In my heart of hearts I’m a softie, a cuddle bunny. I know I can be grumpy and snarky, but inside every smart-ass is the person they’re publicly scared to be. See, I like love stories. I watch Millionaire Matchmaker eagerly. My wife was the one who noted how happily I react when couples actually work out. Whereas many watch shows like Millionaire to see people clash, I clasped my hands together when it looked like a match had been made, and I would say aloud, “Thank you, Patti,” in appreciation of the matchmaker, Patti Stanger. Do I believe in destiny? Fate? You bet. Things happen for a reason. You didn’t get that job for a reason. You broke up for a reason. It always works out for the better. I’m an optimist. I like feeling this way. Like, “I met this person because of circumstances—now what?” I always hope that something cool will happen. Maybe this dude owns an island and will invite me and my family to join him for some Sika deer watching. Maybe this lady’s dad runs Paramount and I’ll be cast in the next funny fat guy thing. Can’t wait.
In 2001 I lived in Washington, DC, and was working for America’s Most Wanted as a “researcher.”
Essentially, I would read up on horrific people and pitch doing a segment on one of them to the story editor. It’d go something like this: “I’ve been reading a lot about this Travis(?) guy. Not a nice fella. He assaulted and killed a bunch of people in Guam and skipped out on bail. We should profile him.” It wasn’t the most fulfilling job, but at least I was able to pollute my mind with every detail about the lives of the most violent and depraved humans ever.
My time in DC wasn’t exactly memorable. I had graduated college and was now fully independent. My first challenge of adulthood was finding a place to live. When I interned at America’s Most Wanted the summer before, the best part of my time there was due to my housing situation. My uncle and aunt had a place they didn’t live at full-time, and they invited me to stay there. It was an incredible place in Georgetown, and I basically had it to myself.
After graduating, I was offered a short contract, but for full employment. At first I was really excited. I mean who wouldn’t want to go back and crash at their family’s swanky, way-too-nice-for-me pad for another few months? I was set. But then I called my dad and told him I’d be reaching out to his sister-in-law with the exciting news. He shut that down quickly.
“Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“She already let you live there.”
“So, why can’t I live there again?”
“You were a college kid. You’re on your own now. Also, I’m dropping you from my insurance plan.”
“Huh?”
And that was that. Welcome to adulthood. That meant I needed a place I could afford, which meant not a place in Georgetown. I mistakenly took up the offer of someone working at AMW, who suggested I could move into her house since she was going to be moving elsewhere. I agreed to take it without so much as seeing it. Big-time rookie mistake. The house was in College Park, Maryland. Not the worst place, but certainly not that inspiring. I’d be sharing the home with five other people I didn’t know, and here’s the best part: I had a bathroom in my room that other tenants would also use. So when my housemate needed a shit and a shower, he’d tap on my door and get to dumping in my room. Thinking about it is so enraging, I want to go back in time, kill the girl who led me to that shithole of a house, and snap the necks of all my roommates, and then I could be profiled on AMW and life would come around full circle.
Socially, I was having a little fun, but I look back now and think I should probably have partied more. What can I say, I was responsible with work and doing what I could with what time I had free. Romantically, it was a roller coaster, but I did manage to go out with a number of women in this short period. I made mistakes. For instance, I went out with two women from work: huge mistake. One of them was an executive assistant. She tried to get me to have sex with her behind a curtain at her apartment with her roommate on the other side. I understand that this is completely in line with a lot of people’s dreams and fantasies, but all I could picture were our grunts and sounds being unwelcome intrusions on the ears of her roommate, whom I had just met. Call me crazy, but I wanted a wall. Even a thin one would do. I know you guys are like, “Come on, Tom. Stop being a bitch. Pound her behind the curtain, bro.” Well, I didn’t. I like sex to be between me and a woman surrounded by something thicker than a scarf. She quickly changed her demeanor with me at work, and that should have been a lesson, buuuut… then I met an intern. Oops.
When you read “intern” you’re probably thinking “college girl,” and you are correct. But remember, this is me right out of college. Like, I graduated three months earlier. Intern girl was fun and playful, and to her I was a grown man, even though we were extremely close in age. We went on a few dates, and I even stood her up one night, you know, just regular immature, dumb guy stuff. I was young and insecure.
