I have been a very lucky guy. Fingers crossed, I have only lost my wallet once. Well, misplaced it really, on a street, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
I have always loved the George Carlin bit about a stuff where he says a guy’s wallet is the only thing he really needs when it comes to having stuff. It has everything we need to survive. If everything else went to hell in a hand basket, our wallets would be our salvation, containing almost everything we would ever need to drive, buy stuff, prove who we are, fork over some cash, show a photo of our loved ones, get into Costco, allow us to check out a book from the library – as I said, virtually everything you need, all in a handy little package that fits in that butt dimple it created back when you were a growing teen.
You can readily see why it is so important to us. It contains our entire lives. If it could somehow hold a Swiss Army Knife and a comb and shaver, we’d be in heaven. O.K., forget the shaver, and yes, the comb, too.
I have always kept good track of my wallet. Almost obsessively so. I admit to being a bit OCD checking for my wallet from time to time, as if the desire to do so were a nervous tick. If only I had the same affliction for checking my fly, which as of late has remained open a few too many times for my own comfort, and the comfort of those around me.
I should say that I have almost always kept track of my wallet. There was a time, back when I lived in White Center, yes, Rat City, that I arrived home to find my wallet missing. I panicked of course. I quickly ran through the last few minutes of my life, and then jumped in the car to retrace my route. As I did, I made a mental note of all the places I would have to call to cancel things, just in case.
My wallet wasn’t at the convenience store, or at Taco Time. I continued on, driving back up 15th, stopping at the bank… The bank. Of course, where else could it be?
I jumped out of the car and went to the ATM. There on the ledge was… nothing. No wallet. It had to have been there, I thought, for I had the crisp set of 20s in my coat pocket. I returned to the car, on the border of panic, thinking someone had stolen my wallet.
As I sat down in the car, I look dejectedly at the pavement below. There, dull to the glistening wet pavement, was my wallet. I have a nasty habit of putting my wallet between my legs as I drive so I don’t have to fiddle around trying to pull my wallet out of my back pocket when I’m seat belted. Anxious to get some flow for the weekend, I had put it between my legs and when I swung out of the car, cash card in hand, the wallet took a tumble.
Thankfully, no one happened upon it and I was able to return it to its rightful place.
Fast forward 20 or so years to Key West. I have all our vacation money in the wallet, credit cards, ID, you name it. I am ready to vacation.
Kat and I drove into the parking lot by the marina to start our adventure. $25 to park for the day – yes, Key West can be expensive. No problem, I’ve got a lot of dough. Suddenly, problem. I don’t have any dough because I am sans wallet. I momentarily panic, then tell toothless guy, our parking guide, that I would return once I figured out where my wallet was.
It was then that something tumbled out from between my legs. At my age you can never be too sure what it will be. For all I know, it could have been my penis. It was, however, large and black, so it wasn’t my penis. But I could hope.
Wallet found, I parked. I secured it in my very manly pirate pouch and off we went on our adventure. I think that’s pretty admirable, only losing my wallet twice in my life.
I wish I could say that it never happened again, but two days later, it came up missing again. Kat and I had ventured over to the fort to visit my old Florida friends. As we looked at some Wobble Bottles, I reached for my wallet to check the cash flow. Damn, no wallet. Again!
I knew that I had just paid to get into the stupid state park so it was with me a few minutes earlier. More than likely I had put it in my “crotch pocket” and it fell onto the floor again. I trekked back to the car, opened it and rummaged around the floor. Nothing. Console? Nothing. Between the seats? The back seat? Nada. Zilch.
Next, I looked under the car, on top of the car, then behind the car. I started to panic, then thought, well, it was inevitable that I would eventually lose my wallet in my lifetime. Most people do. I switched into pirate mode and went to take a swig of rum out of the bottle in the trunk. There, sitting right next to the bottle was my wallet. There was absolutely no reason for it to be there, and there is no logical way to explain how it got there.
I blame my mother. I think it was one of her little pranks. Sure, she was in the great beyond and she never really liked to fly while she was alive, but now she was a spirit so why not travel a bit? Come to Key West, haunt me a bit, hide my wallet a time or two… heavenly laughs all around. Good times, mom, good times.
At least I still have my wallet. Well, I am pretty sure I do. Uhm, uh…
In the Emerald City, posting a police drawing of my wallet on telephone poles just in case,
– Robb