Something to do with Twinkies, 70 bucks, and a missing wallet
So tonight, I lost my wallet.
I’m almost certain that it was stolen, but I can’t prove it. It might’ve been pick-pocketed from me and I just never saw it coming. One moment, it was in my back pocket, the next moment… it was gone.
This has turned out to be one night of several epiphanies for me. I didn’t know that losing my wallet would teach me so much about my whereabouts. I’ve never lost my wallet before. Ever.
It all started with an ad on craigslist a couple of weeks ago. I responded to an ad that called for participants to take a survey at some hotel on Century Blvd. right by LAX. For an hour and a half, I would answer simple questions about pastries, I would sample new products and tell my opinion, and I’d get paid 70 bucks. Cash. Not bad, right? Fuck it. Easy money.
After inquiring about the ad, I got a call from some lady and the first thing she asked was if I spoke Spanish. I said that I did. She told me that the entire survey/event would be in Spanish. I said that I didn’t mind. She asked if I ate pastries. I said that I did, even though I really don’t (easy money). She said, “Good!” and signed me up. I was ready to go.
I got information in my email account about where to go, at what time, and all that other business. I had to present myself at the Spectrum 15 minutes before 8pm. Free valet parking. Cool.
I show up at this place 10 minutes before starting time. As soon as I walked in, I was confronted with 20-30 grown ass Latino men sitting in this waiting room. When I went up to the desk to check in, they give me my name tag: “Fernado.” Fernado? That ain’t my name! And it's definitely not how you spell "Fernando." Fuck it. Easy money.
After signing in with the project coordinator (some decent looking woman named “Sandra” who spoke with a slight Cuban accent), I had a seat in between two eses. I then took the opportunity to inspect the people in the room. Older middle-aged Latino men (many of whom had a little bit of creep in ‘em, definitely) and a whole bunch of pelones and wannabe pelones. Shady lookin’ folks. Strange vibes. I knew that I was definitely out of my element. But I also didn’t want to make no assumptions, and I just figured that we were all there because we all wanted to make some easy cash. Fuck it. I sat heavily and relaxed.
After 10 minutes, they filed us all into this small room with a giant mirror way up in the front. Immediately, I didn’t feel right. The sociologist in me began raising red flags. Was this really a survey or some sort of social/psychological experiment? What’s going on here? Are we being filmed? I grew really uneasy. Might’ve been the paranoid in me, but I said… fuck it. Easy cash. Give the moment the benefit of the doubt. I relaxed.
As we filed into the room, some Ken-lookin’ dude stood before us, cheerfully greeting everyone as we walked in, handing each one of us a small remote. We all sat in rows, everyone facing the mirror. I sat in between this young lookin’ guy who had a ponytail, and an older man who had his long hair up in a small bun at the top of his head. I didn’t speak to either of them directly. I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there just to get some cash and cut out.
In front of each participant, there was a small napkin and a small bottle of water. Ken-dude up at the front starting talking in Spanish to all of us, and it immediately gave me the impression that he doesn’t speak Spanish on a regular basis. He had somewhat of a Cuban accent as well, but there was something weird about the way that he spoke. Anyway, he explained what we were all there to do, what was required of us, what to do with the remote controllers.
The survey began. Dudes began wisecrackin’ around the room, others began laughing. We answered questions about our demographics, punching in our age groups and what nots. Then, we began to answer questions about the amount of times that we eat pastries, which ones, what we look for in a delicious snack, and all those sorts of pastry-related questions. People began to relax more as discussions/debates broke out, and folks began relating to pastry brands that were called out; Bimbo, Hostess, Sara Lee, etc. I seemed to be the least interested in any of the discussion that was happening in that room.
Then, Ken-dude announced that we would be tasting some “new products” and that we would be punching in our opinion. He went into the next room and brought out a cart with all these small plates, three twinkies on each one, and started handing them out. Everyone broke out into an applause. I was apparently surrounded by a whole bunch of twinkie lovers. Holy shit.
