Lost Wallet

I wake from a drunken stupor. The past hours of my life are lost. For a moment, I don’t know where I am, and then my surroundings comfort me. I’m home. I stand, slowly, and shuffle towards my living room window. A place I usually find myself after a night doused in liquor. 

The world is silent. It’s a time for reflection. A time to think about life in way that I seem to neglect. Deep thoughts, heavy in their subject matter, floating to the surface, uncovering themselves for the masses. I stand, mentally tiptoeing around these thoughts, peering into each one, trying to decipher their meanings. And then it hits me.

Where the hell is my wallet? No, seriously, where is my wallet? This happens all the time. I go out, I bring my wallet, I pay for something with cash/card from said wallet, and then I return home, usually putting my wallet somewhere I forget. I know it’s a foolish thing to do. Why wouldn’t I just put the thing on the same table everyday and then I would never lose it? This is something that I asked myself everyday. The reason is because I am an asshole, and an asshole does things that deliberately sabotage themselves. Like leaving porn up on their phone’s Internet browser, just waiting for a friend or maybe even a parent to look something up, exposing themselves to an onslaught of nudity and loose morals. 

It’s the little things. These things that I can’t seem to get ahold of in my everyday life. And my life is pretty good. I rent a two bedroom apartment. I live alone so the second bedroom is converted into my home “office.” I use the term office lightly due to the definition of that word meaning that work is being done in there. It’s not. I actually think I’m going to lose my job. But that’s okay. Jobs are meant to be lost, just as rules are meant to be broken. Broken like my ex-girlfriend’s heart when I told her that things just weren’t “going to work.” I’m terrified of commitment, but I thought she would be different.

And she was. Her name was Lucy. She was great. A great friend and lover, someone that I could honestly go to in any circumstance. I remember her holding me when my dog, this little Boston terrier named Bruce, got hit by the garbage truck. I almost fell into a pit of alcohol and subpar cinema, but she pulled me out. She loved me. And I ruined it. And that’s okay. I’m a self-saboteur. It’s what I do. 

Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the wallet. I’m standing in my living room still, right? Alright, great. So I’m in the living room, mind slowly rising from a liquor-induced daze. And the thought of the lost wallet hits me. I get dressed, have a small breakfast (two eggs, scrambled, lightly salted with a side of rye toast, lightly toasted with a light smear of strawberry jam), and I exit my apartment, into the early morning, in search of my greatest possession, a $35 wallet from Macy’s. 

The early morning is when the city shines brightest. People leaving for work as others finally arrive home, brain melted from nights of debauchery. It’s those nights when you realize why the world is truly here. It’s for surface level pleasure. It’s for liquor and kissing in the back of a taxi cab. It’s for the filth in the alleyways that nobody cleans. It’s for the mistakes you make on the weekend, and that regret leaks into the following week, infecting every interaction with the stain of self-loathing. 

I love watching people’s faces drop as the enter the morning air. They realize that the world is still here, and any form of escape is futile. This is all they have, and any break from the monotony of their routine is simply that. A break. It won’t last forever, and it shouldn’t. Life is meant to be felt in small bursts, between streaks of boredom and dull colors. This is how the world will always be, and I appreciate its honesty. It isn’t masquerading itself as an all-inclusive party, streamers hung from the ceiling, a middle-aged band playing the hits in the corner. No. Life is a grind, a cycle of hot metal and disappointment. It breaks you down. It tells you when to walk and when to sit and when to smile and when to cry. It tells you when it's time to move on and it tells you when it's time to stagnate, when it's time to stay in the same place forever, rigor mortis of the living. It tells you what time it is. It tells you whats on TV. It takes your dreams and it steals your wallet.

The wallet is a funny invention now that I think of it. People’s whole lives confined to a small piece of folded leather. And these companies try to revolutionize it. They make it this sleek piece of metal with clips for money and edgy compartments for your insurance card. It doesn’t make any sense. The wallet is the wallet. It’s not going to become anything else. It’s a part of the fabric of society. We keep our money, our information, our memories, close to the hip. In our pockets. And they’re always there. Until you lose them.

