And On Top Of That, We Hated The Movie!

On a recent Sunday afternoon, Bob and I went to a matinee at the Nickelodeon. The sun blinded us as we left the dark theater. So it didn’t sink in until we were right next to our truck, that the window was shattered. Someone had thrown a rock through it. My purse,which I had foolishly left in view, was gone.

Theater-goers gathered around. There was broken glass everywhere. I was my usual calm, contained self.

“Window gone! Purse gone!” I screamed, my arms flailing in the air.

When a policeman came, he asked about the contents of my purse. “My license, my credit cards,” I stammered. “And Tylenol, Robitussin, Dayquil, Nyquil and Sudafed.”

“Are you sick?” someone asked.

“No. Why?”

“You had other stuff crammed in there,” Bob said.

Under my breath I said, “Preparation H and feminine itching gunk.” I glared at Bob. “Are you happy now?” 

I knew what else was in there. My diaphragm. But there’s no way I would say that. Bob got our cell phone and began calling credit card companies to cancel our cards. I nudged his arm. “My diaphragm,” I whispered.

“What about your diaphragm?” he said, which the Visa lady heard. Bob, realizing this, said to her, “Not your diaphragm, my wife’s.”

I covered the phone. “She’s going to think we want to have sex in the middle of all this!”

He threw his hands up in desperation. When he hung up, he said, “What was it doing in your purse?”

“Where am I supposed to keep it?”

“I don’t know. In the bathroom?”

“What? And have your mother see it? Why don’t I just take out an ad in the Cape Cod Times that says, ‘Saralee Has a Diaphragm!’”

I continued my rise to the top of the anxiety scale. Two lovely strangers, Ann and Linda, stayed with me. After Ann asked my name, she said, “I read your column. So that must be Bob.” He was back on the phone. “He really is competent.” I looked over at Bob and had no idea who he was.

Ann stared at me. I was swatting away fruit flies I could swear were really there. She said calmly, “And you’re really, well  . . .  ” Bob came over, noticed my state of lunacy and said, “Yes, she really IS like this. She’s no fiction writer.”

The Master Card rep wanted to talk with me. “Your name?” he said.

“Um, does it start with an S?” He didn’t answer for a second, then asked to speak to Bob.

The next morning the Falmouth police called. “We have your purse with your credit cards and everything.” Please don’t explain “everything,” I thought. A good person named Tim Duffany had turned it in. I sent him a box of Reese’s.

And so, I know it’s not a big deal, relatively, to have this happen. But I do know something that is a very big deal. Ann and Linda didn’t want to leave my side. They stayed for over a half an hour just to make sure I was all right. “I’m fine,” I said several times. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

And although they kept saying, “Are you sure?” neither one of them made a move to leave. Their affectionate concern for me, a stranger, meant so much.

So this is my thank you note to Ann Davis and Linda Mant. You made a bad experience better.

And to the thief, I say this: I believe in compassion. I never, ever have a revengeful thought. Oh - I hope you didn’t touch the tube of cream. Scabies is contagious.