We were instructed to take a bite out of the first one and punch in our opinions for its taste, texture, and odor. When all the punching and rating was done, we discussed the product as a collective. Ken-dude went around the room asking people about the product, and what they thought of it. He asked different people about the taste, their opinion, etc. and people in the room began debating the taste and texture of the product. Foos began cracking jokes left and right and laughter soon filled the room. I relaxed a little more.
We repeated the same process for the middle twinkie, and once more for the third. Inevitably, Ken-dude pointed at me and I quickly gave him my opinion of the product. Nasty shit. I can’t believe I’m eating this crap right now. “It’s ok. I’ve had better and fresher.” Easy money.
Then, Ken-dude goes back out of the room and comes back with another cart of twinkies, but this time each is individually wrapped. We were all supposed to get one with brown shit in it, and another one with pink shit in it. In all the confusion and chaos that suddenly undertook the room as the twinkies were passed out, it turned out that I was the only one in the room who didn’t get a pink one. I raised my hand timidly as Ken-dude turned and walked towards the front, instructing everyone to evaluate the pink twinkie. I raised my hand higher to inform him that I didn’t have one, but… something strange happened: after a minute or so, I decided to put my hand down.
I glanced around the room, watching everyone open their twinkies and bite into them. Some people immediately wrinkled their faces and put the product back down in front of them. I was immediately ok with not having tried it. I’ll just answer according to other people’s reactions. I don’t give a shit about eating twinkies anyway. Fuck it.
Yeah… I knew that I’d be fucking up their research if I wasn’t giving an honest answer, and yeah… I knew that I’d lying in this inquiry. But fuck it. A part of me felt lied to as well. The setting was all very strange, some of the folks in the spot were questionable, I kept seeing myself on that mirror (which, by then, I was convinced was a two-way mirror) and there was something funny about the entire place and process.
And let’s not even get into what I feel about junk-food and the companies that market all that shit. I began to feel like a corporate whore, selling my voice/opinion to a company that thrives on compulsory sugar highs, diabetic suicides, and health deterioration. What the fuck am I doing here? I shouldn’t have done it. I want out. But there I was here, half way into the survey. Ken-dude stood at front of the room, quickly leading everyone through another set of questions about the pink twinkie, never having seen my raised hand. I pressed my answers into the remote and I began to pray that when it came time to discuss this product as a group, that Ken-dude doesn’t pick on me and make a liar out of me in front of all these strange foos, myself, and everyone taking notes behind that fucking mirror.
But it was like… Ken-dude knew. Because as soon as the discussion portion began, he pointed directly at me and asked what I thought of that pink twinkie.
All of a sudden, I was back in 7th grade, sitting in the back of my algebra class. I knew that I hadn’t done my homework, I knew that I didn’t know what was going on, and I knew that I could either tell the truth and tell the teacher that I didn’t know what in the hell she was asking, or I could lie. Bullshit my way through it. Pretend like I knew it all. Fuck it. Easy money. Hustle.
As I began to formulate an opinion on something that I hadn’t even experienced, dudes began to turn around and look at me. I looked up towards the front to see Ken-dude looking straight at me, and behind him my reddening face in the mirror.
I totally had a Kevin Arnold moment.
“Uhhhh… it was, um… it was ehhHHHHhhhh…”
Everyone laughed.
“What do you mean ‘ehhhHHhh?’ Did you like it or not? If not, what didn’t you like about it?”
My face darkened. I knew that he knew that I hadn’t eaten one. I knew that the dudes sitting right next to me knew that I hadn’t eaten one. I knew that I wasn’t pulling it off. I wasn’t foolin’ nobody. Should I confess and say that I didn’t try one? Naw. That would stop the whole process, and it would just bring more attention to me. I wanted Ken-dude to stop looking at me.
“They weren’t as good as the twinkies we just had. They tasted… funny.” I said. Some folks began to nod their heads. Cool. So far, so good.
