The Forgotten Wallet

It was the winter of 2014,

and I was a young actor adrift in The Old City.

A city so cold it snapped dreams like kindling.

I lived in a slanted apartment, surviving on black coffee, artistic delusion… and instant rice.

Then came the call.

Mysterious. Vague. Alluring.

An audition. Medical in nature. Acting-adjacent.

Or as we artists call it:

“Please pretend to cough convincingly for no applause, just coin.”

The night before: two rehearsals, back-to-back.

First in a damp rehearsal crypt.

Second delayed—snow, traffic, existential sighs. We started at ten.

I got home at 2:40 a.m.

I showered, laid out my outfit, packed my bag, lined up my boots like soldiers by the door… and slept. Like a fool.

**4 a.m.**– *snooze*

**4:15**– *snooze*

**4:25**– *nothing*

**4:30**– *still nothing*

**4:40**– PANIC

I launched into my clothes, into the wind, into the train—just in time. I collapsed into a seat, exhaled… and reached for my wallet.

Nothing.

Scoured my bag. My coat. My soul.

Still nothing.

My wallet was in the jeans I had thrown across my apartment floor.

The one day I didn’t pick my pants up off the floor! That’s the most of what I regret!

The conductor approached.

“Ticket?” he asked, mustache twitching.

I spilled my shame.

He said, “You ride often?”

I nodded like a desperate pigeon.

He vanished… came back with a voucher.

I filled it out like a confession. Handed it over.

He… tore it up.

No receipt. No lecture. Just mercy, silent and strange.

I arrived downtown, walletless, voicemail ready.

No backup. No answers.

Until… an ad: *Lyft—first ride free.*

Downloaded. Needed a card. Strike one.

Switched to Uber. Same hurdle… until: “Pay with PayPal.”

YES.

Ding. “Your ride is here.”

The Driver, Roger, I think his name was.

A fellow actor. Of course.

We spoke of hustle. Of simulation.

He said, “Curiosity—more important than experience.”

I said,

“Well… I’m still here, aren’t I?”

In the waiting room, paperwork filled.

A grainy video. No interview.

Just “We’ll be in touch.”

I left. Summoned one last Uber.

Fifty dollars poorer, full of something else.

Because I survived.

Not the audition.

Not the job.

But the day.

The wallet-less waltz through The Old City.

And I returned with a story—the richest currency I know.