Detective Bar
You may remember I lost my license in Houston a few weeks ago. The lesson I learned was that plastic cards like licenses and credit cards stick to the face of one’s phone, especially when it’s warm. It was 100 degrees that morning in Houston. Pulling my phone from my pocket to photograph an egret, the cards must have fallen out and blown away. I got the credit card back that morning. A grandmother pushing her grandchild in a pram had seen it on the sidewalk. When she saw me running back and forth, sweating and frantic, she stopped to ask if I was looking for something. I told her I was. She asked my name, then handed me the card. No license, but at least my credit card was safe. Lucky. She gave me a bottle of water, too.
Last week a blue envelope addressed by someone who had studied architectural drafting, arrived in our mailbox. No note inside, no return address. Just my license. I wish I could thank them; I wish I knew where they found it. I hadn’t even gotten around to the DMV for a new license yet. They saved me half a day of waiting.
Meanwhile, the bracelet I lost somewhere between the Portland, Houston, and Charlotte airports was not reported to their Lost and Founds. That’s the bracelet my grandmother gave my mom 60 years ago, and which she passed on to me 20 years later. Making claims at those airports was futile. I knew that when I posted them. But I had to try. The bracelet was too pretty for someone to turn it in. My next step was to figure out what someone who had it might do with it. That led me to eBay. And sure enough, there it was! Not mine necessarily, but a duplicate. I couldn’t help but think maybe it was mine. If it had been snagged during a TSA security check when I was so thoroughly investigated because of my lost license, maybe the person who took it needed some cash. I didn’t care. I wanted my bracelet back. I bid thirty bucks lower than the asking price. Then I thought, what are you doing, Bar, buy the bracelet right now this minute. Don’t let someone else get it and lose it twice. So, I did. Then I waited for it to arrive, wondering how I might know whether it’s mine or not. Which reminded me of cleaning it not too long ago. I’d pulled out my old toothbrush to get at some polish deep in the crevices. I didn’t have time to get it all. If this were my bracelet, that polish would still be there.
The bracelet arrived on Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t mine. There was leftover polish, but not where I left it. The giveaway, though, was that it didn’t fit the same way. Now, my bracelet is back. Not the same one, but a new one with a longer story.