Lost and Found
The Captain leaned forward in his office chair and stared into my eyes. My body was half the size of this decorated man who fought in the jungles of Cambodia and who chose to serve his community with the same devotion as to his fellow platoon members.
The Captain was courageous, loyal, disciplined, assertive, attentive, and resolute. He had all the qualities that I lacked.
I sat across from him, palms sweating and heart palpitating.
Although an imposing figure, there was a kind essence to the Captain’s character that provided a ray of hope for me. Perhaps, I might get off with a lenient sentence. However, he was a tough commander when he needed to be.
Mine was a custodial position, but never the less I was entrusted with access to all the sensitive areas of the facility.
It was the winter of 1976. 10 inches of snow blanketed the landscape the night before the fateful day when I discovered the ring of keys to the police station was missing.
The Sage of the coffee house, an old hippie who claimed he was at Woodstock, sat in the corner of the bohemian establishment frequented by the student body. He spent hours imparting his brand of Yogi wisdom onto the naivete of the college freshmen girls who found him to be mysterious and intoxicating. So, naturally, I paid little attention to him because I was interested in the freshmen girls myself.
I spent most mornings at the coffee shop with a mug of Java and a glazed donut. I read the words of the dead philosophers like Nietsche and Schopenhauer and tried desperately to find the truth in the madness that surrounded my existence.
As was often the case, the Sage greeted me with a wink and a nod but rarely spoke to me. After ordering my first shot of caffeine, I watched as the sandaled hippie glided around the establishment and strolled over to my cozy corner. He took a seat directly across from me. An awkward air surrounded us, but the discomfort subsided when he began speaking. Finally, I understood why the giddy freshmen found him alluring. He spoke like a mantra; in soothing tones.
“Dude, your brow’s all in bunches, man. You have dark spots in your aura, dude, and your chakra is way out of alignment.”
Dark spots in my aura? My chakra? What kind of jargon was this?
“Ditch the coffee, dude. Let’s get you some hibiscus tea and realign those puppies.”
I didn’t want to ditch the coffee, but I’d always been a pretty amenable guy in my youth, so I bought into the Maharishi vibe and went with the tea and some honey to sweeten it up.
The dude’s name was Alabaster. I didn’t ask. Reluctantly I told him about how I got pretty wasted the night before and walked back from one of the dilapidated frat houses and freaked out when I woke the following day and discovered my keys were gone.
The Sage’s full attention to me and his silence was admirable, qualities I had yet to embrace. Moreover, he left me with a bit of wisdom.
He said, “A man’s worth is not reflected in the number of keys on his keychain, dude, but the quality of his character.”
I sat across from the Captain cowering in shame. I thought about the Sage and what he said to me, but I felt worthless. The shots of cheap bourbon lingered on my brain, pulsating with every word the Captain uttered.
Fear can be an all-encompassing emotion that corals the brain and sends it darting and weaving like a wild Appaloosa that has lost its freedom. Images from my past and future bounced from side to side spinning round and round like a lariat hoping to catch some profound lie that would get me out of this situation.
Ours was a family of lies. That’s what we did. Growing up in Europe during World War II taught my parents how to do it, and we children picked up the art form through osmosis. The lies weren’t blatant. Most were told by leaving out details. If you didn’t tell the entire truth, you might get away with that one piece of evidence that would land you in deep shit.
I told the Captain the whole story, sans the part about the shots. I figured he would think less of me if he thought I was drunk.
“So, said the Captain.”
Taking a pregnant pause.
“You lost your keys?”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Captain. I feel terrible. I traced my steps as best I could, and I couldn’t find them anywhere. I’m afraid I lost them in the snow, and there’s no way I’m going to find them until it thaws. I understand if you have to fire me. I’d fire me if I were you.”
“How was the party?”
“What party, Captain?”
“ Looks like you still have a bit of a buzz.”
Shit! That was the one detail I left out. The Captain had been around the block a few times, and I should have known that he’d catch me.
“It wasn’t a party, Captain. A couple of buddies and I sat around listening to the new Peter Frampton album, and I had extra shots. My shift isn’t until Monday and……..”
The Captain cut me off.
“Were they good?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“The album and the shots.”
“Oh yeah. Real good. But…..”
He cut me off again.
“Ok, then.”
The Captain stared at me for a few more moments which felt like an eternity, then he shifted his focus to the upper left drawer of his desk and pulled out a keyring with a set of keys that looked a lot like mine, but they weren’t.
“Here’s the entire set. I need you to take these to Miller’s hardware and make two sets. We have a new guy starting on Monday. You’ll be training him. Does that sound doable?”
“I’m not fired?”
“You made a mistake, Tossmann. If I fired a cop every time he made a mistake, I wouldn’t have any cops left. You won’t make it again, will you?”
“No, sir. I promise. I’ll go make the keys right now!”
“Great. Could you also pick me up a cup of coffee while you’re out? This stuff they make here tastes like crap. I got better coffee in the jungle.”
“Sure thing, Captain.”
I wasn’t allowed to make mistakes around my father. Our family lived in scarcity. So one mistake on a project meant extra money out of my dad’s pocket. Each time I made a mistake, I expected a verbal barrage of frustration spewing out of my father’s mouth. I expected no less from any figure of authority. Much to my surprise, I was shocked that the prestigious Captian of the Westerville police force treated my error in such a compassionate manner.
There have been numerous mentors in my life. The Captain was the first. He taught me humility in the face of adversity and compassion in the heart of crisis. I’m forever grateful to those individuals who helped guide my path. Even my father somehow transformed into more of an empathetic human being as he moved into retirement.
I’m in the last third of my life now. I hope my aura has healed, and my chakras are finally aligned. Mistakes are a part of life. I don’t fear them anymore.
