Saturday, 2:15 PM, getting ready to load two boxes of groceries into my trunk, I reached for my keys and realized:  my wallet is gone.

Now, I have the habit at Superstore (Loblaws to you Easterners) of placing my wallet on the small counter beside the debit machine, fishing out my points card, replacing that card and leaving my wallet there eventually to pull out, use and replace my debit card. Bad habit.

Stowing the groceries, I retraced my steps back to the store and hurried to the cashier who’d processed my order. Telling her my problem, she shook her head sadly, “No. I have not seen it. And there was no one right behind you when you checked out.”

She was right. The main reason I shop Saturdays is that Superstore has all the checkouts open, speeding up the chore of grocery shopping.  The cashier suggested I see the floor manager.

Source: winnipegsun.com

By now a cloud of gloom has descended on me, as I realize all the implications of the obviously stolen wallet. Sure, there was a few hundred in cash. (Yep, I am of a generation that always carries some cash. How quaint.)

But it is the total hassle of dealing with all the cards, the driver’s license, the notifying of all the monthly bills tied to the credit card and then remembering all the stuff I had in the wallet. (Yes, I know. I should have copied it all.  Like I should have put on sunscreen or bought flight insurance.)

The manager, a no-nonsense woman I’ve seen there for years, the sort whose eyeglasses sport a chain, suggested I go check my boxes of groceries. Retracing my steps to the car, I did. To no avail.

And the number of times in the past five minutes I’d patted my pockets would make an observer conclude that I either had St. Vitus’s Dance or was an ageing, tubby flamenco dancer gone to seed.

Back to the manager. She suggested I check the waste bins in the men’s washroom. Having no idea why I should do this, I grasped the proffered straw and did so. Then I checked the other waste receptacles outside the store’s doors. Nothing.

Then I went back to the washroom and scrubbed from my hands all the Ebola and Norwalk viruses I’d unquestionably acquired. Only hours later did I realize that the first thing a thief would do is head to the washroom, where there are no cameras. Obviously, I would not make a very successful thief.

Source: snapdeal.com

I returned to the manager who informed me that a search of the women’s had borne no fruit, either. She took my particulars and said they’d check the security camera tapes but I could tell from her desultory tone, she held out little hope. And, of course, even if there was an image of the red-handed thief, I doubted this case would shoot to the top of the police’s investigative agenda.

So began the damage control response. I headed to my bank and cancelled the debit card. Then I asked for a new one. The twenty-something clerk asked if I had any i.d. …..Restraining my sarcasm, I simply reminded him that my wallet had been stolen. Red-faced, he asked me a few questions and then gave me my new card.

Then, I tore over to my insurance agent and got a temporary replacement driver’s license. (Another note to you Easterners:  in Manitoba we have medicare-like automobile insurance so insurance agents also handle driver’s licenses.) So now at least I could drive and could pay for something if need be. Then I went home, got an old Mastercard bill and cancelled my credit card.

Less than an hour had passed since the theft. My energy and gumption seriously drained, I put off notifying all the automatic billers to my now cancelled credit card and turned my attention to the physical labour of sanding an old desk, hoping to be distracted from this mess.

But with every pass of the sander, I reflected on the venality of people who would steal a wallet. Couldn’t they just take the money and leave the wallet? What’s wrong with the world? And so on. Sometimes my Ignatian training in reflecting on experience can be a pain.

DING DONG. My front door.  Through the glass a see a slim forty-something guy with tied back hair and wearing an Iron Maiden tee-shirt. Clearly neither a Mormon nor a Witness. I open the door and, extending his hand he says, “Hi. Is this your wallet?”

IT WAS! Accepting the wallet, I open it and immediately pull out a few twenties. With a pained look on his face, he says, “No! It’s all there.”

Shamefaced, I realize that my clumsy attempt to offer a reward has been interpreted as an insult. “No, no…I just want to offer your something in return….”

“No, please. Not at all. I can’t take anything. I’m just doing what I have to.” As it turned out, I had somehow dropped my wallet on my walk to my car and he had picked it up in the one minute between my going to my car and returning to the store.

Momentarily stunned, I say nothing. Then, “Well, can I offer you a beer?”

Source: cnet.com

And in his graciousness he replied, “Sure.” It was only later that I recognized that he was offering me something just as important as my lost wallet:  the opportunity to express my gratitude.  This time I was grateful for my Ignatian training in reflection.

As it turned out, he teaches in Adult Education. After years of working in industry, he had been head-hunted by his old school and has had a very fruitful life teaching adults in his mastered trade. When I told him that I was a recently retired high school teacher, we set off in a wonderful back-and-forth about the joys of teaching.

And when I told him that I was now involved in adult education, something new to me, and would love to observe one of his classes, he kindly agreed. So sometime this October, I will learn about adult education. And I am grateful.

Tennessee Williams’s Blanche Dubois said, “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.” In an age of increased xenophobia and of Alt-Right and Antifa street violence, where screaming is displacing dialogue, maybe crazy old Blanche has it right.