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Salt Lake City Airport, July 9, 2016:
Two guys with straggly long hair, one in a pony tail, and dark glasses— dangling crucifix earrings, and Harley Davidson T-shirt, two guys with that old grungy look, and a third in a kind of “Paul Revere and the Raiders” black jacket with big buttons and rolled cuffs, no facial hair, but flowing locks. Not quite the same as the other two, but from the same era. They HAD to be aging rockers.
At the gate I thought of saying “hello” to these guys. But what would I say?—”You guys sure look like rockers, but who are you?”
What if they were just from one of those zillions of “tribute” bands? THAT would be weird. So I said nothing, and they sat in the row behind Deb and I. Paul Revere behind me, an empty seat between him and Pony Tail behind Deb, then across the aisle Pony Tail’s shorter pal with the round head, dark hair and mustache.
Paul Revere fiddled on a laptop and the other two mostly zoned out for four hours, until we were approaching Newark Airport and the ride got really bumpy as we whipped through some rain clouds, and Paul and Pony started chatting about the annoyingly loud whine of the engine. Turns out Paul Revere didn’t know the other two, but after agreeing that the engine was clearly producing an “A” note, they talked about perfect pitch, and acknowledging they were both in the music business, got to know each other. Pony Tail mentioned he had just played a concert at the casino in Wendover.
I looked over at Deb, who was also listening, and silently mouthed, “Shit! Is that Ted Nugent?” (Because we had both chatted about seeing Nugent’s name on the billboard when we passed the Peppermill in Wendover earlier that day. What SONG did Ted Nugent perform? Name one. I can’t. But for some reason his name is memorable.) But it wasn’t Ted Nugent.
Pony Tail was Pete Bremy, bassist, currently with, but not an original Vanilla Fudge band member, and the short guy with the dark hair across the aisle was Vince Martell, the original Vanilla Fudge guitarist. Pete was very talkative, once he got started. Vince hardly said a word. Paul Revere was Dominic something-or-other. He had the thin whisp of the remains of a British(?) accent, lives now in California. He was in another band, another band from the sixties, one that I had heard of, but was not familiar with, and darned if I can’t remember which one. You’ve heard of them, I want to say “Blue Cheer”, but I don’t think that’s right. The name had a “C” in it…It was a 60’s-70’s band, like the Fudge. He said he was mainly into “writing shows” now, and has something to do with the TV show “Vinyl” and is working on a musical project of his own. He made a few comments as the plane bounced and dropped, unfazed apparently as I was by that terrible feeling when you know the plane is moving down fast because your stomach is in your throat. “Oh, we can’t go down! That would make headlines!” He laughed, “Sixties Rock Legends plunge to their Deaths in New Jersey!!”
My hands clenched tightly on the seat arms. I wanted to ask him to shut up about crashing, but he blathered on about it until the conversation turned to that favorite musician topic, “the road”. I relaxed a bit as the flight smoothed out and listened as they traded stories about good dressing rooms, bad dressing rooms, and with a laugh, the worst dressing room—”the men’s room stall on the end”. Pete said he wished he could always play casinos, because they have great dressing rooms, pay well, provide good lodging and food and “they treat musicians like important guests” and they both agreed in an obviously warm man-moment that touring was like “getting paid to travel, while you do what you love”. Hm.
This all happened as we bumped our way downward to a landing at Newark Liberty airport. When the plane rolled to a stop at the gate, and the lights came on, Pete introduced Dominic to Vince, and they were shaking hands while most of the other passengers for two or three rows in either direction were clearly awed that these guys were some kind of celebrities—but who the hell were they? They didn’t know. But I knew, because I listened.
We disembarked to find our ride and finish the last leg of our trip, an hour drive to Lambertville.
—Christo
Vanilla Fudge Website <http://www.vanillafudge.com/index.htm>
Friday evening I lost my wallet. I should have known better. It had jumped out of my pocket previously: Twice at restaurants, where it was spotted by sharp-eyed companions before it could get away. Once when I was walking on the canal path and I heard it plop to the ground behind me. Little devil. And a couple times it slipped out in my car, hiding under the seat. It’s not like it is camouflaged or anything. It’s bright orange, (because if it was a dark color I would lose it in my backpack!) But it’s a slippery devil and with all the other bionic devices I have to keep track of in middle age—you know, two pairs of prescription glasses, keys, phone—sometimes a wallet can just get away. And it did.
It must have popped out of my car right in front of my house when I returned from a nearby restaurant, onto the sidewalk, where it hid, in plain sight, in the twilight, until I realized it was missing an hour or two later and discovered it had escaped and was gone.
I was so sure where I had lost it, that there was NO DOUBT that someone had picked it up. And what were the possible outcomes? Well, let’s review the tempting contents:
Clearly the money and cards were at risk. Hours had already gone by, and no one had called. Not a good sign. Was “Wallet Finder” a good samaritan who would leave my little orange wallet with the police?
I called and filed a report. No one had turned in my wallet to the local constabulary. I checked with my bank, and there were no new charges on my cards. That was good. Rather than cancel (what a pain!) I suspended all the cards. I could wait a few days. I kept telling myself, “Have faith in humanity.”