“What tasted funny about them?” Ken-dude pressed.
“Uhhhh…” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I looked right at him. Alright. So you know. Fuck. Sorry. You know that those pink twinkies are poison anyway. You should be happy that I didn’t put one of those turds in my mouth. You’re a liar, too. You’re helping push this fucking product onto my people. Leave me alone.
“The filling tasted funny and the bread wasn’t as great as the other one that we had.” More folks nodded. Some other dude broke in and starting ranting about all these twinkies he’s had in his life, and why it was such a tragedy that they’re even considering making such a foul pastry. Ken-dude nodded at me, walked up to the front of the room and jotted something down in his notebook. I exhaled and sat back, wanting to melt into my seat. Fuck it.
The survey went on, and folks began to seriously debate the composition of a perfect twinkie/pastry. Do Mexican-produced pastries taste better here in the U.S. or in Mexico? The class divided in half and the debate continued. Ken-dude laughed and jotted down some more stuff into his notebook. I kept looking at my cell phone, wishing that time would go by faster.
Before long, we had gone through 7 different products and sets of questions. In front of me, there was a heap of half-bitten pastries, and my stomach grumbled. I felt cheap and used. The older man sitting to my left had eaten every last bit of his pastries. My stomach twisted and rumbled at the idea of putting anymore of that crap into my mouth.
Finally, it was all over. One hour and a half exactly. Ken-dude thanked everyone for participating and asked that everyone return their remote controller and sign their names at the front desk for their cash. As I stood up and put on my jacket, suddenly… my back pocket felt light and empty. I quickly patted myself down. My wallet was gone.
I turned around and looked at my chair, expecting to see it there. Nope. Everyone around me began pushing towards the one door up at the front. I lost track of the older man sitting on my left. I looked on the floor underneath the chair where I was sitting. Nothing.
The kid who was sitting right next to me looked at me and said, “Did you lose something?”
“Uhh… yeah. I’m missing my wallet. Did you see it?”
“Uhhh…” he looked around the room. “What does it look like?”
“It’s a wallet, man. It’s got Velcro on it. Orange. It’s a wallet.” I responded.
He looked under my chair.
“You sure you had it when you walked in here?”
I began to think back frantically. Did I have it with me when I entered this place? I did. I DID. Right? Maybe? Naw… maybe I didn’t? Nooo… I did.
I nodded.
“Maybe you left it in the car,” he said as he walked towards the door and filed out.
“Maybe,” I mumbled to myself
Come to think of it now, this was probably the guy who ripped me off.
But the realization didn’t sink in at the moment. I was in a daze. I remember shifting around in my seat during the entire process and feeling my wallet dig into my right ass-cheek. I patted my pants-pockets again. Nope. Wasn’t there. One minute, it was there, and now… it wasn’t. Gone. Just like that. I didn’t even know what to do next. I’ve never lost track of my wallet. Ever. I felt lighter, like I had lost a limb of mine. I felt like a chicken with its head cut off.
I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and called my roommate. Maybe I’m crazy and I left it at home? After a strange half-baked conversation with my roommate, I realized that I’d been crazy for even calling him to confirm something that I already knew: I had it with me when I walked into this place. And now, I didn’t.
I’ve been very lucky when it comes to losing things. Once, I left one of my writing/idea notebooks on a bus, and I was able to track it down and recover the notebook. Another time, I lost my cell-phone and I was also able to track it down and recover it. Maybe my luck hasn’t ran out. Just have faith, man. Don’t panic.
“You looking for something?” Ken-dude asked me.
“Umm… yeah… I’m missing my wallet.” I again looked underneath my chair while patting myself down, making sure that I wasn’t trippin’.
“You’re missing your wallet?” He walked towards the back of the room where I was standing and moved some chairs around.
“Yeah.”
Sandra walked in.
“This guy is missing his wallet.” Ken-dude called out to her as he knelt beside my chair, inspecting the empty floor.