I did get a little action—I slept with my friend’s aunt. That wasn’t good. She was thirty-two years older than me and looked like Ed Asner in a wig. I had gone to a bar with coworkers who were buying me—a lowly recent graduate—a lot of booze, and so my drinking got out of hand. Later, I would learn that I not only slept with a friend’s unfortunate-looking aunt, but I also made out with a lady from accounting while at the bar, and yes, she was also much older. So I guess I hooked up with three women that I worked with, often referred to as the Triple Crown by HR departments. I woke up at Aunt Asner’s house and couldn’t remember much. I found my clothes on her stairs, and when I went to the kitchen I saw report cards on her fridge. They were from her kids? Her grandkids? All I could think was, Damn, this bitch is old. (I mean, I was twenty-two!) Some of the fog of the blackout started to fade, and I was able to recall a few moments from the night before. The memories were followed by intense panic. I had a flashback to kissing her stomach and, as I headed south, her reaching down, grabbing my face, and saying, “You don’t want to do that.” She warned me like I was about to stick my tongue in the garbage disposal. I guess if I really think about it, it was extremely courteous of her to realize I wasn’t going to enjoy doing that. Kind of like when I signed up to go parasailing in St. Lucia and the guy running the place looked at me and said, “You sure you want to do this? This equipment is old and you’re not… small.” I mean, now that you say that… no.
I didn’t spend all my time going out with women twice my age, but most of my nights were uneventful. Usually, I’d just meet up with some friends in Adams Morgan, drink too much, and go home. Those nights are fun and even needed when you’re in your early twenties. After a while it hits you. This can’t be it, can it? Staying out late with strangers getting hammered leaves you hungover, obviously, but also wanting more. I was looking for something, for meaning. I wanted to know and to feel that I had a purpose.
One night led me on an adventure that I was sure was going to change my life on a Millionaire Matchmaker twist of fate level. I like to think of it as the “Night of the Lost Wallet.” It started when, after a few drinks and striking out at a few bars, I hailed a cab, and something happened that had never happened to me before in my life. A woman asked where I was taking the cab and if I wanted to split it with her.
Is this real life? Am I about to be picked up by an aggressive lady and torn apart back at her place? I hope so. I didn’t know much, but I figured I should keep it cool. I looked out the window the way I imagined a cool guy would. You know, like the ones in movies who just look completely intriguing staring out a window, brooding over life, their purpose, their desires.
“Is this yours?” she said seductively.
Is what mine? I was sort of hoping she’d be holding one of her breasts as a kinky way of getting things started. Then I could go, “Why, yes, that is mine,” and we could put on a show for the driver.
I turned and saw she was holding a wallet. And I went, “No, it’s not mine.” And she said, “Oh, it must be the previous rider’s wallet. I’ll just give it to the driver.”
I stopped her and said, “Don’t do that. Give it to me. I’ll get it back to the rightful owner.” I know that sounds like something Humphrey Bogart would have said in the 1930s, but I instinctively said it and truly meant it. I imagined this wallet meant something to someone, and my prejudice told me the driver wasn’t the kind of guy who’d go out of his way to return it. At that moment I was deciding to take this burden on myself.
My fellow passenger didn’t hesitate. She looked at the wallet and handed it right over. Now it was all on me. I needed to find the owner. But, here’s the honest-to-god truth: I really wanted to. I’ve had wallet-finding fantasies my whole life. I’ve seen stories in the news, feel-good pieces where a guy returns a wallet to the owner of a grocery chain. And then the owner tells him, “Wow, that was awfully nice of you. Have you ever been to Monte Carlo? Come spend the summer on my yacht there.”
I didn’t know what to expect when I opened the wallet, but I wasn’t expecting what I found. It had two dollars, a grocery store rewards card, and a community college ID with a photo and a name, Justin. Justin’s photo was as ordinary as his name. Just a regular-looking college kid. Everything about it was telling me I should discard it and move on with my life. Why would anyone want this back? Will they not be allowed in the student center for the hypnotist show? Will they no longer get the discount on beer that they most certainly can’t afford with two dollars? I realize that most people would end their quest here, and that would be understandable. I’m not most people, I told myself. It’s too easy to quit here. This poor guy, whoever he is, needs this back. I told myself that I had no right to judge the fact that this guy didn’t have anything worth a shit in his wallet; it’s still his wallet and it’s going to pay off.
