Yellow!

So last night after work I was at the Mall.
I ate at my favorite place, the Bourbon Street Grill, then schmaltzed around there for a bit, had a coffee and read a bit.
Bought a button-up short-sleeved summer shirt. White with orange vertical stripes.
I know, I know… that’s not going to exactly get me on the cover of the next GQ or anything. But it made me feel cool, putting that shirt on. And by “cool” I mean… not hot.
Cold.
I looked sort of like a Creamsicle© .
Remember those things?
Creamsicles?

When I left the Mall I set out on the freeway, and while still on the on-ramp I noticed a small lump on the road, and drove over it.
Sort of like, “tha-whump-a.” [paraphrasing].
Totally committed to the freeway now… I thought about that glimpse of the lump, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a wallet.
A black wallet.
“Yep. That’s exactly what a wallet would sound like, if I drove over it.”

I took the next exit.
Then backtracked around about ten blocks, through the Mall parking lot again, and this time, as I approached the freeway again, I pulled over, got out, and retrieved what was, in fact, a man’s wallet.
Full of credit cards, driver’s license, medical card, calling card, all kinds of junk.
[No cash. Rats!]
So when I got home I called the number on the calling card.
No answer.
Looked in the phone book. This guy has a second phone number, same middle initial, in fact same address as the residence one. But here he is listed as a lawyer, in bolder print.
Hmmm…
I call the man’s law office and left a message…. “Umm, I just ran over your wallet on the freeway and it looks like at least 900 other people ran over it before I did, but my phone number is……”

About an hour later I get a call, and the guy wants to come over and pick up his wallet.
No probs. Give him directions to my place.
Soon he rings me up, and I take the elevator down to meet the man and his wife. He doesn’t even shake my hand.
Grabs the wallet from me.
His hands are shaking as he rifles through the thing.
Then he looks at me and says, “There is a credit card missing.”
Oooooh.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good thing to do,” I am now thinking to myself.
Good Samaritan, Good SHMARMARITAN!
All I want now is to get back up to my apartment.

What does this guy think?
I stole his ONE credit card and then figured I’d call him up to return the rest of them?
I say to the guy…. “Sir, I assure you. That is exactly as I found it. I touched nothing inside there except to find out your name and phone number.”
He said something like, “No, of course. Of course. OK.” Then added a mild “Thanks” and that was about it.
He hopped in his shiny red SUV and barrelled away.
I still do not know if his wallet was stolen or if it landed on the highway earlier, as his wife tried to maybe throw HIM out of the car!
It was strange.
If that was me…. if someone had returned all of those hard-to-replace items to me, voluntarily taken the time to rescue the wallet and all, I would have been much more effusive in my gratitude.
But what can I say?
I’m a real creamsicle of a guy.
And some other people… more like yellow ice-cubes on a stick.
Yellow.
If you know what I mean…

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