But why hadn’t she called? If a potentially good person found the wallet, wouldn’t that be the first thing she would do? The number was there. I supposed if it was found by an only-slightly-ethically-compromised Wallet Finder, he might take the cash and throw the wallet (with everything else) in the gutter, a garbage can, or some alley. Okay. I walked up and down the street with a flashlight, peering into my neighbor’s garbage cans. Nothing. Maybe Wallet Finder pocketed it and planned to drop it at the Police later? Feeling that there was nothing else I could do, and that I had been foolish not to keep my wallet on a shorter leash, I went to bed.
It took forever to fall asleep. I imagined the events and possibilities as I thought Sherlock Holmes might, or as a forensics detective or “profiler” would. I could see someone wanting to do the right thing but not wanting to make the phone call, not wanting to be involved. Maybe a tourist Wallet Finder picked it up on the way home and forgot about it? Now he’s back in Philadelphia and remembers it – what will he do? Throw it in the trash? Mail it? Where? How would he get my address?
Earlier in the evening my partner had asked about the driver’s license. “No,” I said, “I completed the change of address with the NJ Division of Motor Vehicles, but for whatever reason, they never sent a sticker. Just a receipt. So the license has my old address—there’s nothing in the wallet with my current address.” Something about this stuck in my mind, but that’s all it did, stick. I finally let it all go and fell asleep.
Saturday morning I awoke early, resolved that the wallet and contents were gone for good and I would just accept it and move on. Despite a long line, the NJ Motor Vehicle office in Flemington was fast and efficient and provided a duplicate license. I went to breakfast, walking from Lambertville to New Hope. Paying at the restaurant, I opened my new wallet, and looked at my new license. It wasn’t precisely a duplicate, it had my current address. Hm. Should I walk by my old apartment? What if Wallet Finder had dropped it off there? I imagined someone just popping it into the door mail slot. Nah. If that had happened, my phone number was still in it. Wouldn’t someone have called by now? It seemed so unlikely, but on a whim, I called one of my old neighbors. He promised to mention it to the current resident of my old apartment. But I was not hopeful. When I got home I went for a long bike ride.
I almost fell over. The text said: “Call me. I have your wallet.” On my phone when I got back from my bike ride. Unbelievable! From my old neighbor. The incredible journey of my escaped wallet, returned like some lost pet, and as I soon learned, with ALL THE CONTENTS intact.
The first Wallet Finder, still unidentified, picked it up from the sidewalk—and for all I know, passed it along to dwarves and goblins during the night, where it sat on the table like some temporary mascot, used as an ante in a mystical card game—who knows? But at some point, by Saturday, one mystery Wallet Finder had dropped little orange in the mail slot of my old apartment. The current resident’s daughter found it on the floor, and with no hesitation, passed it to her mother. She in turn, had just posted it on a web site when she was apprised of the tale by my old neighbor—the only one in this chain who actually knew me—Wallet Finder number Four. She happily surrendered it to him, and he called me.
It’s a tale of redemption. At least for me, in these times where every day we can hear some horrible story of some heinous act, it’s a wonderful tale of not just one—but at least four—people, maybe more, each of whom could have at any point selfishly and safely kept the money and instead CHOSE to do the right thing and help a stranger. I couldn’t ask for more!
To all you Wallet Finders, known and unknown, THANK YOU. Thank you to EVERYONE who returned it!!
—Christo
A “Highly Sensitive Individual” isn’t sensitive to everything. I am sensitive to high frequency noise. I have tracked and hunted mosquitoes in a room by following their sound. Those high frequency pulse boxes that are supposed to repel rodents really bother me. And in fact, I have a very powerful sense of smell. I can tell when my friend has spiced the brewing coffee on the other side of the house. In restaurants, I know when someone has put a packet of Splenda in their tea. I can smell the Splenda in the air. But some things I don’t smell at all, and I’m not sure what those are, or if I never smell them, or just don’t smell them sometimes.
I worked in IT for a chemical company. Our department was in the basement, our offices had no windows, and there were labs upstairs. That meant there were drain pipes inside the suspended ceiling that ran above our cube farm. About once a month some particularly odiferous experiment, or maybe just a cleaning operation, would release fumes from above, which floated down and made their way to me, sitting at my desk. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The gases were invisible of course, but I could smell them. The “Safety Team” would investigate if I called. Which I did, frequently.
The “Safety Team” never smelled anything! I finally realized that as part of their profession they had sniffed so many solvents and chemical reactions and putrid gases, that their senses of smell were tired, their noses were burned out, and although they didn’t realize it, useless—at least for identifying a chemical spill or leak. Because I called so often, my colleagues implied I was paranoid, “crying wolf”, or just making trouble, instead of being a good corporate citizen, continuing to work, and not complaining as they all did. But eventually the Safety Team purchased a chemical sniffer—a little walkie-talkie-like-box with a round antenna, that looked like something from the Jetsons—and it frequently verified the leaking intrusion of noxious gases. Not reassuringly, the Safety Team reassured me that there was “…only two parts per billion of XXXXX chemical, and that’s totally in an acceptable range. I’m surprised you can even smell it!”
It surprises me now that I tolerated this toxic chemical exposure risk for years, until I adopted the personal policy of using the smell as a signal to leave the office, go to Starbucks, and carry on there, in a much more productive, creative, and human friendly environment, where the WiFi worked, the Internet was accessible, and my cell phone had signal. It’s amazing how we adapt. And how we don’t see the inevitable. There were parts of that job that were interesting and fun. And then there was the rest… It was so much better to be at Starbucks than to be at the office!
—Christo
christoplummer 