A minute later we were at my cab companion’s stop. She didn’t even turn to say good night, she was just gone. But hey, at least I still had this underachiever’s wallet on me. At this point I felt like it was a challenge. I’m a fuckin’ researcher at America’s God Damn Most Wanted. I find international bad guys. I can find this dude. And I really wanted to. I had such hope that it would be inspiring, the kind of story they show you on Good Morning America. The feel-good piece that helps offset all the sadness and despair that fill most newscasts. I imagined an anchor telling the viewers that “against all odds and despite the improbable obstacles in his path, Tom Segura knew he had to return this item to its rightful owner.” The tone of the piece would be not unlike the stories of World War II vets who promised they’d deliver a message for a fallen brother. I imagined that the recipient of this item, Justin, would not only be grateful, but curious. Curious about me, and from that a lifelong friendship would be born. Perhaps a business where we’d both thrive. Certainly, family vacations where the two of us would take turns picking destinations and bringing our families with us. It was going to be amazing!
When I got home, I laid out his items and grabbed a notepad and a pen. My plan was to document all my clues and methodically piece this mystery together. I knew it was going to take real work, but I was prepared and inspired by the homicide investigators I’d seen on TV over the years. They didn’t give up on solving their cases, and I wasn’t going to give up on mine. My first move was to call the grocery store. Looking back, it is laughably, hysterically stupid to think that a grocery store would help you find someone.
“Thank you for calling Publix.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to find someone I’ve never met. Do you think you can help me?”
“Are they here in the store?”
“No, somewhere in the greater metro area.”
“Would you like to speak with someone in the meat department?”
“Why not?”
You’ve been to grocery stores before, right? Not to be rude, but the vibe in most grocery stores in my experience isn’t one of “let’s get our forensics team on this.” It’s usually more of a “we are willing to overlook felonies if you know how to stock a shelf.”
I was shot down immediately. The person on the phone didn’t even entertain the idea that they could help me find the owner of the wallet.
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
Hung up.
My detective instincts perked up. I had my best information right in front of me and I hadn’t yet used it. Mr. Lost Wallet, aka Justin, had a community college ID. I thought it could be wrapped up quickly. I’d call the school, tell them to tell the student I had his lost property, and that’d be it. After a few hours of talking to different departments, I learned that our man was no longer a student. When I asked for contact info, they said, “We have a number.” Bingo! I was getting warm and it felt good!
I called the number and instead of hearing “Hello” I was greeted by what can only be described as the grunt of a man who was shitting and wished he hadn’t answered the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hi.” I explained to the man, who was presumably grinding out a rugby football–sized turd as he listened on the phone, that I had found this wallet in a cab, pulled out this one identifying card, and the school had directed me to this number. I then asked, “Are you… Justin?”
“He’s my son.”
Oh, great, I’m thinking. I’ve solved the case. Yes, I was inconvenienced by having to make two whole phone calls for my investigation, but still, totally worth it. This man is getting his wallet back. But then…
“He’s a real asshole.”
Huh?
“Who is?”
“Justin, my son.”
“Oh, well, I just want to return his property.”
But the man, Justin’s father, wasn’t as interested in my quest as I was.
“He never finishes anything he sets out to do. He’s a loser, and I don’t think he’s going to amount to shit.”
And then he hung up the phone. If I hadn’t experienced that call myself, I’d be hard-pressed to believe it. I actually found the parent of the man whose wallet I had in my possession, and the parent not only went out of his way to not accept the property, but also to insult his own son in spectacular fashion.
This felt like an episode of Black Mirror. Was Justin’s father going to lure me into his life and turn me into the son he never supported only to verbally abuse me in the way I suspect he must have tormented Justin?
I shared the story with a few friends, who were mostly incredulous at the man’s behavior. After a while I had to move on. I wasn’t going to be spending any more time trying to get this wallet back to Justin. I had exhausted every reasonable course of action to return someone their two dollars and their discount card for eggs.
A few months later, my cousin Jeannette was visiting town, and we decided to meet up for lunch. We chose a casual eatery in Georgetown, nothing fancy. After we sat down and exchanged a few pleasantries, the server approached our table. He asked whether or not we wanted something to drink. I looked up at him and blurted out, “Justin!”
Confusion immediately crept onto his face. “How do you know my name?”
