If you have to lose something
the best way to keep it
is to keep it in your memory.--Ashes of Time Redux
It was the same station agent from last year. Some crackhead rider spat at him then yelled "n--r c--t" before storming off.
I'm trying to tell the same agent that I forgot something on the train.
"What'd you lose, again?" he asks me.
It was a box.
"What kind of box?"
A UPS package. I mean, a USPS package.
"Do you remember where you were sitting?"
Second to last train. ... Oh, wait. No. I switched cars. I was in the last car.
"A USPS box on the last car," he relays over the phone from inside the station booth. He's talking with the station agent at the next train stop. He hangs up. "They'll hold the train to have someone do a walk-through."
I thank him profusely and spend the next couple minutes looking at the surveillance camera feeds inside the booth. He helps other riders with their questions. The phone rings. It's a short conversation.
"Okay, I'll let him know." He turns to me. "They didn't find anything. The train will be at the end of the line in 20 minutes. If they find anything when they clean the train, they'll call me."
Can I leave my phone number?
"Yeah. But if you don't hear from me in the next hour, that means they didn't find it at the end of the line. The best thing to do is contact BART lost and found. " He hands me an info sheet.
I picture the lost and found office as a dark and cold underground converted closet in a government building in downtown Oakland. Right when I get home, though, I fill out BART's on-line lost-and-found form. Item description: "USPS box containing a pencil drawing of a hill and houses." It's an All Over Coffee print by Paul Madonna. He'd once included my old apartment in a drawing of Bernal Hill, where Lisa and I celebrated our wedding reception two years ago. I'd ordered the print for our anniversary.
For several days after the incident on BART, I try to kick the sensation and memory from my head: I was exiting through the turn-style and something didn't feel right. I'd forgotten something. What? The package. Damn. The blood seemed to drain out suddenly at my ankles. If I were 5-years-old, I'd probably start crying right on the spot.
I try to re-imagine the incident, but with Micky Mouse there instead to hand me a chocolate bar wrapped in a gold ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, where I watch the San Diego Chargers win their first Super Bowl. Me and my buddies at the 50 yard line.
It isn't working, though. The memory of the incident still sucks.
The lost-and-found information suggests that after three weeks, consider your item lost for good. I wait two weeks. I want to order another print ASAP to get the it out of my head.
And then, I get an email from BART. My box is at the 12th Street station. The print is perfectly safe and sound.
From All Over Coffee #314 by Paul Madonna.
I'm trying to tell the same agent that I forgot something on the train.
"What'd you lose, again?" he asks me.
It was a box.
"What kind of box?"
A UPS package. I mean, a USPS package.
"Do you remember where you were sitting?"
Second to last train. ... Oh, wait. No. I switched cars. I was in the last car.
"A USPS box on the last car," he relays over the phone from inside the station booth. He's talking with the station agent at the next train stop. He hangs up. "They'll hold the train to have someone do a walk-through."
I thank him profusely and spend the next couple minutes looking at the surveillance camera feeds inside the booth. He helps other riders with their questions. The phone rings. It's a short conversation.
"Okay, I'll let him know." He turns to me. "They didn't find anything. The train will be at the end of the line in 20 minutes. If they find anything when they clean the train, they'll call me."
Can I leave my phone number?
"Yeah. But if you don't hear from me in the next hour, that means they didn't find it at the end of the line. The best thing to do is contact BART lost and found. " He hands me an info sheet.
I picture the lost and found office as a dark and cold underground converted closet in a government building in downtown Oakland. Right when I get home, though, I fill out BART's on-line lost-and-found form. Item description: "USPS box containing a pencil drawing of a hill and houses." It's an All Over Coffee print by Paul Madonna. He'd once included my old apartment in a drawing of Bernal Hill, where Lisa and I celebrated our wedding reception two years ago. I'd ordered the print for our anniversary.
For several days after the incident on BART, I try to kick the sensation and memory from my head: I was exiting through the turn-style and something didn't feel right. I'd forgotten something. What? The package. Damn. The blood seemed to drain out suddenly at my ankles. If I were 5-years-old, I'd probably start crying right on the spot.
I try to re-imagine the incident, but with Micky Mouse there instead to hand me a chocolate bar wrapped in a gold ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, where I watch the San Diego Chargers win their first Super Bowl. Me and my buddies at the 50 yard line.
It isn't working, though. The memory of the incident still sucks.
The lost-and-found information suggests that after three weeks, consider your item lost for good. I wait two weeks. I want to order another print ASAP to get the it out of my head.
And then, I get an email from BART. My box is at the 12th Street station. The print is perfectly safe and sound.
From All Over Coffee #314 by Paul Madonna.
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