, I had disappeared.

I have never been physically or sexually assaulted, and having my wallet stolen would never come close to that kind of trauma. But I still felt, with the theft of those citizen identifiers, that my privacy had been invaded and my privileges stolen. I’m sure I’m not alone in this, but I felt stripped of my identity.

Nevertheless, after kicking myself most of Sunday afternoon for being so careless, I began the painstaking process of cancelling or replacing all those pieces of paper and plastic in my wallet that kept me solvent or identified me at hospitals, police stations, restaurants, grocery stores, polling booths or vaccination clinics.

My first stop, of course, involved virtually cutting my credit cards to pieces. Not easy. Not fun. Particularly with financial organizations, who – to my way of thinking – seem more worried about their security than mine.

“What were the circumstances of the theft?” they ask. “Who normally has access to the account?” Etc., etc. The credit card company ultimately promised me a new credit card, but I kept wondering if they considered me the criminal or the victim.

That all changed, however, on Monday, when I got to our Pace Credit Union branch in Uxbridge. I always do my banking there in-person, so when Laura, one of their longstanding tellers, heard my sad story she offered heartfelt sympathy and concern.

She quickly checked to see if any unusual debits might have been tapped against my account. Then, she issued me a replacement card in less than five minutes. And as I made my way to the door, she said genuinely, “Hope you have a better day.”

Armed with my brand-new debit card, I made my way to the Service Ontario office. I expected a long lineup, a lot of questions, replacement fees and probably having to stand in front of that automated camera and white background for new antiseptic portraits for my driver’s licence and health card.

Well, I guess, while Sunday had not been my day, Monday was. I met service rep Kelly, who patiently listened to my entire wallet-theft story.

“No problem,” she said with a smile. “We’ll get you fixed up with replacements right away.”

“What about new photos? Do I have to do those all over again?”

“Nope,” she said. “We’ve got your picture on file.”

As it turned out, there was a small replacement fee. But unlike other visits to government offices in the past, I felt as if this civil servant really cared. I mean we even struck up a conversation about a common interest – veterans’ stories. She told me about her grandfathers’ service in the Second World War, and about another relative who worked at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., on 9/11.

“His office was right were the hijacked plane hit,” she said, “but fortunately he was not in the office that day.”

I left the Service Ontario office with all the temporary ID I needed. But more important, unlike the feeling of having been violated by the thief who stole my wallet, I felt respected by the system and nearly human again.

All I needed – to reappear – was the replacement of one last accessory to get me back on track. I tripped into a store, found the men’s wear department, and bought a replacement wallet. Somehow, just having that inanimate accessory back in my pants pocket – albeit a few plastic cards and dollars lighter – helped give me back my identity. Very restorative.