Lost and Found

Diaries, 2-13-07

Lost and Found


Above: Mr. Hammond with my Wallet. Alex with his phone


I pack the box carefully. Two white pillar candles and one yellow scented one which I made by hand, wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap and nestled between inches of crisp, shredded paper. Gently, I place a naked kandles business card on top. Next to it, I press a twenty dollar bill. Now to the next box.

These boxes are made of the strands of the fabric of the un-torn part of the universe, I remind myself. No sense shirking on the good stuff. I put a silver phone in one, and close them, snug.

Flashback to last Wednesday, when neither Colin nor I could catch a break. I was in Brooklyn, which, like most of the northeast, has been held under a spell of intense cold for weeks. No cold snap, it promises to linger for weeks to come.

My car, Striker, is beginning to show sure signs of transmission failure. Sure signs. Knowing the cost of a new transmission, I begin to sort out my options. Buy a new car? Out of the question. Buy a used one? Possible, but what would I really get on my meager budget? More problems, for sure.

Leave it parked in a neighborhood where I can be almost certain of its meeting with a chop shop within hours? An interesting consideration. But, oh, morals.

A little disappointed to abandon my exciting plan for insurance fraud, I turn to Alex, proprietor of the body shop which fixed my car after I totaled it in the rain on Flatbush Avenue last year.

How did Alex get in the picture? It's the friends network, of course, working again. My friend Amber knows this girl, Jessica. Jessica used to live across the street from this Turkish repair shop. I don't know how they did it, but they fixed my car for one third the cost I'd been quoted at any other shop. Of course I paid in cash. Of course there were splatters of silver paint all over the car, and used parts left inside. But what did I care? It ran.

This time I show up with baklava in hand. "Sure, we feex transmissions!" says Alex, Turkish accent heavier than usual in the cold. Then he looks down. "Nooo. actually we don't." he smiles. "But I take care of you, Nee-Kee, I take care of you."

He hurries to the door, where there are a number of numbers written down. He picks up the phone. I think years of working in a body shop have erased Alex's ability to speak at medium volume. "Hey! Nikolai! I got nee-Kee here, she is my bes, bes-bes-bessst customer! '95 Satrrun! WHAAT can you do?"

And I find myself promising to bring it back Monday, for a transmission fix at half the price and twice the warrantee time I'd previously been quoted.

"Where should I drop it off? " I ask.

"Oh, no," says Alex, "I drive! *I* take it to da place! You bring it, HERE and I will take it for you!" Big smile. MAybe too big. What, is it going to some witness protection hideout, some top secret warehouse in New Jersey? To a member of the Turkish mafia?

It should be ready Tuesday, he says - plenty of time for me to drive down to Richmond, VA for a call-back audition for Into the Woods next week. Plenty.

I will bring cash, of course.

Back to last Wednesday, the air in the apartment on Sackett Street is dry as the Sahara Desert. I've been waking with my mouth so dry it hurts too much to sleep. Time to get a humidifier.

So I put on my winter suit: two pairs of socks, (one wool), two pair of pants (one polartech) , a long cotton tank, a long-sleeve shirt, a polartech sweatshirt, a large polartech scarf, and wool hat with polartech inlay, boots, and my big, black winter coat. I take most the bulk out of my wallet, carrying only essentials, and I head out.

Which sets in motion the following sequence of events:

Walked 5 blocks, up the hill, bought humidifier.

Walked 5 blocks, down the hill, to bank. Oh, no! I don't have my wallet!

(Stuffed in layer up on layer of winter clothing, the Almighty only knows where I might have dropped it and not noticed.)

But do have a large, cumbersome box dangling from my arm. Need to ditch.

Walked 5 blocks home, up the stairs, deposited humidifier.

Retraced my steps, up the hill, hoping to find wallet. Asked several crossing guards if they'd seen it.

Back at humidifier place, searched boxes of humidifiers - just in case I left it on top.

Guy there suggests perhaps I left it in the box with my humidifier.

Seems like reasonable suggestion; I walk back home. Down the hill, up the stairs.

No wallet. Went back to bank.

Cancelled my ATM card, along with other errands I'd originally intended at the bank.

I kid you not - LEFT MY GLOVES at the bank.

I don't know if I can blame this day on the well-known phenomena of CFS/fibromyalgia "brain fog," or not. Surely we all have times when we walk into a room and can't remember why we're there, but incidents like this have been multiplied many fold for me, ever since I got mono in 10th grade.

Like, I remember, before 10th grade, math was not so easy-breezey like all the other subjects. I had to concentrate, and sometimes got confused. But after returning to school post having mono, I remember sitting in alg/trig class, with the distinct sensation that my teacher had suddenly started expressing herself in Russian. Her copious, curly blonde hair became tentacles which zoomed in and out of focus as I wildly tried to grasp at the merest notion of what she was trying to say. Then I gave up, sitting up, sleeping. Then and there, a whole swath of career paths closed their doors to me. I heard the thud.

Anyone who's ever watched The Princess Bride will remember the scene when Inigo finally comes face-to-face with the six-fingered count. Cornered, the Count promises him fame, riches, power - anything he wants.

"I want my father back, you son of a bitch!"' Inigo says, as he rams the knife into his victim's gut. How many times I have imagined that scene; I am facing my illness, I have cornered it, it is up against a wall, perhaps one of us -or both- is dying.

"I want my BRAIN back you son of a bitch!" And I kill it, right there, on the slope of my semi-consciousness.