Is this really happening to me right now? Did I just get hustled by one of theses fuck-heads? Someone just straight up lifted my wallet from my ass pocket and I didn’t even feel it? What the fuck? I was sort of awed by the bold element of it all.
“Your wallet?” She looked around as if she were expecting to spot it immediately. I walked towards the door and peered into the next room, watching everybody filing out, signing a sheet, collecting a white envelope and leaving. I walked to the front desk and asked one of the helpers if anybody had turned in a wallet. She confirmed that nobody had.
“No… nobody’s turned in a wallet. Sign here.” I took her pen, didn’t even read the paper, found my name, and signed. I have no idea what I signed. Could’ve been a release form. My paranoia began to flare, and I began to feel like I had been part of a social experiment and that it had all been videotaped. I began to imagine these folks reviewing the footage of the entire evening and seeing me lying my ass off. Focus, mannn… you’re missing your wallet. The lady smiled at me and handed me a white envelope.
“Maybe you left it in your car?” she suggested.
I walked out of the suite with a white envelope in my hand (one Grant and one Jackson inside), my head cloudy and dysfunctional, with no idea where my wallet was. What did it mean if I lost my shit? What would I need to do?
I raced down to my car to see if I had indeed left it inside. After thoroughly searching my car, this ugly realization sunk deep into my gut: I’d been got. Someone had caught me slippin’ and sleepin’ and hustled me. I began to think about the inconvenience of having to cancel my credit cards, recuperate an ID card, and everything else that was in my wallet.
I was mad. Livid, really. Angry with myself because I got caught up. I’d been hustled and I didn’t even see it coming. I walked back up to the suite to see if anybody had turned in a wallet while I was down, looking in my car. Nobody had.
Sandra offered to look in the survey room again, and as I began to follow her in, Ken-dude stopped me at the door.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute… “ he went into the survey room and closed the door that led into a room behind the mirror. There was obviously something in there that he didn’t want me to see. My paranoia began eating away at me, and my face reddened. I had no idea what was happening. All I knew was that I needed to find my shit. After Ken-dude closed the door, he beckoned me through and I followed Sandra back to the area where I’d been sitting. I had already searched the place several times and found nothing, but I guess she just didn’t know what else to do.
I looked up at the front and I saw shadows behind the mirror. That’s when I realized that it had been a two-way mirror the whole time. I’d been right. I wasn’t crazy. I squinted as I tried to make out the shapes and silhouettes of what was back there. I saw a long table in front of a whole row of seats facing out towards the survey room.
Had I been in a different head space, I would’ve asked more questions about the entire survey to see whether or not it had been some psychology test or some shit. But I was now more concerned with racing home to cancel my credit card. I thanked them both, Sandra promised that she would send out an email to those who participated to see if anybody had picked up my wallet (like any of them would actually respond), and that was that.
I drove away from the hotel feeling incredibly disillusioned by some of those fellas in that room. We were all there because we were all obviously in need of some extra cash. That was the only reason we were all there. We were a group of broke Latino men, and even amongst us, dudes were snatching wallets off of each other. I don’t understand why people do such things to each other. I know that if it had been me who had found a wallet, I would’ve returned it. I always have.
But the way I see it now, the joke is on them. Though I did have a credit card and an ATM card (both which I already closed), I had no cash, no driver’s license, and a bunch of receipts. If they were to attempt to steal my identity, I don’t think they’d get very far before wanting to return it to me. I don’t see how anybody in their right mind would want to be me… even on paper.
Moral of the story?
1. Can’t get caught up like that anymore. I can’t walk around like foos ain’t gonna try to hustle me. I’ve been got several times in my past, and I’m not trying to slip up again. Fuck that. I gotta pay more attention to where I am and to what time it is.
2. I already knew this before, but today… I was reminded of it once more: ain’t no such thing as “easy money.” Everything always comes at a price.
3. When it rains, it pours.
On the upside, it’s about damn time I get a new wallet. This entire experience has made me realize that I outgrew Velcro wallets long ago.
