Lost and found ...

This is starting to get cruel.

Yesterday, I lost my wallet. It happend within a stone's throw of my apartment, no farther away than the Mister Softee guy stops every day, letting the sound of tinkling music and humming exhaust fans drift up to my windoes.

It all started when I was going to see if any of my hockey teammates were scrimmaging downtown. I had earlier called Crimenotes to see if he was up for some cupcakes on a plane. No sooner had I left my place than my phone rang. I leaned my stick against a wall and fumbled for it in the outer pocket of my trusty backpack. He suggested a much-loved outdoor drinking venue, and all thoughts of hockey evaporated. I turned for home to drop off my stick and shower. At some point between there and my front door, my wallet must have fallen to the ground. Only I didn't know it.

Which is why it didn't make sense when someone rang my doorbell 10 minutes later.

I assumed it was either a prosyletizer or a take-out delivery person. And a cursory look down out my window revealed no one in sight. So I didn't give it another thought until I went to get my wallet before leaving to meet Crimenotes.

I was going to write a post last night about how comforting it was to show up and have everything be normal. Because it was. When all Crimenotes' friends were asking me if I was OK and how it happened, he was wondering aloud what he'd look like if he unbuttoned his shirt to show more chest hair. (And yes, this is normal. Anyone who has read this blog knows that self-absorbtion and obsession with minutiae are just how we at CSB roll). To be fair, he did loan me $80 later.

But I really needed the beer at that point. I had $80 in cash in my wallet. Plus a couple twenties in the emergency reserve pocket. Plus my license, two credit cards, my work ID, a couple business cards I was keen to hang onto, a monthly Metrocard nearing the end of its rope, an unused monthly Metrocard, a lucky one-Franc coin I found one day and decided to keep on a whim and, oh yes, £45 that I hadn't gotten around to changing back into greenbacks yet.

All gone ... but was it? Someone had tried to return it. Possibly even a neighbor.

So I didn't cancel my credit cards. (I checked ... no one's been running up a tab at Best Buy yet.) I haven't rushed off to the DMV. I haven't flipped out and killed anyone. I'm keeping some faith here. I put up an ad on Craigslist, and posted a note on my front door in case my would-be benefactor returns.

Then, just a couple short minutes ago, it happened. I received an e-mail with the headline to my own ad as the subject. My heart skipped a beat and I clicked on the new message, gleaming white in my blue inbox:

HEY ITS THE GUY THAT RETURNED UR WALLET.. MR SOFTEE CALL ME 718 XXX XXXX JAY

I called, noting that it couldn't possibly be too late to call, as my e-mail said the message arrived "0 minutes ago". Mr. Softee answered. I told him I was calling about my e-mail, already mentally composing a blog post about the Mister Softee guy who stops in front of my apartment every day. Every day that guy was there, and every day I rolled my eyes and endured the interlude as my neighbors and their kids bought Spongebob bars and Bomb pops. And now that guy was about to ... laugh at me?

"No man, someone's playin' with you."

Dick.

I think I'll go cancel those credit cards now, after all.