Lost and Found

Part 1 of 2

By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

Dave gives me grief for losing things, or forgetting where I left them. Same thing, I guess. It does seem I hear myself saying, with increased frequency, and panic, “I can’t find my notes! or “Have you seen my camera?”

That’s his clue to retort, “Where did you have it last?” Well, if I knew that, would it be lost? Or, his other favorite, “Why don’t you pay attention to what you’re doing? You spend half your life looking for things.”

The most recent object of alarm was a nifty little purse I bought myself after scouring department stores on two continents. It fit all my requirements: Small and flat, with key ring and coin purse on the outside; a pocket for bills, one for my driver’s license, and several convenient for credit cards. Oh, and brown leather, matching my indispensable Day Runner.

I rarely carry cash. Obviously, the catastrophe here is the loss of the ultimate ID, my driver’s license, plus a credit card and a debit card.

So we were halfway between Lake Martin and Lakepoint Resort, Ala. last week, relocating the boat, when we stopped for gas, and discovered we’d chosen one of those little country convenience stores that have glassed-in warming tables full of deep-fried potato wedges, deep-fried egg rolls, deep-fried corn dogs, and a deep-fried mystery food I asked the young woman behind the counter to identify.

“What are they?” I pointed.

“You mean the cheese-stuffed peppers?”

“Yeah.”

“Cheese-stuffed peppers,” she answered, her face barely concealing her opinion of the alien standing in front of her case.

“Did you make all these?” I asked, adding hastily, “They look wonderful,” but finding it hard to believe egg rolls were hatched in Alabama.

“Yes’m,” she replied, finally softening a little.

At an average just over a dollar a portion, I had the most delicious, unhealthy lunch I’d eaten in ages, mitigated by NOT ordering corn dogs, and drinking water instead of sweet tea.

Dave paid the bill, and I swooned my way out to the car, and we’d gone another 30 miles when I realized I didn’t have my purse.

I dug into every crevice I could reach from the front seat, and could hardly wait until we got to Lakepoint to do a serious search. First, of course, we had to launch Alice III and tuck her into her waiting slip, after which Dave expected me to help wrestle tarps and bungees into place to protect her teak from the summer sun.

At last I got back to the Grand Cherokee and ran my hand into every crevice, under every seat, in every tote bag and overnighter and laundry bag generated in a week on Lake Martin.

No purse.

Think, Sallie, think. I had it with me when we bought gas. Could I have left it there? Cell-phone and receipts from the mini-mart to the rescue.

Drat. No phone number. I braced myself and dialed 411. Weak signal strength; dialed 411 a second time. I dread to see the charges.

An operator and I shouted at each other, me trying to explain where the store was in terms of highway numbers

” U.S. 280 West, Opelika “ and she answering with Someone’s Memorial Highway in Auburn, repeating over and over, “Operator on the line.” I finally took it on faith that we were talking about the same highway and dialed the number she gave me.

Again, poor signal. Again, a voice broke through the static. My heart sank when it said something about the cashier having gone home, but soared again when I made out “change purse” and “we have it.”

On the way back, Dave and I discussed a reward. I did have a ten with me, and he a twenty. Ten seemed too little, $20 too much. Writing a check seemed odd, but you can’t reward with a credit card, or ask for change.

The cashier was indeed not the young woman who was at the cash register when we were there a couple of hours earlier. This was a tall, 50-something graying guy wearing glasses, who said this was Pam’s last day on the job.

“She told me to give you this “ and he picked up my little brown purse from the counter behind him. I accepted it gratefully, and glanced through it. Everything was there.

“You left it on the table. She saw it right after you left and tried to catch you, but you were gone, so she called and left a message on your phone machine,” Tall Guy continued.

“I’d like to give her something,” I said, opening my checkbook. “Will you see that she gets it?”

He handed me a business envelope, and said, “Her name’s Pam Green. Her husband works here too; he?ll be in later. Yeah, they’re real nice people,” then, looking at my proffered business card, stated, “You’re a writer?”

“Mmm,” I said, using the noncommittal tone I adopt when I don’t want to confirm or deny whatever I’m accused of.

“Maybe you could write a letter to our paper. It would mean a lot to Pam, and it would make the store look good.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s the least I can do.”

Later: “Fifteen dollars?” Dave snorted. “You didn’t give her nearly enough. Should have been at least a hundred. Think what it would cost you in time alone to replace your license, your credit cards, your keys”

“How about a letter to the paper in Opelika?” I asked.

“It’s not the same, but I guess it’s worth more than fifteen dollars,” he said.

I guess.