It’s time to move on.
I’m almost certain that it was stolen, but I can’t prove it. It might’ve been pick-pocketed from me and I just never saw it coming. One moment, it was in my back pocket, the next moment… it was gone.
This has turned out to be one night of several epiphanies for me. I didn’t know that losing my wallet would teach me so much about my whereabouts. I’ve never lost my wallet before. Ever.
It all started with an ad on craigslist a couple of weeks ago. I responded to an ad that called for participants to take a survey at some hotel on Century Blvd. right by LAX. For an hour and a half, I would answer simple questions about pastries, I would sample new products and tell my opinion, and I’d get paid 70 bucks. Cash. Not bad, right? Fuck it. Easy money.
After inquiring about the ad, I got a call from some lady and the first thing she asked was if I spoke Spanish. I said that I did. She told me that the entire survey/event would be in Spanish. I said that I didn’t mind. She asked if I ate pastries. I said that I did, even though I really don’t (easy money). She said, “Good!” and signed me up. I was ready to go.
I got information in my email account about where to go, at what time, and all that other business. I had to present myself at the Spectrum 15 minutes before 8pm. Free valet parking. Cool.
I show up at this place 10 minutes before starting time. As soon as I walked in, I was confronted with 20-30 grown ass Latino men sitting in this waiting room. When I went up to the desk to check in, they give me my name tag: “Fernado.” Fernado? That ain’t my name! And it's definitely not how you spell "Fernando." Fuck it. Easy money.
After signing in with the project coordinator (some decent looking woman named “Sandra” who spoke with a slight Cuban accent), I had a seat in between two eses. I then took the opportunity to inspect the people in the room. Older middle-aged Latino men (many of whom had a little bit of creep in ‘em, definitely) and a whole bunch of pelones and wannabe pelones. Shady lookin’ folks. Strange vibes. I knew that I was definitely out of my element. But I also didn’t want to make no assumptions, and I just figured that we were all there because we all wanted to make some easy cash. Fuck it. I sat heavily and relaxed.
After 10 minutes, they filed us all into this small room with a giant mirror way up in the front. Immediately, I didn’t feel right. The sociologist in me began raising red flags. Was this really a survey or some sort of social/psychological experiment? What’s going on here? Are we being filmed? I grew really uneasy. Might’ve been the paranoid in me, but I said… fuck it. Easy cash. Give the moment the benefit of the doubt. I relaxed.
As we filed into the room, some Ken-lookin’ dude stood before us, cheerfully greeting everyone as we walked in, handing each one of us a small remote. We all sat in rows, everyone facing the mirror. I sat in between this young lookin’ guy who had a ponytail, and an older man who had his long hair up in a small bun at the top of his head. I didn’t speak to either of them directly. I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there just to get some cash and cut out.
In front of each participant, there was a small napkin and a small bottle of water. Ken-dude up at the front starting talking in Spanish to all of us, and it immediately gave me the impression that he doesn’t speak Spanish on a regular basis. He had somewhat of a Cuban accent as well, but there was something weird about the way that he spoke. Anyway, he explained what we were all there to do, what was required of us, what to do with the remote controllers.
The survey began. Dudes began wisecrackin’ around the room, others began laughing. We answered questions about our demographics, punching in our age groups and what nots. Then, we began to answer questions about the amount of times that we eat pastries, which ones, what we look for in a delicious snack, and all those sorts of pastry-related questions. People began to relax more as discussions/debates broke out, and folks began relating to pastry brands that were called out; Bimbo, Hostess, Sara Lee, etc. I seemed to be the least interested in any of the discussion that was happening in that room.
Then, Ken-dude announced that we would be tasting some “new products” and that we would be punching in our opinion. He went into the next room and brought out a cart with all these small plates, three twinkies on each one, and started handing them out. Everyone broke out into an applause. I was apparently surrounded by a whole bunch of twinkie lovers. Holy shit.