It makes me feel better, every time.

Meanwhile, across town, and despite the fact that he appears to have access to most his brain cells, Colin's not faring much better than I.

Two nights ago at 59 E. 59th Theaters, several of us stayed until well after midnight, tearing down the last remnants of Billboard, Reverie's latest show. It was a sleek set, and thankfully not very involved, but lights have to come down, equipment organized and returned, garbage disposed of, workers fed, and lastly, the floor of the theater re-painted. Several hours' work for several people. We made it fun. (Until my car, driven into Manahttan expressly for sherpa duties, was ticketed to the tune of $115. But that's another rant.)

By Wednesday, Colin had but one thing to return - a sound board which would not fit into my ailing Saturn or Dave's hatchback. So, on Wednesday, Colin:

Called a cab service for a van. Set aside the quoted $30 to go 2 miles to the shop.

Van showed up, only it wasn't a van - was a car.

Driver wouldn't help by calling in for a van (as if that would lose him his fare???).

Called the cab company. They told him sure, they'd send a van - in 30 minutes, and now $50.

Said, "fuck that!" So started hailing vans on Park Avenue.

All refused to lower seats in the back for the sound board.

Trekked to U-haul, a mile away, rented a van for $19.99.

Van was in a separate lot, with 7/8 tank of gas... Know where this is going?

Dropped off the sound equipment, put two gallons of gas in the van.

I kid you not, that U-Haul is still trying to charge him $30 for gas!!!


A week later, thinking it would perhaps have been better if I'd never gotten out of bed for the duration of the cold spell, I was still trying to pick up my car. Twice I actually showed up with my $800 in cash, in 50's, to pick it up, and it wasn't ready. Friday at 2:50 I come again, and it'll be ready in 1/2 hour.

So I go to Dunkin Donuts, burning with the cash. Cash feels like a strobe light, especially in such a "transitional" neighborhood. At least they have a bathroom...

doh! psyche! "Out of order" signs posted on BOTH of them. Out of Dunkin's mood, is more like it. Explaining that I'm not a vagrant, I try to gain access. No dice. I go back to Alex's. "I bring it to you tonight, at home!" Promises Alex, an hour later. I am not thrilled; I'm meant to leave for Richmond in the morning.

That night the car never arrives. The next morning, sweetly, Colin offers to pick it up. And he does.

So I'm driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, thinking, wow, this week has been a pain in the ass.

But all is as rectified, as much as it will be. I guess. Credit cards are cancelled, sound board returned, and the car, except for a few intermittent rattles and pings, appears to be in good health. Striker, now over 113,000 miles old, will live to crash another day.

I'm listening to a book on my ipod when I hear some strange music emanating, I think, from somewhere in the car. Radio? Should be over-ridden by my ipod. Pod? Must be some sort of mal-function. Maybe from a passing vehicle. It stops. I begin to peer around me in the car. No - focus on driving.

My phone takes a message. It's Alex. "Nee-Kee! Hello! How arrr you? Listen, I tink I left my phone in your car!" Calllll me, let me know!"

You see what this was, don't you? Perhaps it's because you're reading a streamlined (really!) story, and you know I wouldn't give you any information which was not relevant to the telling of it. Because I, unlike the universe, value your time. (Meanwhile, my real life has plenty of irrelevant information passing through it, and plenty of wastes of time.)

So I didn't put it together. Even when the strange, dance-mix music started up again, and again, I totally figured I'd imagined it. (Another common side-effect associated with chronic illnesses like IC, fibromyalgia and CFS - spontaneous lack of belief in your own perceptions...)

But in the end I did figure it out, find the phone, called Alex, arrived at Rick's In D.C., ran down to Richmond to do the audition, drove back via Amanda's place on the opposite side of D.C., and headed home a day early, in order to beat the "COMING! WINTER STORM!" Two and a half days after picking up my car, exhausted and barely able to sit down, I listened to my messages in Brooklyn.

This is nearly the end. Really.

Beep. "Hi, Nicole? This is _____ from Commerce Bank calling. We've been contacted by a person who found your wallet? If you would like to contact him, his number is..."

No. Way. No WAY did I lose my wallet on the street in Brooklyn, and someone not only didn't steal it, but made the effort to locate me using the few clues available to them.

But it's true.

I called the Hammonds. They regaled me with tales of trying to find me, based on a Colorado driver's license, a Commerce Bank ATM Card, my inhaler, and a receipt from J & R, where I bought the humidifier. A retired couple, clearly they had little else to entertain them for a few days. That, and the impending "COMING! WINTER STORM!!!" Mrs. Hammond tried to make it sound like it was a bit daunting, but really, you could tell it was fun for her.

"I was like a private investigator!" says Mrs. Hammond. "he found it on the ground, on 7th Avenue, and first we wondered if it was someone in the bank..."

So today, I am not going to try to accomplish anything - it seems that by trying, I only pull myself in deeper. Instead I strive only to mend what was unraveled in the past two weeks. Rewind the stopwatch to zero. Return what's lost and retrieve my own. I have packed a little box of my most attractive candles for both the Hammonds and for Alex.

I will set out by foot to pick up my wallet, swing by the bank to retrieve the gloves I left, (and by then my hands will be nearly frozen, so that's a good thing) then get in my car and drive to the body shop, where Alex's phone will be returned to him.

As the Narrator in Into the Woods says, "ALL IS ...REPAIRED!!" And then he dies.