I was in a small resort town about 100 miles north of Toronto when I stopped for gas at one of those places that is split between self-serve gas and fast-food burgers. Gas, I suppose, whichever way you look at it.

I had filled my tank with as much gas as I could afford and after paying I drove a few feet, dropped a quarter in the slot of the air machine and pumped up my right front tire.
Then off we went.

Ten miles later we stopped at a back-roads general store for chicken wire and dog food and when I dug into my wallet pocket my wallet was gone. Then I dug into all my other pockets — still gone. I checked the car. No wallet. So I did what anyone would do, I despaired. And after a minute or two of despair I thought I should call the service station. Except I didn’t know the name.

More despair.

Except that I could remember the name of the fast-food place twinned with the gas station, so I looked them up in the phone book and called them.

“Are you the place that has the gas station with it? “ I asked the young woman who answered.

“Yes,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “What’s its phone number?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, then, what’s its name.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

More despair.

“Listen,” I said. “I was getting gas there and I
lost my wallet. Could you ask them for the
phone number or ask them if they found a
wallet?”

“I don’t work there,” she said.

I fell on my knees metaphorically. “It’s my
wallet,” I told her. “Money, credit cards,
identity. Plus the wallet itself is dear to my
heart. And the service station counter is
maybe 15 feet away from you.”

“More like 20,” she said.

“Please,” I said.

There was silence and I heard her put the
phone down and I could hear her calling out someone’s name. She came back and she spoke those blessed words.

“Is your name Paul Rush?”

(Well, blessed to me and perhaps my mother.)

“Darn tootin’,” I said.

“Huh?” she said.

“I mean yes, of course, Paul Rush, that’s
me. It is he to whom you are speaking.”

“We got your wallet,” she told me.

So I piled in the car with my wife and the
dogs and the chicken wire and around we
turned, with my wife behind the wheel
because I was still in the clutches of mild
despair. Would the cash still be there? And
what about the credit cards? And my driver’s
licence?

Even now was some poor soul trying to run
up expenses as Paul Rush?

On reflection there wasn’t much likelihood of
that — the credit cards were in their usual
state — maxed out. And there was a good
chance the driver’s licence was out of date.

When I walked into the gas station my
worries were put to rest. The clerk not only
remembered me (yes, it was a slow day),
but she had the wallet and not a thing was
missing. A biker found it out by the air pump
she told me.

“Big guy with a beard,” she said. “Thought
you might be worried.”

(Darn tootin’ I was.)

I offered her a reward but she said she
couldn’t accept but thanks anyway. I walked
20 feet over to the fast-food side and asked
the young woman behind the counter if she
was the phone answerer. She was.

“I’m the wallet guy,” I said, “and I just want to
say thanks.” And I offered her a reward. She smiled and said it was a pleasure to serve me and no she certainly couldn’t take any money.

So I did the next best thing. I bought four double cheeseburgers, no onion or pickle, to go. And I went.

(Should you be wondering about those cheeseburgers with no onion or pickle, wonder no more. The dogs loved them.) IE