We were instructed to take a bite out of the first one and punch in our opinions for its taste, texture, and odor. When all the punching and rating was done, we discussed the product as a collective. Ken-dude went around the room asking people about the product, and what they thought of it. He asked different people about the taste, their opinion, etc. and people in the room began debating the taste and texture of the product. Foos began cracking jokes left and right and laughter soon filled the room. I relaxed a little more.
We repeated the same process for the middle twinkie, and once more for the third. Inevitably, Ken-dude pointed at me and I quickly gave him my opinion of the product. Nasty shit. I can’t believe I’m eating this crap right now. “It’s ok. I’ve had better and fresher.” Easy money.
Then, Ken-dude goes back out of the room and comes back with another cart of twinkies, but this time each is individually wrapped. We were all supposed to get one with brown shit in it, and another one with pink shit in it. In all the confusion and chaos that suddenly undertook the room as the twinkies were passed out, it turned out that I was the only one in the room who didn’t get a pink one. I raised my hand timidly as Ken-dude turned and walked towards the front, instructing everyone to evaluate the pink twinkie. I raised my hand higher to inform him that I didn’t have one, but… something strange happened: after a minute or so, I decided to put my hand down.
I glanced around the room, watching everyone open their twinkies and bite into them. Some people immediately wrinkled their faces and put the product back down in front of them. I was immediately ok with not having tried it. I’ll just answer according to other people’s reactions. I don’t give a shit about eating twinkies anyway. Fuck it.
Yeah… I knew that I’d be fucking up their research if I wasn’t giving an honest answer, and yeah… I knew that I’d lying in this inquiry. But fuck it. A part of me felt lied to as well. The setting was all very strange, some of the folks in the spot were questionable, I kept seeing myself on that mirror (which, by then, I was convinced was a two-way mirror) and there was something funny about the entire place and process.
And let’s not even get into what I feel about junk-food and the companies that market all that shit. I began to feel like a corporate whore, selling my voice/opinion to a company that thrives on compulsory sugar highs, diabetic suicides, and health deterioration. What the fuck am I doing here? I shouldn’t have done it. I want out. But there I was here, half way into the survey. Ken-dude stood at front of the room, quickly leading everyone through another set of questions about the pink twinkie, never having seen my raised hand. I pressed my answers into the remote and I began to pray that when it came time to discuss this product as a group, that Ken-dude doesn’t pick on me and make a liar out of me in front of all these strange foos, myself, and everyone taking notes behind that fucking mirror.
But it was like… Ken-dude knew. Because as soon as the discussion portion began, he pointed directly at me and asked what I thought of that pink twinkie.
All of a sudden, I was back in 7th grade, sitting in the back of my algebra class. I knew that I hadn’t done my homework, I knew that I didn’t know what was going on, and I knew that I could either tell the truth and tell the teacher that I didn’t know what in the hell she was asking, or I could lie. Bullshit my way through it. Pretend like I knew it all. Fuck it. Easy money. Hustle.
As I began to formulate an opinion on something that I hadn’t even experienced, dudes began to turn around and look at me. I looked up towards the front to see Ken-dude looking straight at me, and behind him my reddening face in the mirror.
I totally had a Kevin Arnold moment.
“Uhhhh… it was, um… it was ehhHHHHhhhh…”
Everyone laughed.
“What do you mean ‘ehhhHHhh?’ Did you like it or not? If not, what didn’t you like about it?”
My face darkened. I knew that he knew that I hadn’t eaten one. I knew that the dudes sitting right next to me knew that I hadn’t eaten one. I knew that I wasn’t pulling it off. I wasn’t foolin’ nobody. Should I confess and say that I didn’t try one? Naw. That would stop the whole process, and it would just bring more attention to me. I wanted Ken-dude to stop looking at me.
“They weren’t as good as the twinkies we just had. They tasted… funny.” I said. Some folks began to nod their heads. Cool. So far, so good.
“What tasted funny about them?” Ken-dude pressed.
