Bob Cramer's Blog

(Blogger’s Note:  This incident happened to me on a quick overnight trip to New York in early December, 2010)

In a New York minute, it happened.
 
From the relative warmth of a taxi cab to standing on the cold, hard LaGuardia airport curbside, the magnitude of the screw up consumed me: where is it?  A personal pat down only the TSA could appreciate yielded nothing.  My wallet was gone along with medallion cab 2T58.  In it, my ID, my money, my credit cards, my migraine pills, my life in a microcosm.  Suddenly very alone, vulnerable, slightly hung over, at 5:54am with a restless stomach, I felt like a convict who just had the cell door closed on him for the first time, terrified.
 
My rapid fall from grace was influenced by New York City’s finest. In the dark confines of the taxi, paying by credit card for my taxi fare, a police car suddenly appears behind us with lights a flashing and siren screaming.  Waiting to sign my receipt being slowly pushed out from the all-in-one taxi meter/printer (quite a technology marvel), I must have put my wallet at my side so I could use two hands to sign the paper slip.  In the hustle to collect my bags, to be a good citizen and dutifully get out of the way of the cop car, I rushed out of the taxi only to suddenly realize that my wallet, with its black, slightly beat up leather camouflaged perfectly with the black vinyl of the taxi seat, would not be taking the return trip with me back to my home in Atlanta on this brutally cold December 8th, 2010, morning. 
 
The one good fortune, or so I thought, I had somehow held onto the flimsy credit card receipt of course instead of my precious wallet.  First a call to 911, followed by a call to 311, yielded a very nice, very thorough woman who meticulously took my information and gave me a case ID number.  All the while, the time is ticking for my 7am flight, the security line is growing, and the dozens of TSA uniform officers are unaware of the sob story they are about to hear from the man with no ID and little hope of ever leaving NY.
 
Figuring if I could make it here, I could make it anywhere, I step up to the first agent, boarding pass in hand (printed the day before, nice planning, Bob), I fell on the mercy of the court for some assistance.  Using “Can I please talk to a supervisor” to offset the “I’m sorry, I cannot do anything for you”, I positioned myself much to the delight of my fellow travelers immediately to a special position at the head of the line as walkie talkies flare and a miracle agent appeared ready to hear my story.  A short form later, a few questions about the name and birthday of a relative (note: it pays to remember your wife’s birthday), I was not only cleared but escorted by my new friend, Mr. Lucas of the TSA, to the very front of the security line.  Now how’s that for service!!!
 
My 7am flight had already closed out but the nice Airtran people put me on the 8:48.  With time to kill, but being in the rather strange position of having no money for coffee or newspapers, I began to feel vulnerable in ways I have never experienced, perhaps like the many homeless people I work with in Atlanta who live their lives exposed, with no money, ID, and the lack of respect that comes with that.  I adapted quickly, asking the nice Airtran man if by chance they had a $5 food voucher for extreme circumstances (they do NOT).   Rustling through the pockets of my winter raincoat that I only wear coming to the annual Taft Holiday party, the primary reason for this NY trip in the first place (hello, alumni office awards department), I pull out a folded, mangled $1 bill like a magician of some sort.  A bee line to the Au Bon Pain (which I was really having a morning full of), I announce to the lady that I need a cup of coffee for $1 and I would not be taking no for an answer.  She complied.
 
Besides the ordeal of getting my car out of the Atlanta airport parking with no ticket and no money (now I was dealing with the City of Atlanta vs. the City of New York), I did make it home and I am going to have to seriously evaluate if I can make it to next year’s Taft event or ever leave home again, period.