OTAS, you found it

New York City is pretty much on everyone’s short list of one of the biggest concentrations of, at best, indifference, pettiness, and an every-man-for-himself mindset; at worst it’s a place most likely place to be exposed to scams (outside of Washington DC), selfishness, and petty crime. New York can be a heartless place.

So when my laptop, checkbook, and other belongings were left in a cab, I didn’t even consider the possibility of someone returning them. In fact, I didn’t even want to bother to report it figuring it was sold on e-bay by the next morning. But Rob told me to do so and I did.

With my tail in between my legs, I went into work this morning and had to deal with the fallout from the loss. I cancelled all the checks I had known to be unaccounted for, including rent and personal debts written in the last week that I didn’t know the check numbers of. I then sent an e-mail to IT explaining the situation. I spent the morning on the phone with those with my outstanding checks begging them not to deposit them. I then spent an hour at the bank writing official checks and overnighting them.

Throughout all this, there was a message on my voice with what I assumed to be IT’s interrogation of what proprietary information was on it and weather or not we needed to contact police for a potential data leak. So I let the light blink on my desk for the entire morning before I had the courage to listen to it.

I prepare for my beating and dial into voice mail. Someone with a French accent saying:

“This is Adrian. I found your laptop in a cab on Saturday. I’m going to be in the city this afternoon and can return it to you. Please give me a call at . . . ”

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I called back and he answered telling me to meet him at a location in Chelsea to pick it up. When I got there I found myself in a private art gallery and with someone at the door telling me that there was no male named Adrian she knew. Shit, this seemed too good to be true. I called “Adrian” back thinking I’d gotten the wrong address, or suspecting a scam: “I’m here, on 14th street. Not sure where you are but give me a buzz back.” I loiter in the front of the building loosing hope. He calls back: “I’m here. I’ll be right down.”

And there he was with my briefcase as the door woman saying “Oh my! Yes! I’m such a fool, he works as a waiter! You must be so relieved.” She had no idea.

I turn to him with what I hope came across as sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what relief this is and how unbelieveable it is that someone turned this up. Can I give you something as a token of my appreciation?” He seemed reluctant. And I just pulled some cash out of my walled and gave it to him. I wanted to hug him, but it didn’t seem appropriate. “This is a good man.” I announced to everyone around. “He’s returned my belongings that I left in a taxi over the weekend.” “Good Karma for him” they said.

I don’t think I had any business cards in the brief case, so he must have seen the property sticker of “Saks Incorporated” and my name on the checkbook and called the company to get my work number, which would explain why he had to wait until Monday morning to contact me.

And this is what that great, cruel New York City (and the French) has against it: prejudice, even in our own eyes.