The Curious Incident of the Moose in the Snowbank

February 19, 2006 at 12:21 PM

My wallet is missing. It happened in Homer, and who’s to blame is still a mystery. Was it the gas station hoodlums, the dawdling shoppers, or the moose?

Losing my wallet has always been a habit. I hit bad spells every so often, and keys, schedules, phone numbers, wallets--everything disappears for a while. It kind of reminds me of sunspots or weather patterns. I'm not certain of the cause, but bouts of forgetfulness pass through my life in distinct, unpredictable phases. I don’t know about "successions of three" or other laws of happenstance, but I could have correctly concluded before I even awoke from my rabid-dog-flying-nightmare this morning that the entire day was to be ill-fated.

I even had a chance to back out of it. I wasn’t even supposed to be in Homer. It wasn’t my day to work after all. Homer was next week, only I forgot what day I signed up to volunteer at the art co-op. I drove 79 miles, saw four moose, and then was promptly greeted by the "real" scheduled worker at the gallery. Even though I offered to drive home again and come next Saturday like I was supposed to do, she insisted on trading work days so that I wouldn't be making the drive for nothing. Oh well, at least I could get it over with.

The day was slow, with only two sales in seven hours. Usually, I bring my violin along and practice when I’m alone, but it seemed as though one or two people were always poking around, trying to waste time themselves. I busied myself with a book instead, from cover to cover in one sitting, all 220 pages.

It couldn’t have been the couple who jump-started my car after I left the headlights on. I know it wasn’t them because I used my wallet to buy an americano after that. I had it then. I also had it on the counter when the last meandering bunch entered at a quarter to closing time. At this time, I deliberately placed the wallet in my coat pocket. I remember because I was proud of myself for being so prudent. Was it possible one of them could have lifted it out of my jacket while another distracted me with chit-chat? That would be extremely clever and deceptive for such a friendly elderly group.

I was so incredibly mindful in closing the shop. I turned off all fifteen light switches, collected my cd’s, turned the thermostat back to 60, counted out all $44.23 in sales, and placed all keys in their proper hiding places. I was meticulous. I even took out the trash.

The twist of fate may have lay in the washer fluid. I couldn’t make the drive back in the dark without it, and that is the only reason I stopped at that gas station. They didn’t even have any fluid left on the shelves, so I left in a small huff. Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember if I had the wallet in my hand, or what the two grimy figures were doing as I left my car unlocked. Did they help themselves while I was gone? Honestly, I didn’t pay them any attention because they looked just like about 80% of the Homer population. George says I should always carry some means of protection when I go there, and I know he’s right. I can’t help but want to trust people, though.

I even trusted that grizzly bearded man who came in off the streets last time I worked. He was huge, and I was alone with my violin, which had lured him inside in the first place. “Play me something!” He ordered. I sheepishly gave him a courtesy fiddle lick and began to pack up. “Show me how to play it. Can I hold it?” Submissively, I found myself handing my fiddle and bow over to him, attempting to explain a basic bow hold. What was I thinking? Well, he seemed friendly enough during the small talk--that is, until I mentioned Oklahoma and his eyes lit up. “You from there? I did some time there, back in McAlester, in the state pen.” He began as though he would tell the whole story, but then abruptly changed his mind, and also the subject. The thought occurred to me that no one could hear me if I screamed.

Shady characters seem to be run-of-the-mill in Homer. I couldn’t even tell you what kind of car those gas station boys were driving. I just didn’t really think twice about them. But why would they think to look inside my humble ‘94 Civic for valuables? And while they were at it, why didn’t they take my violin and my purse with the digital camera in it? (My wallet only had $2.50 in it.) But they didn’t; they may not have taken the wallet, either.

I continued my quest for washer fluid. Safeway was the next option. It was only a block away, and yet a long line of cars made for a slow trip. What was the holdup?

A moose, perhaps a yearling calf, was sauntering straight down the middle of the road as vehicles followed in line, reminding me of a trail ride. “Oh this is funny.” I wished I could capture the scene to share with folks down south a taste of northern living. Wait! My camera... I pulled into the parking lot and frantically dug around in my bag. My search took too long; the moment had passed. At this time, I stepped out of the car and into the snowbank to record eight seconds of rough footage that would perhaps be my only evidence of the true fate of my wallet.

By the time the camera started rolling, the calf had moved to the right of the highway and over the snow berm on the opposite side of the road. I moved toward the road to get a better view and immediately discovered why the moose had been using the highway in the first place. Although the snow looked firm and harmless, it was actually three feet deep and soft. I took two steps atop the crust before post-holing up over my knees.

