The Wallet That Traveled Further Than Its Owner
The wallet belonged to a man named Gary Pfeiffer. Gary was a forensic accountant from Tulsa. He was in town for a conference on tax fraud. He hated Times Square. He hated the noise, the crowds, the people in Elmo costumes who demanded money for photos. He was walking from 42nd Street to his hotel on 50th when a teenager on a motorized skateboard clipped his elbow. Gary spun. The wallet left his back pocket. He did not feel it go. He kept walking. The teenager kept skating. The wallet landed face down on a wet grate.
A street performer named Mime Mike picked it up. Mime Mike was not a real mime. He was a drama school dropout who stood very still and collected tips from tourists who felt sorry for him. He opened the wallet. Sixty three dollars. A credit card. A library card from Tulsa. A photo of a golden retriever. Mime Mike did something deeply out of character. He decided to return it. He broke character. He walked. People stared. A mime walking was like a fish riding a bicycle. It was wrong. It was unsettling. A tourist from Ohio took a video.
Mime Mike walked to the nearest police precinct. The desk officer, a woman named Sergeant Delia Cruz, looked at the wallet. She looked at Mime Mike. She asked if he was wearing makeup. He said yes. She asked if he had ever been arrested for silent harassment. He said no. She logged the wallet. She told him to leave. He left. The wallet sat in a plastic bin for three hours.
Then a homeless man named Jerome fished it out of the bin. Jerome was not a thief. He was a philosopher. He believed that property was a social construct. He also believed that the library card could get him into the public library on 40th Street, where it was warm. He took the wallet. He went to the library. The librarian, a woman named Mrs. Chen, recognized the library card. It was from Tulsa. She asked Jerome where he got it. Jerome said the universe provided. Mrs. Chen called the Tulsa Public Library. They gave her a phone number for Gary Pfeiffer. She called. Gary did not answer. He was in a conference session about offshore shell corporations.
The wallet then traveled to a hot dog cart. The vendor, a man named Ahmed, bought it from Jerome for two hot dogs. Ahmed needed a credit card to test a new mobile payment system he was installing. He swiped Gary’s card. It worked. He bought a pack of batteries. He threw the wallet in a trash can. A sanitation worker named Luis found it. Luis was having a bad day. His truck had a flat tire. His supervisor was yelling at him. He looked at the wallet. He looked at the photo of the golden retriever. He had a golden retriever at home. His name was Gus. Luis put the wallet in his vest pocket. He finished his shift. He went home. He fed Gus. He forgot about the wallet.
Gus found it. Gus chewed it. The leather was ruined. The credit card was snapped in half. But the photo of the golden retriever survived. Gus looked at the photo. He tilted his head. He did not recognize the dog. It was a stranger. A golden stranger. Gus lost interest. Luis found the wallet the next morning. He sighed. He took it to the nearest lost and found. That was a subway booth at 49th Street. The booth attendant, a woman named Pat, had worked for the transit authority for thirty one years. She had seen everything. A diamond ring. A prosthetic ear. A live iguana in a shoebox. She took the chewed wallet. She put it in a drawer.
Three days later, Gary Pfeiffer realized his wallet was missing. He canceled his credit card. He got a new driver’s license mailed to Tulsa. He flew home. He forgot about Times Square. He forgot about the mime and the philosopher and the librarian and the hot dog vendor and the sanitation worker and the golden retriever. But the wallet did not forget him. It sat in Pat’s drawer for six months. Then Pat retired. She cleaned out her booth. She found the wallet. She looked at the photo. She looked at the library card. She found Gary’s work number online. She called him.
Gary laughed for five minutes. He could not stop. He laughed so hard his secretary came into his office to check on him. He asked Pat to mail the photo of the golden retriever. He did not want the wallet. The wallet was trash. But the photo. He wanted the photo. He had lost that dog three years ago to cancer. The dog’s name was Buster. Pat mailed the photo. Gary put it on his desk. He told the story at every conference after that. People did not believe him. That was fine. He had the photo. Buster was chewed on one corner. He looked happy. He looked like a dog who had never been to Times Square. That was the best part.