It was at this moment of introspection that I began to panic. In the morning air, the air that reminds us of our insignificance in this planet among many, I began to realize the consequences of a lost wallet. The consequences of losing the one item that reminds the world who you are and what you are worth. You see, when you lose a wallet, you aren’t losing just the wallet. You are losing everything it contains. Your driver’s license, credit cards. When you lose these items, you are creating future chores for yourself. Future trips to the DMV or the bank, places that a vacuum sealed to suck the life out of you. Have you ever seen a DMV at its busiest? D-day had less casualties. A DMV at 11 am is a cluster of anger and sadness, all contained in a area too small for personal space. It’s one of life’s worst ventures, and a bank isn’t any better. These places are limbo, constant waiting without any sign of progress. It’s what nightmares of made of, and these thoughts began to creep into my mind when I realized I had no idea where my wallet could really be. 

Within this spiral of panic, it hit me. It was all so simple. Charlie’s. The wallet had to be in Charlie’s, my favorite bar. A bar that encapsulated everything I truly loved about drinking. Doing it alone, without flashing lights and bad dancing. Drinking while Bob Seger plays from a broken sound system and old men argue about the Vietnam war. If this sounds like a drab scene, you are sorely mistaken. Drinking is not meant to be this energetic experience. They make other drugs for that. Drinking is meant to done sitting down, staring at a TV, glancing down the bar at a girl you wish you had the guts to talk to. Charlie’s was where I actually met my ex, the one I mention before. Lucy.

I think it was around Christmas. Lucy was with some of her friends. I was with some of mine. And we just kind of bumped into each other. It was just one of those things that could have easily not happened, but it did. And things just kind of clicked. I made a snide remark, she replied with some witty comment, and I knew I was in trouble. And after that, it was a blur. I’m not just talking about the night, but the whole relationship. A four year relationship wasted. It’s a funny thing to talk about, well, not funny, but interesting. Interesting to think about how those days didn’t really matter. And I could say that my time with Lucy made me “grow as a person” or that I “learned most about myself.” But I really didn’t. And that’s not her fault. It’s mine. I’m a self-saboteur. Happiness is not in the rolodex of emotions that I can have. I actively avoid the things that I know will better me in the future. Better to stay in the same spot than to risk losing the comfort that you already have. It’s what I live by, and I don’t think it’s a motto I’m willing to change anytime soon.

I made my way to Charlie’s. It was close to my apartment building. I entered the bar. It was empty, except for one bartender. I asked if they had my wallet. They didn’t. I left. That was that. I could continue on about Charlie’s and about the wallet, but when I was standing in there, this place filled with memories of joy and drunken experience, a place I was so familiar with, I felt lost. I could stare across the bar and see Lucy, her blonde hair, her smile, the laugh that rose to the ceiling, like warm air. It was all still there. I hadn’t been to Charlie’s for a while since my search for the wallet. I didn’t feel like drinking with people, in a crowd, lost in a sea of bodies. It didn’t make sense anymore. I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to relive for a second. Maybe this whole thing was a waste of time.

I left the bar. My mind was blank, and it made sense. So much time spent on careless journeys, wasted time on people I don’t talk to anymore. I decided to walk through the park before returning home. Take my mind off things for a while. Take a walk through green grass and trees instead of the concrete maze around me. I don’t know if I like the city anymore. It’s cold. The buildings are too tall. Every time you look out a window, you feel the weight of it all. Millions of lives confined to a few miles. 

