Lost and Found

People bring things here. People lose things here. They come back looking for them and they meet me. My job on paper is “receptionist”, but I also keep the lost and found.

When I get questions on the lost and found, I feign ignorance to some degree. I lie and tell them, “This is only my third day here.”

I have been here three years.

Sometimes I say, “This is only my third day here, but mark my words, I WILL see to it that things are handled differently in the future. In the meantime, if you need change…”

I think the original thinking may have gone something like this:

Thought #1: A struggling arts organization needs to raise operational funds in  whichever way it can.

Thought #2:  People like gumball machines.

Thought #3: We are a neo-Dadaist collective, and therefore our policies should follow Dadaist principles.

I don’t know if it was in that order.

I do know that I bear the brunt of any ill-will bred from our lost and found policy.

I do know that I am spit on at least twice a day.

I do know that I would like another job, but have taken no action to find one.

It’s too easy to keep showing up then leaving.

And you get used to being spit on after a while.

Sometimes it can actually make things easier.

A young woman comes to my desk holding a cell phone.

“Someone must have lost this,” she says with pleasant smile.

I thank her and wait for her to leave before turning to the door behind me marked “Lost and Found”, punching the pass code, and entering the room.

I grab the thick broomstick at the base of the steps then slowly climb them, attempting to avert my eyes from the contents of the lost and found.

I quickly open the lid, throw the cell phone in, and close the lid.

I’m not quite fast enough, and the spindly arm of the 6-year old boy handed in to lost and found earlier this morning is wriggling out of the top.

I beat it back inside with the broomstick and then return to my desk.

It is against the rules to give them advice – those who come looking for their scarves, hats, mailbags, wallets, children, bric-a-brac, etc.

But I have a soft spot for children.

If his mother comes, after informing her that we do not provide change for our lost and found, but that there is a credit union just up the street that can provide here with as many rolls of quarters she thinks she will need, AND if she hasn’t spit on me, I will give her my advice.

I will tell her that before she places the quarter into the slot and twists, she would be well-advised to tell her son to attempt to pretend that it is all a game. It is a game to pick the quarter off the bottom of the pool.

It is even easier than that – for there is nothing to pick up and no need to resurface.

It’s simply a game of swimming to the bottom.

The large, round, glass chamber is not filled with water, but scarves, hats, mailbags, wallets, children, bric-a-brac, etc..

But it helps to think of them – of everything – as water to be pushed aside.

He must do his best to swim through the water to the bottom.

She must caution him that he may not succeed on the first or second dollar’s worth of quarters, but if he has enough courage and perseverance, he can do it.

She must tell him that mommy has brought a lot of quarters.

She must feign a hopeful smile as she says this.

But he can do it.

I’ve seen them do it.

I myself did it once.

That is also a lie.

But you can appreciate how telling lies about all sorts of things would help a man in my position.