Lost Wallet, Lost Pride

New York City
Shithole Of My Dreams

I janked up my sweater and saw my open belt. My wallet had been attached to that belt, now it was gone.
Turning in a tight circle, first to the left, then to the right, hoping the wallet was on the floor, I must’ve looked like a dog chasing its tail. Nothing.
I stood in front of my hotel room with an unbuckled belt and five shopping bags beside me, no key, no money, no passport and no airline ticket.

Some low-life had robbed me! Just stole my wallet while I was waiting at 125th street.
I knew it! I should’ve never taken the subway. People get killed and raped down there. It’s like the sewer of mankind, a flowing river of human shit.
New York City’s bowels.

Everyone at home had warned me: don’t go, it’s not safe. You’ve never been outside Stuttgart and now you’re to New York going by yourself? You’re crazy, they told me. I had wanted to prove them wrong; guess that backfired.

Cops, I have to call the cops! I ran down the hallway, bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, three steps at a time, down 8 flights, bursting out of the emergency exit door into the lobby. The receptionist looked up from his invisible screen hidden by he desk.

Running over to him, I gasped, “I’ve been robbed!” He looked at me – unfazed. I must’ve been the tenth tourist from bumfuck Idaho or donkey loving Istanbul to be robbed that day. Just another statistic.

“What room are you in, Sir,” the vest behind the desk asked calmly. 914, I answered.
Type, type, eye contact. “Ah yes, Mr. Weiss from Stuttgart. I do understand that you are very upset, Mr. Weiss.”

He walked around the reception desk and stood in front of me, palms outward, feet slightly ajar, the open-stance they probably taught him in a two-hour conflict management seminar. “My name is Charles Mirachi and I will do everything in my power to help you.”

“Call the cops, that’s what you can do, Chuck.” With a firm grip on my elbow he guided me to the back room, “So, Mr. Weiss, tell me when and where were you robbed.” “On the subway, that stinking hole in the ground,” I replied. He nodded slowly, eye contact.

“Like a pickpocket,“ I continued,” I wasn’t mugged or anything. Somebody must’ve opened my belt and with a steady hand slipped off my wallet. One of those nimble-fingered thieves.” His eyes grew narrow for a split second and he cocked his head to the side.

Yeah, that story sounded logical for about a second. Doubt, he was doubting my story and I couldn’t blame him.

“Hey Charles, can you give me a new key for my room. Maybe I left my wallet in the bathroom or something.” “Of course, Mr. Weiss,” he replied, gliding out the door, behind the desk.
Type type, swipe and I had a new room key.

I knew that the wallet wouldn’t be in my room, but where the fuck was it?
…

(First assignment for my Gotham Writer’s Workshop fiction course.
Can you believe that there is no sex?!)