Connections: Clueless
If you happen to come across a key chain with a medallion from East Hampton’s sesquarcentennial — that is, 350th — anniversary hanging alongside an ordinary brass door key and a Honda Civic ignition key, give me a call. For some reason, among all the items in my little old Coach shoulder bag when it went missing, the key chain’s loss is the most regrettable. It was a symbol of belonging, I guess. (And it’s not like you celebrate sesquarcentennials every day.)
The bag itself isn’t valuable. It is about 30 years old, judging from similar models on eBay, and it had long since been amortized, so to speak. I never much liked the wallet in the bag, which I bought recently from a catalog, so its disappearance wasn’t troubling, except, as might be expected, for all it contained: four credit cards, a debit card, medical insurance and prescription cards, a free Regency movie ticket, and my driver’s license. And then there was my hand mirror, a lipstick or two, a comb, at least three of the favorite lead pencils I use for marking music, and . . . what else? Only the person who took my bag knows the answer.
I’ve lived here for 56 years and never worried about thievery, but there seems to be no other explanation. It beggars belief that someone in a relatively small audience at an afternoon program in the quiet John Drew Theater at Guild Hall would make off with someone else’s purse — even if they did find it lying, unattended, on the floor or in an empty seat, as seems likely — but, unfortunately, after repeated searches by me and by helpful Guild Hall staffers, I can come upwith no other explanation.
One of the problems with unexpected losses and minor mishaps when you get to be a certain age is that some folks will “Uh, huh!” you — that is, assume you are in some way culpable for whatever has gone awry or amiss. But I really don’t think this was what they call a “senior moment.”
Okay, here is how the caper went down, for the sleuths among you: I had parked the car between the East Hampton Library and the Star office, gotten out, put the car keys in the bag, put the bag on my shoulder, and walked across Main Street to Guild Hall. I’m quite sure all this happened, because as I put it on my shoulder I noticed a smear of milk chocolate (my grandchildren’s sticky handiwork with leftover Easter candy) on the bag, and stood beside the car for a moment to clean it off. Once across Main Street, I walked straight into the theater and took a seat in a back row that was otherwise empty. When my husband caught up with me, we walked together down the aisle to sit in a row close to the stage.
Did I put down the bag on the first seat? Probably. Or did I carry it with me from one row to the other? Probably not. I didn’t notice it was no longer with me until after the show had ended and we got up to leave. (I didn’t pass Go, if you know what I mean.)
By Tuesday, the theater had been searched four or five times. A friendly village police officer had visited my house so that the required form could be completed without my having to go to headquarters (thank you, officer). All of the credit cards had been put on hold. I had ordered a new car key and was ready to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Riverhead for a new license. Instead I sat down to write this column.
Now here’s where perhaps I am showing my age: When the police officer asked if there had been money in the wallet and, if so, how much, I didn’t have a clue.