Sherman's Blessing

3:58 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I called out to the driver of the taxi to stop on the far corner of my block on the upper west side of Manhattan. I handed him ten singles and said good night. I slid across the back seat to exit, according to the law, on the curb side of the taxi. As my tired ass slowly glided across the black pleather seat it bumped into something. I urgently fumbled for the object, assuming it was my precious razor phone falling out of my pocket or better yet my grip. What I found was a very bulky, black leather wallet. In my dazed state of exhaustion and confusion I almost handed it to the driver passing the ball of responsibility into his court. Just before making the hand-off, I remembered that I didn't trust an ounce of one single, solitary cab driver in this stinkin' city. So, with reluctance, I tightened my grip on the massive brick of a wallet and proceeded up the five flights to my apartment.

Inside my apartment, I immediately got to work on tracking down the individual who's wallet was left behind. I leafed through the right side of the bifold wallet. There I found Sherman's Driver's License, his four credit cards, his two bank cards, his social security card, his insurance cards, his Medicare card, his medical supplies delivery service card, his senior citizen Metro Pass, his crumpled instructions for what pills to take, how many and when, his veteran's benefits card, his library card, a few receipts, and two random business cards for Jewish organizations. On the LEFT side of the wallet was all of Shirley's cards. Her driver's license, her Medicare card, insurance cards, prescription cards, MTA pass, everything but credit and debit cards on her side of the wallet. I stopped and pondered why the man would be carrying all of his wife's life of identification in his wallet. The thought crossed my mind that she may be crippled. The thought crossed my mind she may be dead and he carries her with him this way. The thought crossed my mind that maybe when two people get this old together (83 and 80) they are together every moment of everyday and it only makes sense to carry it all in one place.

After a 20 minute 4 a.m. call with AMEX, no luck. I did close down Sherman's card for him but there was nothing I could do at 4 a.m. I rifled through the wallet again and created my own story for Shirley and Sherman. They lived in Brooklyn (at least when the licenses were issued). I wondered if they had a huge apartment. I wondered what war Sherman was a veteran of. World War II perhaps. He would have been 20 years old the year that victory came to the Allied Powers. I wondered how much money was on their senior citizen metro passes. The longer I looked at his photo on the veteran's card and her photo on her i.d., the more I felt for them. Losing your wallet sucks. But, imagine being a senior citizen with your life's most important documents and nearly $150 in cash gone in the 37 seconds it took to pay and leave your taxi cab.

I went to sleep. I think I had selfish dreams about winning lots of money or being given some cash reward for my find. Then I jumped to a completely unrelated dream where Travis from "So You Think You Can Dance," was in a play that I was directing and I asked him to create some choreography for me. We both (in the dream) loved the song "It's Not Up To You" by BJORK. He was delightful to work with and had massive amounts of respect for me as a director and an artist. The last dream I remember having involved me walking on this elevated runway that was probably 100 feet wide and the entire length of central park. It was just suspended in mid-air. I was walking with purpose and was sweating. It wasn't a cat walk it was like an airplane runway. There were very few people on it with me and I was walking/running much faster than all of them. I wasn't afraid of what was at the the end. In my dream I knew the runway was coming to an end at 59th Street and I knew that whatever happened I would be okay. I zoomed to the end and when the runway ended I kept going. I wasn't flying. I was still walking. But, I was suspended just above the streets at 20 or so feet. No one could see me. I was floating. But sadness came over me. I started to step inside my own dream for fear that I was dreaming of my death. I abruptly woke up and looked at the clock. 11:53 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I spent the remainder of my morning (ah..em afternoon) tracking down Sherman and Shirley again. I called a few more of their credit cards and finally found out that one of them had already been cancelled by Sherman himself. A few of the companies I spoke with tried to phone him but no luck. I gave each company I spoke to my name and phone number just in case they got in touch with him.

Finally, it dawned on me to try doing an internet search. (internet in my own apartment is a new thing...so I was a little slow on the uptake) There it was. His name and the matching address on his i.d. But, in order to get his number you had to pay for the "extra special" search. I did it. I got the number and I called. It rang and rang. Then it rang some more. I hung up feeling defeated and on the brink of fed up. This 'do-good' crap isn't paying off, I thought to myself. Ten minutes later I tried again. I must have let it ring a dozen or more times. Just when i was about to flip my phone closed, a fumbling receiver makes it's way to a quiet, scratchy voiced man with the sounds of phlegm forming in his sinuses...there is a least a six or seven second delay in his "hello."

"Is this Sherman _____________ ?" I ask.

"Who is this?" He asks after another six or seven seconds.

"Is this Mr. Sherman and Shirley ___________?" I ask once more.

"This is he. Who's this?"

"I have your wallet, sir. My name is Clem. I found..."

He interrupts me. "Who is Clem?"

"Sir," I say over him, "I found your wallet in taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning on my way home from work. I work in the service industry until very late that's why I was in a cab." I was so desperate for him to trust me that I had to try and prove my sobriety and responsibility for being in a cab at such a late hour. The power of our elders, I must say.

Then came a painfully long pause. I actually said "umm sir?" He finally spoke in an even more hushed voice than before peppered with more gravel in his throat.

