I Left My Heart, ID, Money, Credit Cards and Proof of Insurance in Philadelphia

My forty second year has started off by providing me with tangible proof that my brain functions are in a steady decline. At this rate I should be at Trembling Hills...slumped over drooling in a pool of my own filth...wearing some type of one piece hospital gown in just a matter of hours. Losing your wallet on the way to the airport in Philadelphia, on the train no less, provides one with a number of dilemmas. Especially if every shred of evidence that you exist and every monetary option at your immediate disposal is contained therein.

I discovered that my wallet had gone AWOL while standing in line at the TSA check point in the Philadelphia airport. I wish I could have seen myself at this moment as I'm sure it was comedy gold for the others in line. The panicked full-body self pat down...the mad rummaging of every crevice and cranny of my two carry on bags...the look of pasty terror on my bewildered face. A look probably reminiscent of the time John Olenick peed himself in the first grade when Sister Mary Margaret refused to let him excuse himself to the restroom during circle time.

If given the choice of peeing myself in line or losing my wallet, I'm not quite sure which would choose. Hopefully no one will ever present me with the opportunity to answer that question.

I can be very cool headed in the clutch, so I quickly gathered myself and assessed the situation. I could either remain on the floor crying or just start running and screaming. Luckily, the TSA doesn't allow either so I explained to them what happened, my brow so furrowed you could have planted a crop of corn in the folds. After being handed off to a very pleasant woman, I was taken to a metal desk and told to sit down. She then presented me with a piece of paper and asked me to write my name, address and phone number.

TSA Lady: "You have four names?", she asked.
Me: "Yes, my mothe..." (she interrupted)
TSA Lady: "So Stuart Reid is your middle name?"
Me: "Well, technically that's two names, but I go..."
TSA Lady: "For our purposes today it's your middle name."

Next came five minutes of white-knuckled question and answer as TSA Lady relayed queries from BIG BROTHER on the other end of the telephone. Whoever was on the other end of that phone line knew way, way, way too much information about me, my personal life, and my work history. I half expected her to hang up and say, "Good news is that we've identified you. Bad news is that we've identified you. How do you feel about horizontal stripes?"

Anyway, I got through security without a full cavity search...more easily actually than I could have imagined. I was genuinely surprised that not once did they ask me if I was proficient on the monkey bars. As we all know, all real terrorists are black-shrouded, bad-ass fucking monkey bar ninjas. Not one question! Oh, and the whole time all of this was going on I was on my phone verifying and re-verifying my identity to Wells Fargo bank and Capital One as I cancelled my check card and credit card.


My next problem arose when I arrived in Greensboro and had to get my car out of the parking garage with no money to pay my parking bill. I had actually made a quick mental note of the surrounding area, considering whether or not I could drive my car over a curb. If I didn't love my car so much I might have given it a shot. But instead I had to call a friend, remind them who I was, and get their credit card number so I could pay my $13.50 bill.

Moral of the story: don't lose your wallet on the train on the way to the airport. My guess is that my driver's license has been sold at least three times and I've committed at least one felony in the greater Philadelphia area. It sucks getting old, but I can still rock the monkey bars.