Perl and I went out for our morning morning constitutional.  Just after passing the carports, she stopped to poo.  About two feet away, I spotted a plastic, blue checkbook.

I looked inside.  The address wasn’t in my complex.  And there was no phone number.  So I put the checkbook in my pullover and went on our walk.

When we returned back to my condo, I emailed the management company to see if there are any owners by that name.  I went for years without changing the address on my checkbook.  It still said Connecticut.  Even the bank name had changed during that time.  The routing number was still the same, so I figured it was okay.

Her bank was Wells Fargo.  Not exactly a local bank that would know all its customers by name.  I looked through the registry, just out of curiosity.  Maybe there would be a small, local store that would know her.  Nordstrom’s, Macy’s, the IRS.  I felt dirty for looking, so I stopped.

The management company responded.  She didn’t own a place in the complex.  I decided I’d just mail it to her.  But by the time she got it, she definitely would have cancelled all the checks and wondered where she had left it. I have a better plan.

I was scheduled to have lunch with a friend, M—he doesn’t have a name yet, and don’t get excited, he isn’t single—so I asked if we could go early because I had “errands to run in Los Gatos.”  He said sure.

We were five minutes down the road before he asked, “What errands?”

“I found a checkbook and want to return it to get the karma points.”

Only me, right?  He was excited to be included on one of my “adventures”.  This was bound to be blog worthy.

So we drove to Los Gatos and found the house.  No cars in the yard.  There was a mailman on the street.  I went up to the front door and knocked, ready with my, “I’m looking for C” speech.

No one answered.  I wasn’t particularly surprised.  I looked around for any identifying information.  A “Welcome to C’s House” mat.  Something on the door.  Nothing.  But I had a backup plan.  The postman.

I walked up to the truck and asked, “Excuse me.  Is this C’s house?”

He looked skeptical.  He thought for a moment that this was a question he shouldn’t answer.  I used my vulcan mind tricks on him and convinced him to answer.  “Yes,” he said timidly.

“Sweet!” I said excitedly as he recoiled, so I continued, “I found a checkbook and just wanted to return it.”


“Yeah.  I could use the karma points.  Where is the mailbox?”

“Follow me.”  It was a slot on the side of the garage behind a bush.  I never would have found that.

I slipped the checkbook through the slot.  Just then, I wished I’d left a note in it.  Something like, “Pay it forward,” or “Check this website for the story of your checkbook,” but I hadn’t done it earlier.  Now it was too late.  Eh.

I walked back to the car and exclaimed as if I’d just leveled up in a video game, “Karma points earned!  Now we can go to lunch!”

Since we were in Los Gatos, I reluctantly suggested Enoteca La Storia.  Reluctantly because I knew I would enjoy it too much and spend too much time there and that I might lose all of the karma points I’d just earned.  A friend works there during the days, so we asked her for recommendations.  The fresh, spreadable mozzarella with the owner’s homegrown, heirloom tomatoes on toasted bread with fresh basil was just as they had described it. “Hedonistic.”  Paired with a pinot grigio.  And the Hazelnut and Chocolate cake with shaved bacon (it was barely any bacon—I’ve eaten more of my own skin grating parmesan cheese) was to die for.

Supposedly, a decadent meal is not cause for losing karma points, but this one was sinful.

I still think I’m up at least one karma point though.  I’m trying to save them up for Italy.  I might need them.


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