Sunday, 19 October 2003 | Found

[thick accent] "It is Victor. Dishwasher. I found your pocketbook." Click. I played the message over and over again, not able to discern in what establishment Victor worked. It had been over a week since I determined that my wallet had been stolen, a week since I canceled my debit cards, a week of procrastinating canceling or replacing anything else. One of the more simultaneously hopeful and frustrating messages I've received: Victor. Dishwasher. Pocketbook. Click. Fortunately, another message followed, from the owner of the establishment.

Everything was still inside, including the money, but it had been hastily rearranged, as if Victor had been searching for a phone number. He was in the back of the restaurant (earning his title) when I met him. Skinny and short, he had an impressive mustache, one that curled up at the ends and formed a roof over the broad smile he produced when I thanked him. He twice refused the modest tip I offered before accepting it, protesting, "It's my job."

I hope other recent bad news is as succinctly misdiagnosed: the fatal chromosome disorder that my week-old niece has taught us about, or the potential diseases my father is said to house. Strange medical words that are new to me, ones I'd rather not learn.