Lessons from the wallet

Last night I finished a course on live drawing, fulfilling a decade-long dream of taking an intensive drawing course. The course was seven weeks long and if I left my office right at five o'clock, I’d make it there with a little time to spare. After my final class was finished I drove up to a book store to pick up a dictionary that I hoped with help me with some translation work. While still parked in my truck I realized my wallet was missing. My stomach lurched when I thought of all the places it could be, such as in the dark parking lot at work or at the art school. I was also a little disgusted with myself: less than a month earlier my debit card had vanished out of my pocket. I had made a purchase but while juggling the items I bought I securely jammed my wallet and card both into my pocket. But somehow the card had managed to disappear from my pocket, truck, parking lot, and store. And now it was happening again, but on a more significant level. But I doubted it would have just fallen out in a place where I was for just a minute or two. It would be more likely to have fallen out somewhere where I had been for a long period of time. I couldn’t find it in my truck but it was too dark to make a thorough search and since I remembered seeing it at work, I reasoned I must have taken it out of either my pocket or my bag and left it on my desk.

With little else to do, I started my truck back up and headed home. When I arrived, once again I made a pass through my cab, and then through my bags when I was in my room and had decent light to work with. To my dismay it still wasn’t around, but I knew it had to be at work. I had left things there before, although my wallet would be a first.

When I got to work today I was disappointed and again dismayed to not see it anywhere. Then I realized I could have accidentally packed it with my art supplies. I told another senior translator that I was worried I’d left my wallet at home after my class and needed to go back to check. I only live five minutes’ driving time away so it wasn’t a big request. He looked concerned and asked if I had any money, or needed any while I looked for it. I told him I had some cash but appreciated his offer. I was quite positive it would materialize in my art supplies.

But it didn’t. I spilled my art folder onto my bed and found nothing but my usual, non-tender art supplies. I returned to work but found, a bit to my surprise, I couldn’t focus. I figured I would be able to compartmentalize my anxiety better by now, but instead I was chewing over how I would have to cancel all of my cards, and I couldn’t even remember what all was in there. My library card was in there, and for some reason that especially pissed me off, even though I have a separate card-tag safely on my keychain. I contacted the art school and asked them they had my wallet. They hadn’t and suggested I come and look for myself before classes really got underway. I again updated the senior translator and this time he offered to help me search my truck. I told him that would be fine, inwardly cringing that he’d later tease me about how I kept a messy truck. Again, we found nothing and he gave me permission to check the art school, where my last hope for success was.

But there was nothing there. No little black wallet hidden under a radiator or left on a table, invisible to everyone except to me, who by some miracle could find it.

As I got back in my truck I felt like I had rancid cement spoiling in my stomach. I was a little bewildered that I was so pissed off over just a wallet. It was pretty straight forward. Just cancel the cards and get new ones. But the idea of figuring out how to go and get a new license and then spending hours of my workday doing so (and also a new social security card? I’d have to check to see if that was in my room. I was sure it was in my Important Documents box, but not sure enough to not check).

I started to think about the thunderous, stormy people I’d come across in my life. People for whom negativity was less a passing dip in the daily ups and downs, but for whom instead it was more like a chronic illness that became what you would know them for. The world would somehow darken around them and energy would slow down around them as their weary and brittle, judgmental eyes would find something else they felt threatened and harassed by to bitch about and paint with a sour slant.

I thought about how, within the past year (a little more actually), I have run into so much bad luck all at once I have started to think that I might legitimately some kind of curse on me. A tooth just up and cracked, and all dental work to get it fixed and get some cavities filled have spiraled into nearly ceaseless expenses and pain, root canals, crowns, and I’m still not out of the woods. Plus my truck has been giving me attitude, and all this has left me almost broke and starting to feel hopeless while I try to get on my feet professionally.

But then I saw that if I started buying into the narrative about curses, or even something less dramatic, like just always expecting things to be like this: broke and in pain with never any changes, I would start to always see the world as a shitty place out to fuck me. And I saw that I had a choice to at least keep an eye on my attitude instead of let it plop its fat ass down in the driver’s seat. And even though I felt threatened, I realized that most people who find a wallet aren't going to go take advantage of it, but instead are inclined to be helpful.

So, first thing’s first, I decided. Cancel my bank card so at least that can’t be used and maybe my wallet would turn up later in the day somehow. I arrived at the first bank of the branch I use and made up my mind to be upbeat.

“How are you doing today?” the teller asked me.

Ah hell, I thought. “Well, not too well,” I decided to say. I explained my wallet was missing and I needed to cancel my card.

“We can do it over the phone here, but I need to see some ID like a passport, to close down your card and give you a new one.”

For God sakes, I can call from home, I thought. Maybe I fucking am cursed after all. Just one thing after another. I told them I’d get my passport and be right back. Some part of my brain was thankful for the safety measures, but the actively loud part of my guts was roaring “But it’s me! It’s my account and card! Of course it’s me!”

I drove home to get my passport.

And found my wallet hiding under some clothes I hadn’t yet put up. I saw them and thought, I know it’s not there, but what do I have to lose?

I felt relieved and as all the pieces fell into place when I remembered how it actually got there, I felt foolish for (being so concerned? seeing the clothes and not looking their earlier? for misremembering thinking that I had it with me and telling the senior translator, yes yes, I know I had it with me?) and was happy there was no one else around to watch me feel like a fool except for the cat, who didn’t give a damn about anything.

If I hadn’t been frustratingly turned away from the bank, I would have just cancelled my card and been without one. So my plans didn’t work out, and in fact they didn’t work out for the best.

And I realized something else. Sometimes when you lose something, maybe you’ll find - despite all your convictions, and despite all the news and signals from everyone else - that it, whatever that "it" may be, has been with you, or safe and secure and never really lost, all along.