Saturday, May 6, 2017

A True Story

"It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense." -Mark Twain

Fact. I'd kept the check safe and secure for weeks, carefully placed between my keyboard and desktop monitor, waiting for a trip to the bank. Finally, the right errand day arrived and I gathered up this one hundred dollar beauty, tucked it into the depths of my bag, and headed out the door.

Fact. I always run my errands in a certain order: I head to the farthest destination first, and then slowly work my way back towards home. Sometimes I'll make an exception to that rule, and take care of a few right-handed stops on my outbound journey. Because logic trumps order. But on this particular day, I honored my process which called for the bank to be my last stop.

Fact. As I pulled up to the ATM, my right hand confidentlally dug into my bag to grab that oversize check.

Fact. It wasn't there.

Fact. "Whatttt. No. Of course it's there. You just need to look more methodically." This is the conversation my frontal lobe had with my freaked out limbic system. I'm a fan of self-talk.

Fact. After turning my bag inside out, emptying my wallet, and checking under all the floor mats, I reached a conclusion. The check was most certainly gone.

Fact. "Where did you last see it?" This is my husband's favorite question to ask me when I'm looking for something. Wait. That's not true. Usually he's the one searching for what I've misplaced because I hate to chase after missing things and he quite enjoys it. But in this case, I didn't mind the question because for once, I knew the answer. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I remembered feeling the check in my bag as I was fumbling for the key to look up my storage unit, which had been my second-to-last stop.

Fact. After almost a decade of putting up with an overcrowded garage, we recently rented a small storage unit to stash our collection of furniture that will someday go to live in our daughters' future homes. Best decision I've made in a long time.

Fact. Storage warehouses are busy places. And they are full of strangers. If I had indeed dropped my check on the floor in that building, that baby would be gone, long gone. Weighing my options in the bank parking lot, my first instinct was to drive back to the warehouse with a lead foot. But, my internal conversation continued, let's be realistic. The check had almost certainly disappeared. Maybe it was worth a call to the warehouse office to see if a kind soul had turned it in, but the best investment of my time would probably to call the person who wrote the check and arrange to have her stop payment and then cut me a new check net of the fees.

Fact. Ugh.

Fact. In  a sudden surge of optimism, I decided to go look for my check.

So. I reversed my route and drove back a mile,
parked my car,
walked into the lobby,
climbed into the elevator,
punched in my codes,
ascended to the third floor,
exited the lift,
found the proper hallway,
then turned round the corner to look down the aisle toward my very own unit.

This I did not expect to see. 

Fact. And, miracle of miracles, there was my check, just where I had apparently left it.

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