One Tuesday morning this past summer, as I was about to leave for work, I realized my pocketbook wasn’t in my bag. It wasn’t hiding in my gym bag or the space between the car seat and door either.
After a thorough search, I concluded I’d lost my big old red pocketbook where I kept every manner of essential cards and other flat items, including my driver’s license; Costco, library, insurance, credit, debit, and town parks cards; various business cards and receipts; and photos of my kids.
The thought of needing to replace it all gave me an instant stomachache.
“I know you don’t like it when I ask, but when was the last time you used your pocketbook?” my husband wanted to know. I just hate it when this question —coming from him— helps me figure things out, in this case, that I’d last used my pocketbook when paying for gas in Mystic, Connecticut, about an hour from where I live.
I located the gas station on Google Maps and called.
“Good evening,” I said to the person who picked up. “I might have accidentally left a pocketbook lying around at the gas station store yesterday. I was wondering if you’ve found it. It’s red.”
“Yes, we might have it. What is your name dear?” asked the lady. Based on the accent, I profiled her as South Asian, possibly Indian.
“Daniella.”
“Yes, we have it dear. It was at the coffee station. We were taking it to the police tomorrow if no one called.”
“I’m so happy it’s there!” I gushed. “Thanks so much. I’ll be there tomorrow morning to collect it.”
When I walked into the gas station store the next day, I was glad to find the lady on the phone behind the counter. I could tell it was her from the voice and the “dear.” She was around my age (which is to say, in her fifties), with dark brown eyes and smooth skin, and wore a cream-colored hijab.
“Here’s your pocketbook, dear,” she said, retrieving it from behind the counter. “I could have shipped it to you and you wouldn’t have needed to drive all the way here.”
“It’s not a problem. It’s not that far. I’m so very relieved to have it back.”
“Everything’s in there. I’m sure. I only opened the pocketbook to verify your name when you called last night,” she noted.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Look, I have forty dollars cash in here. I’d like you to have them,” I offered
“Oh no, no, no. Thank you. But no. You don’t need to give me any money dear.”
“Pleeeease. You can give it to charity,” I insisted.
“No. It’s OK. You can pray if you like,” she suggested. “You have a special smile.”
I wanted so badly to hug her and kiss her on the mouth, but I just said instead, “OK, I’ll pray, and I’ll tell my mom to pray too.”
On account of the hijab, I refined my profile from probably Indian to perhaps Pakistani, definitely Muslim, and I wondered why politicians didn’t recruit people like this lovely woman when driving home the point that immigrants make great citizens.
In the end, I was glad to have lost my pocketbook and to devote a morning to recovering it.
Not only did I get a nice compliment, but I was also reminded that our tendency should be to trust people. Despite what the news media might suggest, most people are good.
Also, my stranger’s happy aura and the lost-but-found rush that this encounter produced stayed with me for a good ten days.