Until I am needed again

(In a coarse and obviously forced baritone) Early Monday morning. A blanket of fog rolls onto a dreary city, suffocating the miserable residents in its unforgiving chill. Even in the middle of July, the people of this city have no choice but to surrender all hope of warmth and comfort to this cold ghost, and pray for a break in the shadows and a transient kiss from the sun.

But that kiss never comes, not even a hug or a courteous hand shake. There's not much love in this city, and the people living here certainly reciprocate the same sentiments. Drugs and prostitution have replaced the hugs and hand shakes of civilized society. Rampant muggings and murder are just tacked on to be extra nice. To the people of this city, this is all merely a fact of life now. The fog not only seems to blind the sight of what's in front of you, but the sight of what is right, wrong or sane as well. Tourists seem to stand out like stray beams of light, at least until the fog suffocates them too.

From a distance, I notice something strange, something out of place. In the middle of the road, between the aimlessly ambling homeless, lies a solitary black leather wallet. I pick it up and investigate the contents for evidence. A few credit cards, a library card, forty four dollars, and a Baltimore drivers license. Figures. Tourist, and from a cuddly city like Baltimore.

I dig deeper into its guts and eventually, I make it talk. A key card to the Fairmont hotel. Of all the places in the city, its that enormous asylum perched at the top of the hill. Its a tough hike, but a job needs to get done.

Dripping in cold sweat and calves twitching in fatigue, I slip in undetected. The concierge stands behind a monolithic desk at the back, dressed in a marching band jacket with gold braids sewed into his shoulders to remind himself to look important.

I drop the wallet in front of him. "This was found lying on the street several blocks away," I whisper in my raspy voice.

"I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying," the concierge blithely responded.

"There's a key card to this hotel inside. I need to return this to its rightful owner."

"Oh, ok. Well I can just go ahead and scan this for you..."

"Does the resident of the hotel match the ID in the wallet?" I ask as you can never be too cautious.

"Why, yes he does! This is a very nice thing you're doing here. I'm sure he will be very glad to be getting this back. Just a moment, let me get security to return this."

As the concierge handed the wallet off to the security guard, I disappeared out the door, leaving a wind-swept trail behind me. When I was already out the door, I could hear the concierge turn back and say, "Oh by the way sir, I didn't catch your na-" only to be greeted by the specter of my former presence.

I had to hurry back into the blinding mist of the choking city (and I was late to work). This city that needed me. This city that needed me to return more lost wallets.

Addendum: San Francisco is not nearly as dark and gritty as I make it sound here (in fact, I doubt any city, even Baltimore, feels this grim) and the weather and people are also quite pleasant, but, as you know, I had to stay in character.