“Dude, I have your wallet!”
I was glowing, almost hyperventilating.
Do you know what Justin’s response was?
“Cool. Do you have it on you?”
First of all, no. I’m not walking around with a second wallet at all times, asshole. Secondly, isn’t anyone at least a little impressed that I’ve stared at this man’s community college photo for so long that it’s burned into my head and two seconds after seeing him for the first time I’m able to make a positive ID? Even looking back on that now, I think that’s remarkable. I think it’s one of the most spectacular, improbable, outrageous moments of my or anyone’s life.
Justin was ready to move on.
“Can I get you guys something to drink?”
Justin might have been calm, but I was truly speechless. I felt destiny had connected us in that moment. It was the only explanation. Why else would I have spent the time and energy to return this man’s nearly worthless possession if I wasn’t at least going to get to know him? I spent the remainder of that lunch going into every detail with my cousin. She didn’t believe me at first, and who could blame her? But as the story unraveled she became enraptured.
“You’ve never met him?”
“No.”
“Tommy, this is so weird. It’s fate. Are you going to marry him?”
“Maybe. Maybe this is a sign I should try something really gay with someone.”
After I paid the check, I approached Justin.
“Hey, man, so how should I get it to you?”
“Get what?”
“The Mona Lisa.”
He just stared at me. Which, I guess, is fair. I had made a joke because I thought it was obvious what I wanted to get to him. I didn’t just want to return his property, I wanted to hang out. Something was supposed to happen. I believed it. I imagined we were going to hang out and, I don’t know, open a juice bar or build a cabin in the woods or measure each other’s dicks, but I didn’t want to scare him, so I played it cool.
“I was kidding. I could return your wallet to you.”
“Okay.”
At this point I told myself, He must be shy. Of course I wanted more out of him, but he’s just reserved.
I had recently moved out of the apartment I was living in, so I was staying in a hotel for a few days. I told Justin to meet me there so I could return his wallet. Looking back, it was a little surprising that he had zero apprehension, but then again, he had displayed absolutely no emotion thus far. I’m the one who should have insisted on meeting his cold, lifeless eyes in a public place.
I got increasingly nervous as the meeting time we had agreed upon approached. I think I was expecting him to transform into another person. I told myself he was simply being professional at work, and now with the chains of employment no longer binding him, he could let loose and be the guy I knew he was capable of being. In my mind I was going to open my hotel room door and before I could even say hello he would throw his arms around me. Perhaps he would present me with a gift that he had brought as a small tribute. He would go on to acknowledge everything I had done and explain what it all meant to him. Then our new life would begin. Justin and me, the two greatest friends ever.
My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. My heart started to race. This was the moment. If this was being scored like a movie, the music would start to swell here. The violins, the cellos would be building up to the climactic moment.
I opened the door. Justin stood in front of me. I held my breath for a beat. I was a little surprised to see his face still conveyed zero emotion.
“Here’s your wallet.”
I handed it over.
“Thanks.”
He turned and walked toward the elevator. I watched him press the call button. He didn’t say another word or even look back at me.
I shut the door and sat on the bed, contemplating what an extraordinarily disappointing interaction I had just experienced. I wanted so much more. This was supposed to be the magical moment that made me feel connected to humanity. The moment where I stopped laughing at people who did yoga and meditated and lit candles as they chanted. This would erase my cynicism and make me one of them. A loving hippie dippy. The kind I always mocked and dreamed of assaulting.
Then it hit me all at once. Justin’s dad was right. Justin is a piece of shit! It turns out this was a life-changing moment. I was enlightened by the lost wallet experience. I’d learned something they don’t teach you in school: The world is full of disappointment. In sports, jobs, but most of all, in people.
The encounter with Justin could have been awesome. I wasn’t crazy to want it to be. There are people out there who would have reacted the way I wanted him to. But of course not everyone can be what you want them to be. That day I realized that there are two types of people in the world: people who would have shit their pants when a stranger called them out by name because the stranger had found their lost wallet and people like Justin. Detached, uninteresting, coasting through life. The world has a bunch of Justins in it, and they are to be avoided.
It’s like I was watching myself on a bizarro episode of Millionaire, and even though it wasn’t one of the happy, fulfilling matches that make me celebrate, the lesson was big enough to make me clasp my hands and say, “Thank you, Patti. Thank you.”