BitterSweetLife

How much did this woman know, and when?

I felt like a vulture at twilight.

Dusk found Lindsay and me rooting through the dumpster behind our apartment. She held a flashlight while I dug around with a four-foot length of wood, previously considered a walking stick. Finally I was forced to acknowledge the futility of the hands-off approach and I vaulted up and over the side. If you want the good stuff you have to get dirty.

I’ve been hard up before, but I never thought it would come to this.

Our descent into dirt-broke-ness began this morning when I carefully counted my remaining cash ($3) and placed it with sad tenderness in my battered wallet. I sighed. And it’s at this point that my memory gets blurry.

I recall that I went around trying to get our loft into shape—turned on some lights, moved some books, made coffee. The familiar domestic stuff you do by rote. But it’s the nature of routine that you don’t remember it very clearly. And I didn’t.

With the familial duties complete, the place was in decent order when several men from my church came over for some coffee, Bible-mulling, vision-casting and discussion (these eclectic events are called, I think, “Leaders’ Meetings”). The various elements of the occasion were enjoyed in due course, and my visitors disbanded. As I got ready to head out the door to help some friends move, I “remembered to remember” to bring my wallet—in case I needed to spring for anything, say some chewing gum, a glass of ice water or some toothpicks. Or if we went to McDonald’s for lunch then I could leave the tip.

So imagine my dismay when my wallet turned up missing.* A cursory search did not reveal it, and I was forced to leave without my security, haunted by the thought that I might become desperately thirsty and be unable to buy a fountain drink. Only when I returned home, about five hours later, did the seriousness of the situation sink in.

My wallet was gone.

No, really. I looked in all the usual “transitional” places—the change can by the front door, the various counters and shelves, my closet, my pockets…nothing. Next I began a survey of the more imaginative places to lose small items: under futon cushions, in bathroom drawers, under piles of books, behind the computer…nope. In desperation, I searched the truly arcane corners of our loft—the bottom of the fridge, within my income tax files, under the furnace, inside several pairs of shoes…nada.

Gone.

Quickly, I developed several conceptual models to explain the facts confronting me. They were as follows.

1. One of the church leaders accidentally pinched my wallet.
2. All this was a dream. I’m still dreaming.
3. Spontaneous combustion.
4. I’m growing blind.
5. Evolution?
6. Lindsay