“Uhhhh…” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I looked right at him. Alright. So you know. Fuck. Sorry. You know that those pink twinkies are poison anyway. You should be happy that I didn’t put one of those turds in my mouth. You’re a liar, too. You’re helping push this fucking product onto my people. Leave me alone.
“The filling tasted funny and the bread wasn’t as great as the other one that we had.” More folks nodded. Some other dude broke in and starting ranting about all these twinkies he’s had in his life, and why it was such a tragedy that they’re even considering making such a foul pastry. Ken-dude nodded at me, walked up to the front of the room and jotted something down in his notebook. I exhaled and sat back, wanting to melt into my seat. Fuck it.
The survey went on, and folks began to seriously debate the composition of a perfect twinkie/pastry. Do Mexican-produced pastries taste better here in the U.S. or in Mexico? The class divided in half and the debate continued. Ken-dude laughed and jotted down some more stuff into his notebook. I kept looking at my cell phone, wishing that time would go by faster.
Before long, we had gone through 7 different products and sets of questions. In front of me, there was a heap of half-bitten pastries, and my stomach grumbled. I felt cheap and used. The older man sitting to my left had eaten every last bit of his pastries. My stomach twisted and rumbled at the idea of putting anymore of that crap into my mouth.
Finally, it was all over. One hour and a half exactly. Ken-dude thanked everyone for participating and asked that everyone return their remote controller and sign their names at the front desk for their cash. As I stood up and put on my jacket, suddenly… my back pocket felt light and empty. I quickly patted myself down. My wallet was gone.
I turned around and looked at my chair, expecting to see it there. Nope. Everyone around me began pushing towards the one door up at the front. I lost track of the older man sitting on my left. I looked on the floor underneath the chair where I was sitting. Nothing.
The kid who was sitting right next to me looked at me and said, “Did you lose something?”
“Uhh… yeah. I’m missing my wallet. Did you see it?”
“Uhhh…” he looked around the room. “What does it look like?”
“It’s a wallet, man. It’s got Velcro on it. Orange. It’s a wallet.” I responded.
He looked under my chair.
“You sure you had it when you walked in here?”
I began to think back frantically. Did I have it with me when I entered this place? I did. I DID. Right? Maybe? Naw… maybe I didn’t? Nooo… I did.
I nodded.
“Maybe you left it in the car,” he said as he walked towards the door and filed out.
“Maybe,” I mumbled to myself
Come to think of it now, this was probably the guy who ripped me off.
But the realization didn’t sink in at the moment. I was in a daze. I remember shifting around in my seat during the entire process and feeling my wallet dig into my right ass-cheek. I patted my pants-pockets again. Nope. Wasn’t there. One minute, it was there, and now… it wasn’t. Gone. Just like that. I didn’t even know what to do next. I’ve never lost track of my wallet. Ever. I felt lighter, like I had lost a limb of mine. I felt like a chicken with its head cut off.
I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and called my roommate. Maybe I’m crazy and I left it at home? After a strange half-baked conversation with my roommate, I realized that I’d been crazy for even calling him to confirm something that I already knew: I had it with me when I walked into this place. And now, I didn’t.
I’ve been very lucky when it comes to losing things. Once, I left one of my writing/idea notebooks on a bus, and I was able to track it down and recover the notebook. Another time, I lost my cell-phone and I was also able to track it down and recover it. Maybe my luck hasn’t ran out. Just have faith, man. Don’t panic.
“You looking for something?” Ken-dude asked me.
“Umm… yeah… I’m missing my wallet.” I again looked underneath my chair while patting myself down, making sure that I wasn’t trippin’.
“You’re missing your wallet?” He walked towards the back of the room where I was standing and moved some chairs around.
“Yeah.”
Sandra walked in.
“This guy is missing his wallet.” Ken-dude called out to her as he knelt beside my chair, inspecting the empty floor.
