by Cecil Poole

Oh, no, no, truly, let it be no!  It must be here.  In my wallet, front sleeve, middle opening.  First thing I always see –  my Visa card.  Passport to my world.  And it is not there.  And its not stuffed in the note part with those miscellaneous dockets, the odd mixture of $A, US$, and  Sterling.  Fool, I mutter, stupid fool.  It must be in my pocket, no, the other pocket, hip pocket, shirt pocket.  Bugger.  I’m in Federal Triangle Station, attempting to buy a Metro Ticket.  I’ve pull out the wallet, opened it as usual to be faced with an empty space in the VISA place.  Empty feeling in my stomach too.  Many expletives attempt escape, yet none is satisfactory for the situation.

OK, calm down.  Yes, think of Manny in Black Books and ‘The Little Book of Calm’.  Of course I smile, I laugh as who could not at this thought.  Shoulders release a little, head and neck feel looser.  Mind races through what I’ve been doing, where it could be – backwards.
Washington Mall – Museum of American History – yes, yes, transport exhibits – but no, definitely no purchases – before that then – the Museum of Natural History – well that was a waste of time, so packed with children and families right now in the middle of holidays.  Again no purchasing.
Hmm, ah, Sculpture Garden – with the brilliant polished stainless steel tree, the Escheresque house, the headless figures under the trees – oh and the beer – but no, Quentin bought that.  Well, back to the Washington monument, the confrontingly dreadful WWII monument (opened in 2004, to a Jingoistic design of the 19th C,) the Vietnam and Korean War memorials, dignified, with no hubris, and the Lincoln memorial, and the friendly rangers – no purchasing at all.

Well, hey, I know, we’d ridden in from Arlington on Capital City Bikeshare bikes – and that is where I last used my VISA.  And that was five hours ago. FIVE HOURS AGO!  So many people have had the chance to take my card.  To use it, to spend all my money.  To ensure I end up in jail!   God, they even have the CCV number.  What a shopping spree!  What are they buying?  At this very minute.  Maybe it will melt. Hopefully it will melt.  I must phone the bank and cancel the card.  NOW.

Quentin, by way of comfort, says “it’ll still be there, I can feel it, it really will.”  Bullshit is my unspoken reply. “Yes it will,” he persists.  No it won’t, I respond with my eyes.  We get tickets and take the train back to Court House, the Metro nearest our apartment.  I’m not worried, too old for that, understand its futility. Yet I need to get back and cancel the card.  Up the elevators we go, and face a labyrinth of exit tunnels each with vaguely familiar names.  I choose one – I’ve been here before a few times, and should know.  We come into the sunlight, turn around and see the familiar facade of our Breakfast Bagel Shop (where they make the best bagels ever, right there in the shop).  Yes, the bike station is just down the alley near that shop.

I try to look cool as I ‘stroll’ past the rack of bikes towards the pay station.  I try to remember how many bikes were there when we took ours, now 6 HOURS AGO.  Surely many people must have taken bikes.
I reach the pay station.
I look in the card slot.
And there it is.