"Bless you." He said so simply.

After a twenty minute conversation about where my office was located, what my cell phone number was, how to spell my name, and a few repeats of all of that, we made a date to meet in the lobby of my office at 5:30 p.m. It was about 3:10 p.m. at this point. He had a very long commute ahead of him living on the extreme edges of Brooklyn. I flipped my phone closed and folded the wallet with the seeds of a smile planted deep within my soul. I flipped back open my phone to call a friend and share my story. I was only minutes into the story when a call beeped in. I was sure it was him. I don't know anyone with a 718 area code. (And that wasn't intended to be snobby) I hung up with said friend and retrieved my call waiting.

"Clem? It's Sherman. What time did we say we'd meet?" He then repeated the address again for the eighth time, the spelling of my name for the fourth time, and my phone number for the sixth time and we said good-bye. Well, I did at least. He just hung up the phone with no salutation.

I made my way downtown clutching to the wallet for dear life. God forbid I finally locate the guy and then I end up leaving it on a subway seat. I exit the subway in midtown and head toward my office. I try to imagine his height and if he wears his age or not. I step into the lobby of my building and his back is to me. I instantly know it is him. One, because there is only one other person in the lobby and they are a busy bustling by. Two, because he is eyeing the six elevators with such focus and anticipation. He is early. So am I. I hope he hasn't waited long. I pause for a moment and take in his frail little frame, his oversized white canvas shoes, the plaid button down that is also too large for him. He must be 5' 7" and weigh about 100lbs. I don't want to startle the gentle man, so I walk timidly around him in a sweeping circle so that I may have our first introduction happen face to face.

"Sherman?" I inquire with a huge smile that says 'trust me...I am harmless."

"Clem." He replies with an air of exasperation. Like he has been holding his breath all this time in the lobby until I appeared in the flesh. I am sure the thought crossed his mind that he made this long trip into Manhattan only to be played by some cruel teenager.

"Here you are, sir. " I handed him his wallet like it was the book report I wrote for "Lord of the Flies" in the fifth grade. With pride and honor.

"Thank you, young man." There are lots of breaks and pauses for breath in his speech. "You are...such an honest man....There aren't too many people like you." Periodically, I nod thank you and give an aww shucks expression. He is not finished talking though. Everytime the break in speech is long enough for me to believe he has said his peace, he begins again.

"May I call your parents?" What for? I think to myself. "I want to tell them how proud of you they should be. I want to thank them for doing something right in raising you to be the selfless, honest person you are today."

I thank him for the gesture. He says he wants to give me something for my troubles while reaching into his pockets. I explain how it was no trouble and reach out and stop his arm from digging any deeper into his trousers. He then proceeds to explain why all of his wife's identifications are in his wallet. And, without turning this into a hallmark commercial (if it hasn't already) let's just say his wife was in the hospital the night he lost his wallet. He needed to have all of her information in case any emergencies or formalities had to be dealt with. He looked so tired. Yet, when he looked at me, he looked surprised by the world. He began to mutter thank yous softly to himself while looking down at his payless shoes. I stood there silently. He just kept shaking his head in disbelief or of awe. I didn't know if I was supposed to ask questions or stay still.

Then the greatest thing happened. He reached for my right shoulder then my left one and with a grip stronger than you'd expect he started to shake me a little. It's hard to put into words. I am a much better demonstrator than storyteller. It was like he wanted to throw his arms around me but he shook his arms instead when they made contact with me. This was probably to remind himself I was a stranger and to keep me at arm's length. He knew my shoulder wasn't the one to cry on. He was looking down again. Finally his grip loosened slightly and as it did he looked up with tears down both of his cheeks weaving through the rivers of lines etched on his experienced face. I sank in his rivers. I dove into this stranger. I hugged him with all the emotion I could muster for a man I hardly knew. I told him things would be alright. I told him to keep his money and go buy some flowers for his wife. I cried with him. One, because I wanted him to feel safe in doing so with me. Two, because he moved me.

"God Bless you," He said. "Even if you don't believe in a God, and I am not asking you to, someone or something has blessed you. I hope you continue a blessed life and get everything you deserve."

I began to thank him repeatedly. I suddenly felt thankful for him and this experience. I wanted to ask him to keep in touch. I wanted to go to Lenox Hill Hospital and meet his wife. I wanted to walk him to a cab. Instead we parted with awkwardness and waved good-bye.

Sherman shuffled out of my lobby while I proceeded to the elevators of my work life. He ended up stopping twice before leaving the building all together to look back in my direction. He couldn't see me because the brightness of the sun outside contrasted and made the lobby appear dark.

Ding. The elevator arrives. I step inside and ride it to the seventh floor alone, allowing myself to squeeze out all the tears I could in the seconds it takes an elevator to climb seven floors. I must have looked like I was ringing out a wet rag. I scrunched up my face and wept silently for five to ten seconds. I was trying to get it all out and not carry it with me.

Sherman fell into my lap and walked out of my life in 13 hours. But he did so with the deepest sincerity I had ever witnessed and a flourish of vulnerability that will stay with me for a lifetime... I hope. He made me think. He made me feel. He made me proud. He made a difference.