New York Proves Itself One More Time

A returned wallet restores faith in the big city By Lorraine Duffy Merkl â??They have your wallet over at The Mansion [Diner], said my doorman last Monday morning. He was referring to my new, blue, rectangular Michael Kors wallet that holds my life and that I thought I"d never see again. The previous Saturday I had run errands, traveling light with only what I could fit in my pockets: my iPhone and trusty MK. Earbuds in place, I powerwalked across 86th Street to the sound of my iTunes library.ˆ  Due to technical difficulties, I needed both hands to fiddle with the iPhone. So preoccupied did I become with my music that it took me a minute to acknowledge that my purse was sliding out of my coat. I ripped my earbuds from their sockets and turned quickly, expecting to find it on the ground. It was nowhere. This is what baffled me: How could it not be on the sidewalk? It had fallen only seconds earlier. I retraced my steps from the 86th Street side of The Viand Diner to Second Avenue in front of The Heidelberg. I went there and back at least 10 times, then along the whole stretch of 86th Street from First to Second. Nothing. How could it disappear so fast? I couldn"t understand, unless someone hot on my heels had seen it drop and picked it up. â??I think you got your pocket picked, my husband, Neil, surmised. Either way, my stuff was gone. Luckily, I"d made copies of the wallet"s contents so I knew what I was missing. I called credit card companies and the bank, as well as the credit monitors's Equifax, Experian and TransUnion's who help prevent identity theft. (FYI: Reporting to Equifax is enough, as they alert the other two.) With this behind me, I had the rest of Saturday and Sunday to wait out so I could take care of the rest on Monday: Social Security card replacement and a new driver"s license. Plus the less crucial replacement of museum membership and library cards, et al. I suddenly went into mourning for my Duane Reade FlexRewards card. Sunday afternoon, I took the advice of some credit card reps and reported the loss at my police precinct. Even though I knew they wouldn"t dispatch the SWAT team in search of my possessions, it seemed like a good idea to have a record of the incident. I"d never been inside a station house. I found two officers behind a rather tall desk. My neck started hurting from looking up to tell my tale of woe. I filled out a multipage form, then the officer had to copy what I wrote on to his own report, plus write down my story of what had happened. This took forever. Sunday night I didn"t sleep, too anxious waiting to begin my rounds of calls, voice recordings and the dreaded trip to the DMV and Social Security office. But the next morning, my doorman let me know a man had found my wallet. He had come by around midnight on his way to work his overnight shift. There was some mixup with the night doorman, who wasn"t sure if he should buzz up so late. The man said he"d come back before he went home at 8 a.m., but I couldn"t wait and ran over to the diner. Everything was inside MK, except my money and MetroCard. (Note to whomever has both: Hope you are someone who truly needed them. Enjoy.ˆ  And thanks for ditching the rest.) Of course, the big shout-out belongs to the man who returned my â??life. I always like to believe I can count on my fellow New Yorkers, and this one proved me right by working overtime. Lorraine Duffy Merkl"s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.