12:12 PM
The first (and so far last) time I had my wallet stolen was Christmastime, 1990, on 5th Avenue and 50-something Street.
I was buying a hot dog and had my wallet out, and I stupidly held it slightly away from myself while I handed a dollar bill to the vendor. I did not even feel the wallet slip from my hand, and it was a few moments later that I noticed it was gone.
I went back to the hot dog guy and asked "Did I leave my wallet here?" The hot dog guy smiled, firmly grabbed my left arm and said "Nononono, black guy grab your wallet and run off." He made a gesture with his left hand symbolizing a person running off. He kept smiling and vigorously shaking his head, and he walked me across the street to a second hot dog vendor. The two men exchanged words in some other language, then the second vendor looked at me and smiled just like the other guy saying "Yeahyeahyeah, black guy grab your wallet and run off." The two hot dog vendors were now standing beside each other positively beaming at me, smiling and nodding their heads.
There was only $6 in the wallet, but my Florida driver's license and bank card were also in there. I was working my first job in New York, which was to demonstrate the Miracle Piano Teaching system at F.A.O. Schwartz.
A couple of weeks later the wallet showed up in the mail back in Tampa. Apparently the person who stole it threw it into a mailbox, or threw it somewhere where someone else found it and put it in a mailbox. The bank card and ID were still there, but there was no note from the thief wishing me a happy holiday or telling me something about getting into heaven or where to get a better job.
I've often wondered if a lot of petty crime like pick-pocketing is done not by career thiefs but by mild-mannered office stiffs who are walking along and just happen to notice that someone's wallet is sticking out and that it would be a snap to just grab it and keep walking. The street was very crowded, and it seems like almost any one-time thief could have grabbed it.
You hear all kinds of apocryphal stories about people who had their wallets stolen and then returned sans cash but with a conciliatory note or a bad poem or a picture or a love-letter. I once found a pocketbook on top of a newspaper vending machine outside of Lincoln Center. The only thing in it was receipts and business cards. The receipts were all from fur and clothier stores, none of which I had heard of at the time except for Sachs 5th Avenue, and the business cards were all from modelling agencies. I could find no indication of who owned the pocketbook. The receipt from Sachs listed 7 or 8 items, and the total "amount due" was something like $3,000,000.00. How I wish I still had that receipt, because sincelosing it I've told this story a dozen times and not one person has believed a word of it, so I quit telling it, even doubting myself but knowing it's true and vividly remembering how flabbergasted I was. I was working at Tower Records at the time, so money in general seemed like somethingthat did not exist.
I lost that receipt and everything else from that stranger's pocketbook sometime while moving from West 75th Street to Washington Heights. Another recipt I wish I still had was from a diner on Canal Street. I'd had a bowl of soup and a glass of Sprite, but the receipt was very clearly lettered "1 GLASS OF SPITE - $1.00." I laughed and laughed, thinking I should go there again and ask for a bowl of hate and a cup of anger, please.
Just replaced all the light bulbs in this apartment. It was almost pitch black in here last night. All but one had burnt out within the last 48 hours. As I think of other interesting domestic notes of import from my busy day I will be certain to log them right here into this document.
