Before relinquishing my brother's Aeroplan miles, the slow woman at the call centre had to ask me security questions. His home phone number (but I only use his cell number!), his email address (but I only write him over Facebook!), and his mailing address (who even receives mail anymore?). I had no choice but to hang up and text Steven for the information. The results:
his home phone: my cell phone
his email address: my mother's email address
his mailing address: Jan's house
This Frankenstein hodgepodge of contact information isn't even strange. It's familiar. It's part of the confusion that comes with being transient. I still don't know my own Canadian postal code. For a long time, I couldn't remember if I should check Visitor or Resident upon arrival in the Vancouver airport. I couldn't use my library card to log on to a library computer, because they told me my password was my phone number, and I kept plugging in the Saudi one. Come to think of it, it's sad that I'll never use all those old numbers.
The phone: 9 011 966 3 878 0189
The P.O. box: 9687
The postal code: 31311
The numbers that fix you in place somehow.
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