There are millions of stories in the Naked City of Credit Reports.

Here's mine.

An estimated 75 percent of the nation's hard working stiffs haven't bothered to grab their free credit report, according to the hot dogs over at the Institute of Consumer Financial Education who investigate this kinda stuff.

I'm not one of them.

That wouldn't be too smart.

Word is, those who don't bother are just plain scared, I tell you. Cluck. Cluck. Scared of a few pieces of paper that could make the difference between good credit and bad, the difference between home sweet home and some flop house you wouldn't put your mother in.

Or lazy.

Or both.

Go ahead. Let some punk steal your identity and smear it all over town from Abercrombie and Fitch to Wal-Mart. If you don't know what's doin' with you credit report, it could happen, Bunky.

It ain't pretty.

It won't happen to me.

I'll see to that.

See, I know where they've got my credit report.

AnnualCreditReport.com.

They? They know who they are. Equifax, Experian, Transunion. The Big Three. Supposed to keep your credit report close to their vests, but things happen.

So the Feds went up in their collars real good. Yanked them around. Told them, "Eacha youse gotta give consumers a look-see at their credit report every year sos they know what's doin'. At no charge. All three a youse. Ya got that?"

They just nodded, like three big Bobble Heads getting slapped around by the barrel of a .38. They needed some good slapping around.

They got it. In a figure of speech.

So The Big Three sets up AnnualCreditReports.com where anybody can see the books.

Anybody. Well, just your own personal books -- your credit report, you maroon.

So that's what I do.

I sit down, longing for the hard, solid, bang-bang of a typewriter sounding like a high body-count shoot out on the boulevard, but I turn to this new typing machine thing they are calling a computer. Set me back on the budget, it did, but I'm hearing it gets the job done better than a chrome-plated .45 with an extra clip.

Sos anyway, I key in annualcreditreport.com.

Pay attention. That's how you get there.

Key it in.

In seconds, I'm at the doorstep of AnnualCreditReport.com. Nice facade. I demand in. I'm in. Just like that.

I'm not grilled for too much 411. Just the facts. They want to make sure I'm the guy and not some other mug. My name, where I live, my Social Security number, see? That's all.

Then, they want to know which of the Big Three's credit report I need to give a once over.

"Gimme all three," I bark.

Wise up.

Follow my lead. Get them all now. Get a complete picture. Take the rest of the year to steer those bozos straight about any screw ups. You'd be surprised. Those clowns still screw up. And when it's time to get it right, they can drag their heels like a toddler due for his chicken pox booster shot. Next year, you get three more. But then, get one report from one company every four months -- April, August, December -- a different company each time. That way you have round tabs on what those yokels are doing with your credit report and what anybody else might be doing with your credit.

It's free, I tell ya. Free. All three. Every year.

I choose Experian first. No particular reason. Who's askin'?

Experian grills me some more. More assurances to make sure I ain't somebody else. This time it's queries about what's on my credit report. So I tell them.

Ten minutes.

I'm in.

The damn thing pops right up. I can view it. I can print it. I can do that little dance you do when nobody's looking or that one you do when you gotta go to the can real bad. Same kinda dance.

But I'm not dancing. I'm thinking, "Why I oughta ..."

These goons don't have a clue. I've been running credit since my senior class high school home room teacher asked me where I got those Calvin Kleins and why I steam press jeans and this operation doesn't have my Social Security number correct, they've pasted a middle initial between my first and last names (my given two names are plenty, thanks), worse, they've attempted to make me respectable.

The report says I've got a spouse named only "S" and I know how cute it's supposed to be with celebrities and all with one name, but one initial? So, I'm thinking about alimony I've never paid and kids I've never met and a mother-in-law I never had ... and just before I start to cry like an interior designer with the wrong color paint on the wall, I'm thinking about the stiff one I could really use about now.

So I stop that kind of thinking and I'm thinking about all the dames I've run with and can't for the life of me remember of any one of them crazy enough to even suggest anything more than a cup of black joe, some glazed donut holes and a menthol square in a diner on a side street when nobody's awake, when I suddenly remember.

Sylvia.

That kid always promised to leave her boozer boyfriend, Johnny. Smelled like a distillery. Said she'd give him up if I promised to take her outside a church when wedding bells were ringing. Just to hear them tone was all she wanted. Just to hear. Once. So I took her. But she couldn't let go. Johnny. A real ladies man. Can't say I blame her. Tall, tan, slim, natty dresser. Liked red. And black. But you could see right through him. Last name of Walker, I seem to recall.

No. I'd never married. Her or nobody else.

The goons at Experian had screwed up. Quite a few times. I had previously settled with some loan sharks -- excuse me, finance companies -- back East long ago without getting my knees crushed like roasted chestnuts and the report shows that the accounts are paid-in-full, satisfied and closed in good standing, but they are too old to be part of my credit MO.

And dammit, I once holed up in a cozy, but classy condo you couldn't get a grand piano in without breaking down a wall, not that "apartment house" they were trying to assign to me. The address was right, the digs all wrong.

OK. I'm cool. Minor infractions. I've seen enough.

Lucky for them, they make it easy for me to tell them to clean up their act.

Point and click for some items. For others I fire off a letter, again documenting my identity, and pointing out their goofs. It all better be good or I'll call in the Feds.

Piece of cake.

Ten minutes for a look see.

Another 10 to search for errors.

By the time the clock strikes the half hour, the letters are stamped with Old Glory waving like it's D-Day.

Same thing with the other two reports.

It's not propeller science.

My heart doesn't pop out of my chest.

Maybe for you, it won't be so simple.

But you won't know until you know.

Got it? Get it.

AnnualCreditReport.com.

Case closed.

Quit shakin' and open yours.

Published: October 27, 2005

Use of this article without permission is a violation of federal copyright laws.

A journalist for 35-years, Broderick Perkins parlayed an old-school daily newspaper career into a digital news service offering editorial content and consulting services. Perkins' San Jose, CA-based DeadlineNews Group includes the flagship news site, DeadlineNews.Com, offering real estate, personal finance and consumer journalism, and a backshop, the Deadline Newsroom.