Is this really happening to me right now? Did I just get hustled by one of theses fuck-heads? Someone just straight up lifted my wallet from my ass pocket and I didn’t even feel it? What the fuck? I was sort of awed by the bold element of it all.
“Your wallet?” She looked around as if she were expecting to spot it immediately. I walked towards the door and peered into the next room, watching everybody filing out, signing a sheet, collecting a white envelope and leaving. I walked to the front desk and asked one of the helpers if anybody had turned in a wallet. She confirmed that nobody had.
“No… nobody’s turned in a wallet. Sign here.” I took her pen, didn’t even read the paper, found my name, and signed. I have no idea what I signed. Could’ve been a release form. My paranoia began to flare, and I began to feel like I had been part of a social experiment and that it had all been videotaped. I began to imagine these folks reviewing the footage of the entire evening and seeing me lying my ass off. Focus, mannn… you’re missing your wallet. The lady smiled at me and handed me a white envelope.
“Maybe you left it in your car?” she suggested.
I walked out of the suite with a white envelope in my hand (one Grant and one Jackson inside), my head cloudy and dysfunctional, with no idea where my wallet was. What did it mean if I lost my shit? What would I need to do?
I raced down to my car to see if I had indeed left it inside. After thoroughly searching my car, this ugly realization sunk deep into my gut: I’d been got. Someone had caught me slippin’ and sleepin’ and hustled me. I began to think about the inconvenience of having to cancel my credit cards, recuperate an ID card, and everything else that was in my wallet.
I was mad. Livid, really. Angry with myself because I got caught up. I’d been hustled and I didn’t even see it coming. I walked back up to the suite to see if anybody had turned in a wallet while I was down, looking in my car. Nobody had.
Sandra offered to look in the survey room again, and as I began to follow her in, Ken-dude stopped me at the door.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute… “ he went into the survey room and closed the door that led into a room behind the mirror. There was obviously something in there that he didn’t want me to see. My paranoia began eating away at me, and my face reddened. I had no idea what was happening. All I knew was that I needed to find my shit. After Ken-dude closed the door, he beckoned me through and I followed Sandra back to the area where I’d been sitting. I had already searched the place several times and found nothing, but I guess she just didn’t know what else to do.
I looked up at the front and I saw shadows behind the mirror. That’s when I realized that it had been a two-way mirror the whole time. I’d been right. I wasn’t crazy. I squinted as I tried to make out the shapes and silhouettes of what was back there. I saw a long table in front of a whole row of seats facing out towards the survey room.
Had I been in a different head space, I would’ve asked more questions about the entire survey to see whether or not it had been some psychology test or some shit. But I was now more concerned with racing home to cancel my credit card. I thanked them both, Sandra promised that she would send out an email to those who participated to see if anybody had picked up my wallet (like any of them would actually respond), and that was that.
I drove away from the hotel feeling incredibly disillusioned by some of those fellas in that room. We were all there because we were all obviously in need of some extra cash. That was the only reason we were all there. We were a group of broke Latino men, and even amongst us, dudes were snatching wallets off of each other. I don’t understand why people do such things to each other. I know that if it had been me who had found a wallet, I would’ve returned it. I always have.
But the way I see it now, the joke is on them. Though I did have a credit card and an ATM card (both which I already closed), I had no cash, no driver’s license, and a bunch of receipts. If they were to attempt to steal my identity, I don’t think they’d get very far before wanting to return it to me. I don’t see how anybody in their right mind would want to be me… even on paper.
Moral of the story?
1. Can’t get caught up like that anymore. I can’t walk around like foos ain’t gonna try to hustle me. I’ve been got several times in my past, and I’m not trying to slip up again. Fuck that. I gotta pay more attention to where I am and to what time it is.
2. I already knew this before, but today… I was reminded of it once more: ain’t no such thing as “easy money.” Everything always comes at a price.
3. When it rains, it pours.
On the upside, it’s about damn time I get a new wallet. This entire experience has made me realize that I outgrew Velcro wallets long ago.
It’s time to move on.