I crossed the street and entered the park. It was nice. The sun began peaking over the horizon, greeting me with a tinge of warmth. I began to feel better, even in the slightest. It’s funny how weather can do that. I guess most things in life have an effect on our mood. I guess I’m rambling. To be honest, things have been weird for a while now. It’s not the same feeling as before, a lust for life, a wide open sky. No, it’s just not the same. And I’m not saying I’m thinking about ending things, no, I just want to start again. Lucy really broke me, and it’s funny because it was my idea. I broke up with her. That’s what I do. As I said before, I break things. I remember when I was a kid, on Thanksgiving, my mom gave me this plate of turkey to bring to the table. We were at my grandma’s house, and on the holidays, houses feel warmer than usual. It’s hard to explain. My dad and my uncles were watching football in the living room as my cousins played with toys in one of the bedrooms. It was a small house so we were practically on top of each other anyway. I had this plate of turkey, and for some reason, I just dropped it. This beautiful porcelain, shattered on the floor. I just stared at it. It was so loud when it broke, and I just stared. And it wasn’t even a big deal. Nobody was mad at me and the dinner was good and everything was fine. But it stuck with me. That plate, all its pieces still there, just broken on the floor. I don’t know why it still bothers me. I didn’t mean to drop the plate. It just happened. I just did it.

Lucy had big eyes. Like disproportionately big. And she didn’t like them. These big blue eyes. I remember laying in the grass with her, in the exact park I was walking through, and just staring at them. Like two big blue oceans, as cliche as it sounds. I remember those eyes brimming with tears when I told her it was over. When we came back to my apartment, both wine drunk after a great meal, and for some reason, I decided to call it quits. I dropped the plate. It didn’t even make sense. Everything was good. Everything was great actually. She was great, and I took this great thing, and I balled it up in my hands, and I broke it. And that’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s why I lose things and break things and act like it’s all for nothing. It’s not who I want to be, but I’m too old. It’s too late for me to change. And people say it’s not. That you can change anytime in life, but it’s not true. It’s like wet clay. There’s only so much time to sculpt and make your changes before it hardens, and then you’re stuck with whatever you have left.

I can confidently say that life has not been worthwhile after Lucy. Can a person break you? I guess. I guess I guess I guess. Maybe it’s too much to put on one person. This anguish and disdain for sunrises and movie theaters and good meals. I can’t enjoy them now because they were too good before. Too good when I was in something that I was supposed to be in. But this is my life. And this park is fine. It’s green. It’s grassy. There’s a distinct tree in the center of it, with a thick body and branches that sprawl out with no sense of direction. And I can sit and stare at the tree, and take in its life, and look at it the way I would have as a child, but I can’t. I’ve already seen too many trees and this one is just another one. At the end of the day, I’m a man without a wallet, and what is that exactly. It’s nothing. 

….

I returned to my apartment. I poured a drink. A vodka soda. Simple. No decadence. This was it. Two things creating something that makes me feel better. I sat on my couch. The sun shined harshly through my apartment’s window, at the perfect angle to blind me. Whatever. I drank. That’s what I did. And I began to feel better. I made more drinks and felt even better. And the sun rose in the air, averting its light from my eyes. And there it was.

The wallet. On my coffee table. Turns out I was more responsible than I thought. I laughed and reached for it. I felt it in my hands. The cheap leather. It’s what I deserved. I sat there in the silence, as the city hummed outside the window, and I looked through its contents. It’s one of the many routines in life. Even though I had no suspicions of anything being stolen, I had to look through it, just to be sure. 

I opened it. Made sure my money was where it should be. It was. I had my ID, my credit cards, my insurance card, some random coupons I’ll never use, and tucked into one of compartments, a small picture, its corner just peaking out enough for me to see it. I pulled it out. A picture of me and Lucy, at some New Year’s Eve party. I forgot I had it. I stared at it for a while. I think she was laughing at something I said. I was happy. I looked up from the picture, at the blank TV, black screen reflecting myself back to me. A drunk fool. A mess. Hardened clay. This was who I was. Morning cocktails. Spans of time wasted to regret, annoyance, inability to proceed through time as a responsible adult. A person.

I looked back at the photo. The happiness. The warmth pouring from this small piece of paper. If I could only reach into it and take it back. Try to retrieve a state of mind that was lost on me. Maybe I could. I took another sip from my drink and tucked the photo back into the wallet. I stumbled to my feet and made my way over the window. Stared out the window. At the city. Millions of people confined to a few miles. All looking for their spot in this world. And I was one of them. 

I finished my drink. The warmth of the sun covered my face. In the moment, everything was good, and I decided to exist in it, if only for that moment. 

….