Take your passion and make it happen

An open letter to Ms. Claudia Perez, permanent US resident from Chile:

I'm the young man who saw your wallet on the sidewalk outside the Times Square subway station earlier this evening (the one across from the Red Lobster) and, fearing it would end up in the wrong hands, hurried through the turnstile and picked it up and turned it in at the NYPD station on 44th Street.

But not before I stood outside in the cold rain for a quarter of an hour trying to get your credit card company on the phone - using, by the way, my pre-evening Verizon minutes - after a fruitless search for any other identifying information, and finally got through to a customer service representative who, I have a sinking suspicion, did not, in fact, relay my phone number to you.

And then, just so you know, after spending another ten minutes giving the cops my identifying information, I had to go back into the rain and then back into the subway.

And through the mind-numbingly circuitous underground labyrinth which eventually, ten minutes later, ends up at the A/C/E.

Where I waited another ten minutes for a train to come.

And when it finally did come, and I rode one stop to 50th Street, I looked up and saw that I was, in fact, at 34th Street. Because I'd gone in the wrong direction.

So then I took the underground walkway to the northbound train, and waited another five minutes for the train to come, and then finally got to 50th Street, at which point I once again had the opportunity to return to the now cold, wet and windy night.

The only thing that made this experience at all bearable was when the theme from Flashdance came onto my iPod. This, combined with my soaking wet pants and hair, made me feel as though I were actually in the movie, albeit a cold and windy and disgruntled version.

I guess my point here is that I really hope you get your wallet back, unhelpful customer service representative notwithstanding. But only as long as you're not a rude or evil or ruthless or nasty or generally unpleasant person, or one with a plan to exact any sort of mayhem or misery on a micro- or macrolevel, or a hater of gays. You would probably be better off without that last one as well, as your personal effects are now teeming with my invisible homosexual fingerprints.

Call me!

Sincerely,

Groomzilla



And to think, I was going to spend this entry talking about the old homeless woman who peed on my subway this afternoon.


NOTE TO SELF: put phone number in wallet.