The floating credit card. Continue reading
When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez,
Bob Dylan: Just Like tom thumb’s blues
And it’s Eastertime too,
And your gravity fails,
And negativity don’t pull you through.
Don’t put on any airs
When you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue.
They got some hungry women there,
And they really make a mess outta you.
The weather services predicted heavy rain in Connecticut for Wednesday, September 13, and they were definitely correct. When I left the house a little before 9:00 to play in the morning game at the Hartford Bridge Club, it was just starting to sprinkle. I generally did not let rain interfere in any activity except exercise. Walking swiftly through a shower has never really bothered me. At the time I did not even possess an umbrella. The temperature was in the high sixties. I wore only Levis and a short-sleeved shirt.
By the time that my Honda and I reached I-91 the rain was coming down pretty hard. However, the traffic on the road was lighter than usual, and I had made pretty good time when I reached Exit 32, the intersection with I-84 westbound. The next mile or so was always hectic because it required entrants from I-91 to cross four (!) lanes of traffic to the left in order to exit at Flatbush Ave.
By that point I had the windshield wipers working as fast as they could and the fan for the defogger was blasting away. Nevertheless, the visibility was still poor. I cursed the few drivers who had not bothered to engage their vehicles’ headlights.
I drove much more slowly than I had on I-91, but I was still pretty much on schedule when my car approached the long ramp for Exit 45, Flatbush Ave. I coasted down to the stoplight, waited for it to change, and entered the mall that contained McDonald’s, where I customarily stopped for my breakfast sandwich, a sausage biscuit with egg. I was surprised to see that no cars were positioned at either window #1, where drive-through customers paid or window #2, where they received their orders.
When I circled around the building to the two drive-through lines for ordering, I was even more surprised to find them empty as well. I drove up to the station nearer the building. Someone asked me if I wanted to use the mobile app. I declined. She then asked what I wanted, and I replied with the same six words that I always used: “One (slight pause) sausage biscuit with egg, please.” Sometimes I needed to repeat it or deny that I wanted cheese, but on this occasion the correct order quickly popped up on the billboard.
By the time that I reached window #1 it was raining as hard as I had ever experienced in my seventy-five years. The lady taking payments had propped up some clear plastic sheeting at the bottom of the window to minimize the splashing. I pressed the button to lower my window and handed her my Citibank Costco Visa card, the one that paid 3 percent cash back on purchases at restaurants. I saw her grab it, and I let go. The card plummeted to the invisible area between the car and the window, a gap of no more than eighteen inches. This had happened to me before with coins, but never with a card.
I opened my door and felt around with my left hand for the card. Nothing. Noting that no one was behind me, I backed up a few feet and then pulled the car to the right so that it was farther from the window. However, I still could not open the door enough to get out. So, I climbed over the gearshift and exited by the passenger door.
With a good view of the area I felt confident that I would recover the card posthaste. I was wrong. There was no sign of it. A minute or so later someone wearing so much rain gear that I could not determine gender emerged from the store and join the search. Still nothing.
The lady at the window assured me that the card was in my car and that I would find it there. She also told me to drive to window #2. I did not believe her assertion about the card’s whereabouts for a second. That would have required one of two events: either she reached through my car’s window or she whacked my hand and knocked the card back through the window. I was quite sure that neither of those had occurred.
I proceeded to window #2 as directed. The person in the rain coat conducted a quick search before the next customer arrived at window #1.
I had great respect for the employees at this particular McDonald’s. They were always friendly and efficient, and they almost never messed up an order. I rated it the best fast-food establishment anywhere. They cemented that assessment when the person at window #2 gave me my sandwich and told me not to worry about paying for it.
I drove to the club and regaled a few people with the tale of my adventure while I ate my sandwich. Everyone who had registered overcame the downpour—people were advised to stay home—attend, and I was the only one who resembled a wet dog, a description employed by my partner, Eric Vogel. In point of fact, I almost certainly looked worse than any canine even after I dried off my face and arms with paper towels. At the end of the 3.5 hour game I was still wet beneath my shirt.
As soon as I arrived back at my house I checked to see if any strange charges appeared on the card. There were none. I then canceled the card. The website said that a new one would arrive in a few days. It actually took nine.
Denouement: I happened to be scheduled to play the next day with Fran Gurtman, who was rather new to the game. I was serving as her mentor in a program sponsored by the HBC.1
As usual I stopped at McDonald’s and enunciated as clearly as I could my usual six-word order. The lady taking the order, whom I could not see at all, said “Is this Michael?” I pled guilty. She informed me that they had found my credit card, and I could pick it up at window #1. By the time that I arrived at that station the cashier knew that I was coming. She was the same lady to whom I had handed the card twenty-four hours earlier. She told me that someone had found the card in parking space #3, which was reserved for people who had ordered ahead on the mobile app.
Not only was this parking space across the driveway from the side of the building. It was also at least thirty feet farther down—almost directly across from window #2. I later noticed that the driveway between the restaurant and the parking spaces had a significant “crown” on it—the center is at least a couple of inch higher than either side.
So, how did the card get over there? It must have swum, but how it got past the driveway is totally inexplicable to me. Moreover, if it was near the building when I and the person in the rain gear looked for it, why did neither of us see it. The card itself was a very dark grey, but the writing on it was bright white.
Can a credit card even float? I did a simple experiment to test the hypotheses. This card in particular can definitely float. In fact, no matter what I did it popped up to the surface.
I later met the lady who found the card. She said that she was astonished that it had traveled as far as it did. By the way, it survived the voyage in perfect condition.
I wonder if anyone has ever written a murder mystery that was solved by the detective’s familiarity with the buoyancy of credit cards.
1. I cannot get myself to use the word “mentee”. Mentor was a trusted friend of Odysseus and his son Telemachus. Athena took his form to give advice to the latter. So, the word “mentor” should only be used as a noun to preserve the metaphor. Like many nouns it became a rather common verb. That does not bother me too much, but changing it to “mentee” grates on my nerves because it ruins the metaphor. I suppose that it would be too much to call a person being mentored as a telemachus.