Lost and Found: A Wallet, A Cop, and A Lesson in Kindness
It was a typical December Monday night, and my younger cousin and I had decided to catch Taka at the Parkade Movie Theater in Manchester, Connecticut. The film was incredible—AI has gotten so good, I half expected Simba to leap off the screen and grab my popcorn. Speaking of popcorn, I devoured two large bags (yes, two) and chased them down with water I smuggled in like a seasoned pro. I’m sorry, but I’m not paying $5 for a bottle of water worth a quarter.
The movie ended, and we made our way to the car. That’s when I realized something was off—my wallet wasn’t in my pocket. Panic set in. We rushed back inside, retraced every step, and even dove headfirst into the garbage cans like we were on a scavenger hunt for the world’s most important treasure. The theater staff were helpful, but no luck.
I was convinced someone had found the wallet, pocketed the cash, and dumped the rest. My cousin and I scoured the parking lot with our phone flashlights, peeking into every crevice, garbage can, and even the dumpster. Nothing. I resigned myself to the headache of canceling credit cards, replacing my boating license, and my pistol permit.
Frustrated, I headed home. The first thing I did was call my bank to lock my accounts. I figured it was only a matter of time before someone went on a shopping spree with my cards. To distract myself, I fired up my new pizza oven. I’m determined to master the art of pizza-making, and there’s no stress a homemade Margherita can’t ease.
Then it happened.
I saw the familiar blue lights of a police car pull into my driveway. My heart sank. “What now?” I thought. I stepped outside, and there stood Sergeant Roy, I believe that was his name. Then I said, “do you have a wallet for me”?
“Is this yours?” he asked with a humble smile.
“Yes!” I nearly shouted, both relieved and shocked. He handed it over and asked me to check if everything was intact. Cash, cards, ETC.
Now, let me be honest. My relationship with law enforcement hasn’t always been rosy. I’ve had a few run-ins with the police in my younger days—some justified, others… not so much. But Sergeant Roy was different. His kindness and professionalism reminded me that for every bad apple, there are plenty of good ones.
People often tell me Manchester is a racist town—some even call it “Klan-chester.” I’ve heard stories about the police harassing Black men and minorities, but my experience has been overwhelmingly positive since moving here in 2020. Even when I got a seatbelt ticket back in 2018 before moving there, the officer was polite and professional.
It’s easy to let one bad interaction shape our view of an entire institution, but officers like Sergeant Roy remind me that good people wear the badge today. And on that chilly December night, one of them went out of his way to bring me back not just my wallet, but a little faith in humanity too.
Now, if only he could teach me how to make a better pizza.