I sure was a sorry sight, what with my momentary panic right as I slammed the New York Yellow taxi cab door and watched it speed off. Luckily there was a red light up ahead, so with the boot strapped onto my fractured right leg, I tried to hobble up the street as quickly as I could to catch the taxi. Alas, the light turned green.
Crestfallen, I turned to go.
I had left my wallet in the taxi.
Of course, I cancelled my credit and debit cards right away. But what about my insurance cards, university ID, Colorado drivers license and other important notes I had in there?
Immediately I felt the weight of the extra responsibilities and annoying errands I now needed to add to my list.
I called 311 and filed a report. I was given the number of two police stations the wallet would be returned to, if it were found.
I called the police stations the next day. Nothing. I called again the following day, giving the physical description of the wallet and the day it was lost.
Nothing.
Listen, it’s New York, don’t expect it back, but I always say to keep calling for up to five days after losing
an item and filing a report.
I hung up, defeated. “Finders keepers, right?” I thought to myself.
I was leaving New York anyway, flying out to Denver for Passover, and was simply resigned to losing my wallet.
I would take care of what needed to be taken care of in the next couple of weeks, and that would be that. It is what it is, as they say. And not the biggest deal. Just an inconvenience, really.
On Pesach, my mother off-handedly mentioned she noticed there was a package in the mail for me. I didn’t give it much thought. After Havdalah on Saturday night she handed me a small package, mailed first class.
I didn’t really understand. I was just home at my parents on a visit. Denver is not my current mailing address. Plus, this reminded me of the size of the package I receive when ordering contact lenses. Did I order them for Denver and forget? My mind was racing, perplexed and curious with all these thoughts as I took the small, yellow, cushion, pillow-shaped envelope from my mother’s hand.
The second I held it, something dawned on me, and as I was pulling the tab, opening the envelope, I immediately exclaimed, “O! If this is my wallet . . . ” and before finishing my sentence there it was, cradled in my hand, my family around me shocked and uplifted. I was reunited with my wallet.
I just couldn’t believe it. I was so touched. Atotal stranger went out of the way to mail my wallet, first class, to mitigate my stress.
I began shaking the envelope waiting for a business card to drop out. I opened my wallet to find a note of some kind from this good samaritan. I shook the envelope again. Nothing. I then looked at the white address label to find the return address. Blank. Only my name and address sprawled in feminine black script.
I still feel a bit warm every time I think of this person’s anonymous act of kindness. It means a lot to me because it is so easy to become jaded about people, about life. This act of kindness is a gift that encourages faith in humankind and human kindness. Plus, it gives the hopelessly optimistic among us some good ammunition.
Given the opportunity, would most people do the right thing? I think so. And I feel a debt of gratitude to this anonymous person for reinforcing this feeling about the world within me.
I myself have found a wallet in the back of a taxi twice while living in Israel. I was able to trace the phone number of the wallet owners and contact them immediately.
They each picked up their wallets at my apartment and office, respectively. I experienced the personal satisfaction of seeing the happy and relieved faces of the owners as well as being thanked warmly.
With my wallet, I’ll never know who sent it to me. I’ll never know whom to thank. Whoever this person is simply chose to do the right thing out of honesty and integrity, without expecting anything — not even the emotional satisfaction of an acknowledgement or appreciation.
I got a feeling of hope for our society, for our community of humankind. It is not necessarily the dog-eat-dog world you always hear people talking about. I got to feel that, contrary to the conventional wisdom of people giving in order to receive, of doing good only with the expectation a quid pro quo, people aren’t just in it for themselves.
My wallet was returned to me more organized than I left it. It was obviously rummaged through in order to locate my number or, as it turned out, my address. Not only was money not taken from it, the finder of my wallet spent her own money, and first class at that, to send the wallet back.
I started out the loser in this situation, but ultimately I became the gainer. Indeed, this was a first class instruction in the power of the mitzvah of hashavat aveidah, of returning lost objects. Afirst class act — sent first class.
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