Lost & Found: What could possibly go wrong?
Looks like I still have some good karma left in the bank. I recently forgot my credit card at a St. Patrick’s party where I was running a tab at the bar. Gee, what could possibly go wrong here? Let’s examine the facts.
I’m celebrating a holiday where drinking is the objective. I’m buying people Jameson whiskey on the rocks, including myself. I let a total stranger hold my Visa card hostage as imbibing and hilarity ensues. I go home sans plastic.
There is a happy ending. This establishment held onto my card, and I retrieved it in the morning. I shouldn’t even be allowed to own a credit card. I was declined when applying for my first credit card at 24. J.C. Penney could tell even a $500 line of credit would be too high for me and they said, “Nay, nay.” Of course today, you get offered credit while you’re swaddled in a blanket in the hospital’s nursery.
Just last year, I dropped my Visa card on a sidewalk in Manchester. A good Samaritan turned it in to a nearby pub (of course) and apparently my 30-years in local radio helped the manager figure out who I was, and he contacted me on Facebook. I had already called the bank and ordered a new card. I thanked the guy and told him, if he hurried, he might still be able to use it to buy a pair of shoes at J.C. Penney before they go completely out of business.
A year before that, I started getting texts while having dinner out in Concord. My Visa account was hacked and someone at Visa picked up on the fact “I” was buying a vacation to the Seychelles, a new boat and a bunch of clothes. All this was going down between a platter of loaded nachos and my taco salad. I called the bank, and by time the fried ice cream arrived, the charges were removed.
My luck with hacking and losing things extends beyond credit cards. I left my brand new Apple iPhone in the back seat of a cab in Puerto Rico a few years ago. I had everyone in San Juan looking for the damn thing, but it was never found and, luckily, no charges were racked up. A week after returning to New Hampshire, I received a Sunday morning call from a guy speaking Spanish. At that moment I was cursing my high school counselor for convincing me to take French when I wanted to take Spanish my freshman year.
The one time I lost a car, it actually wasn’t my fault. I searched the parking lot for an hour and concluded my 1962 green Chevy Bel Air had been stolen. As a college student, all I had were text books, a bowling ball and sneakers in the car. When my Chevy was recovered by Detroit police, only the shoes were missing.
The next day, I went shoe shopping. No, I did not get them at J.C.