With boots now filled with snow, I skipped into Safeway for the washer fluid. It was at this time that I first noticed the absent wallet. I wrote a check for $2.33 for my washer fluid, and then began the search.

I checked my pockets. I looked beside the seat. I emptied my bag. I looked in my food stash. I drove by the snowbank. I went to the gas station and asked the cashier. I drove back to the shop and walked through the closing procedure again. Nothing.

I dug under the seat. I checked my pockets. I replaced the contents of my bag one item at a time, noting that each item was not a wallet. I looked in my food stash. I drove back to Safeway, asked the cashier, bought a flashlight since it was now dark, and continued.

I dug at every crater in the snowbank. I walked around in the parking lot. I drove back to the gas station. I checked the seats. I checked my pockets. I looked in my food stash. I drove back to the gallery and walked through the closing procedure. I dug through the trash. I opened the cash bag. I checked in the microwave. I looked in the toilet (hey, it fell in there once). Nothing.

I have hunted for arrowheads all day in the dirt with my dad. I have tracked a blood trail once for half a day, over three miles, until each mark was thirty feet apart. I have collected 54 four-leafed clovers while working one summer at a barn. Sometimes, when it comes to hunting for something, I just don’t know how to quit. The fact that I could not find this wallet was so perplexing that I couldn’t come to grips with it. I denied it for an hour and a half before calling George in despair. I would be driving home without my wallet.

It was raining now; the washer fluid was a mute point. Pools of melted snow gathered in the toes of my boots. Not a single person would offer a lead as to the whereabouts of my wallet, my longest-lived wallet of four years. This would be the first time it didn’t show up somewhere, somehow. Heck, once I even lost a wallet on my honeymoon, and it still showed up again last year when we sold our truck. The new owners called to tell us they’d found it behind the seat. Everything was still in it, even the red-tipped arrowhead I'd found with my dad. (Speaking of which, where in the heck is that arrowhead, anyway?)

Conceding in tears, I finally broke down and drove away from Homer.

Was it the moose? I’m enclosing the footage, all eight seconds of it, just in case any of you can find any clues. The moose is a moving shape in the middle ("Aw, how boring."), followed by a scuffle, which is me falling through the snow.

I’m going to be up all night thinking about that wallet.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 1:55 PM

I used Scientific Remote Viewing to determine the wallet is in the posession of someone named Art or Homer, who goes by the nickname Moose.

From Linda Lerskier
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 4:42 PM

It was Bill. I stalked you and told Bill to do it.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 8:15 PM

Ah, but there were two shady dudes at the gas station. I'm pretty sure the bearded one was you.

Give me my wallet back.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 8:32 PM

Jim, use your Scientific remote viewing to tell me where I put the keys to my car.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 11:49 PM

Oh man you've fallen off the wagon. I was afraid of that.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on February 19, 2006 at 11:55 PM

George took the keys to freak you out and teach you a lesson. This is the way men think. Hide his fishing rod. If I'm wrong, at least he'll be able to relate to you better. And always keep extra car keys in your wallet, um, nevermind.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 3:13 AM

I have only one key because I like to live on the edge.

George has fifteen fishing rods stashed in various places because he likes to be calculated and well-fortified. And the only thing he hides from me is his candy. Not very well, I might add.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 5:24 AM

The wallet is probably behind the seat of the car again. Too bad you're locked out of it.

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 5:37 AM

Where is Emily's unwallet? Is it ununder the front seat of the car? I hope there wasn't much unmoney in there because it's ungone away now.

From Bill _
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 6:44 AM

The "bearded one" is one of the Kodiak bears. Linda, you are right, I did it, but through my hench-bear rather than directly. I was too busy watching bald eagles this weekend to go myself.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 6:38 AM

Ah, but my car is always un-locked.

Keys found, wallet still gone.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 11:34 AM

Poor, poor alibi, Bill. There were eagles everywhere, so your story does not in the least exclude you from guilt. You were thug #2, weren't you? Admit it! You and your grizzly croney.

Give me back my wallet.

From Linda Lerskier
Posted on February 20, 2006 at 5:45 PM

*cough* Wallet? I have no idea what you're talking about! *goes and buys a fruit punch snapple with the mysterious $2.50 that sort of suddenly appeared in my pocket* *cough*

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The Curious Incident of the Moose in the Snowbank

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