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View Winners → InnerViews: Driving Sans Wallet
Arcadia Weekly May 07, 2015
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By Fran Syverson
I’d planned one of those lovely “family-and-friends” kind of day, one to combine visits with several people who all live about an hour away. The little great-grandchildren would be ready to play after their mid-morning nap, so I’d drop in first to see some friends about noon. This was one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas, so I called Jolene at the Museum where she works and left a message to suggest lunch with her.
When I arrived at the Museum entrance, I reached into my purse for my membership card. Oh, good grief—no wallet! How had I not noticed? My purse was distinctly too light. But I’d been in a hurry…. Panic came quickly. Here I’d been driving all this way without my wallet—and my driver’s license! Only too well, I recalled how my mom, decades ago, had found herself without her wallet. She, too, had panicked. Driving the two miles back home, she was so rattled that she got into a minor accident. That was a scenario I hoped not to repeat.
“Stay calm,” I told myself. I fretted–what if I were to be stopped by a police office? Still, wouldn’t he be able, in this techie age, to verify that I do have a valid license, even if I couldn’t show it to him?
But for now at the Museum, the cashier admitted me via checking my phone number. Hurriedly I headed toward Jolene’s office. We could still have lunch, I reasoned; she could pick up the tab and I’d repay her.
Alas! At her office I discovered she’d apparently not checked her messages; she’d already left for lunch. Here I was, with a couple of hours on my hands before seeing the grandchildren. Walletless, I was also penniless and without my charge cards. I couldn’t even pass time by getting something to eat.
But then an idea came to me. Half a mile away was the Orange Tree Lane Café. It’s a small, family-run shop that features sandwiches, salads, and delicious cookies. More than once when my daughter Nancy had worked at the Museum, we’d met there for a quick meal. The owners always made a fuss over our youngsters, and catered to their whims.
I headed toward the Café. Warm helloes greeted me.
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
“Oh, sure.”
“I’m Nancy’s mom, Holly’s grandma.”
“I know,” she said.
“Well, I have a problem,” and I told her what it was. And to her it was no problem at all. Before long, I was enjoying my daughter’s and my favorite sandwich—egg salad on shepherd’s bread.
It all seemed so small-town, so personal, so trusting. Right here in the middle of this sprawling metropolis with its millions of people! But I shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess. After my daughter died a couple of years ago, the Orange Tree Lane Café ladies had placed a photo in memory of Nancy on one of their shelves.
Epilogue
Of course I promptly sent the money for my lunch and a small thank-you note. A few weeks later I stopped in again for lunch at the Orange Tree Lane Café. They pointed out my note that they’d tacked onto a bulletin board. Yes, right here in the middle of a sprawling metropolis … .
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