This question

“Excuse me,” this woman said to me yesterday. “Yes,” I said. “I think you dropped your wallet,” she said back to me. “That’s not my wallet,” I told her, because in all honesty it was not my wallet, but I had stopped to look, just to make sure it was not my wallet, although my right hand had already made its way to my rear pocket and found my very own wallet, safely at home in the confines of my pants pocket. “Well then, who’s wallet is it?” She asked me, although I was sure it was not mine.
I looked at it, fat and filled and plump and gorged with an obviously large load of green cash. All of a sudden I wanted to adopt that wallet, all healthy and piggy, knowing such a wallet would make a damn nice holiday find.
Many years ago I found such a wallet, much like the one this strange woman was offering to me like a gift of fresh fruit to a starving bush pilot. I found the wallet while riding a bike from Seattle to San Francisco. The wallet was laying on the side of a road, no cars and certainly no humans to be seen, so the wallet was fair game. I parked my bike a few feet from the wallet and walked back, picked it up and found over a thousand dollars in that wallet, nothing else, no license, no credit cards, nothing but cash. I was at least 70 miles from the nearest town and I put the wallet in my bike bag, got back on the bike and peddled off and soon forgot I had even found it. Hours later I would pay for a four star hotel with cash, something I had been unable to do for the past week. To this day, I believe the only way I was able to complete that ride was because of the wallet I found on that lonely stretch of road.
But yesterday, a stranger basically thrusting a cash filled wallet in my hand and almost demanding I take it, well, that was a first. Of course, my first answer would be the final one, I had my own wallet and I did not need the drama or the guilt of taking another. I again told this stranger than I was sure the wallet she was referring to had no value to me and I started to move away.
“Well, Marry Christmas to you then,” she said, which is both offensive and kind of nasty, because her attitude was one in which she was implying that I was too good to accept her gift of a found wallet.
I turned quickly and looked her in the eye, “honey child,” I said, “not sure what you game is here, but that is not my wallet, Christmas is not my holiday and whatever else you are selling is not on my agenda. Good day.” I turned again and began to walk.
“All I wanted to go was give you your wallet,” she muttered sheepishly.
As I got about three steps removed from this street scam artist of some sort, I just said, over my shoulder, “I said good day ma’am, and I meant it,” and I continued on my way.


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