OK, I really mean it this time…
For those long-term readers of this blog, you are no doubt familiar with Ohmygod, a client that I had for three weeks of bike trips in Europe. I started recounting this story way back in 2012, shortly after starting this blog. In all, I published a total of 59 episodes of this saga over the years, but then abruptly stopped for no good reason.
There are a few more of you following this site now (a lot more if the numbers are to be believed), so I thought I would introduce Ohmygod to a new audience as well as jump-start my determination to finish this story.
Who knows? I might even try to get it published, but that remains to be seen. The goal now, is to republish a chapter a week, editing and revising the original posts as I go along, tidying it up. That gives me (checks math) a little over a year to get my butt in gear and get this thing finished.
This is the fifth installment of the story. If you missed the previous “chapters” click on one of the hyperlinks below.
___________________________________________________________________________________
It is the end of another month and thus time for another installment of the Ohmygod saga (the prvious installments: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four). As you will recall, I used to be a cycling tour guide in Europe for several years. Through that job (yes, it is a bit difficult to call it a ‘job’) I met countless interesting people and have a few compelling stories to tell, but most of them pale to the story of Ohmygod, one of the clients that I had for two weeks. Some may wonder about the moniker, but the name chose itself really; it is what I uttered repeatedly during just about every interaction with him.
In the last episode, shortly after beginning our trip down in the Loire Valley, Ohmygod informed me that he had been robbed–someone had stolen his wallet.
I hustle upstairs to my room, call the office in Paris, take copious notes, get a plan of attack. Go downstairs to lay it all out for him. First, I assess the situation:
“When did you last see it?”, I ask.
“See what?”
Normally, if this were absolutely anyone else on the planet, I would have made a snide remark. Since I was dealing with perhaps the most literal thinker I have ever encountered (remember I was a high school teacher and basketball coach), I resisted the urge with just about every fiber in my being (as many of you know, I am a bit of a smart ass and therefore this was much more than an elementary exercise).
“Your wallet.”
“Last night at that bar, somebody must have pick-pocketed me.”
“But you were wearing your cycling clothes…. Wait a minute, you took your passport to the bar? Are you completely ins–” He cut me off.
“Oh, I still have my passport–I hid it here in the room.”
“So wait, you said all your identification was stolen. What is exactly missing?”
“My social security card, my birth certificate, and my driver’s license. Actually, it is only half of a driver’s license.”
I was more then taken aback by this statement. Myriad thoughts and wisecracks raced through my head. At the same time, I thought that if it were just about anyone else in front of me, I would have felt the need to make a quick response to help assuage the angst of having been robbed. Clearly, this was a different situation altogether and I had a bit of time since I knew that whatever I said next I would have to repeat at least four times. Even then, there was no guarantee that any of my words would be absorbed, much less acted upon.
So I took a bit more time to assess, asking a few more questions.
What did he lose? His social security card, his birth certificate, and half of his drivers license (I do not know why on earth he brought his social security card, his birth certificate or half of a drivers license, nor was I going to ask, some things in life you must simply let pass). It also turns out he did not lose all of his money. For some reason he does not consider travelers checks money–he still had those. In fact, he only lost about 12€ (the cost of about two beers at the bar the night before). I let that pass as well. He was clearly distraught and I now realized that the only thing worse than Ohmygod in need of a beer was a freshly victimized Ohmygod.
He wanted to “call the cops” he had to “call the cops’. Every utterance was either preceded or followed by “call the cops”. After the fifth “call the cops” It became abundantly clear that for Ohmygod it was vitally important that he get his documents returned. He underscored this revelation by stating I needed to “call the cops” at least eleven more times. Finally, realizing that my week was about to spiral out of control, I felt compelled to get some clarity. I asked why he brought all that crap with him to France in the first place.
He replied simply and somewhat matter-of-factly: “in case I lost my passport.”
How do I respond to that? Given the chain of events, it was probably the only logical thing I witnessed him say or do up until that point.
After that brief moment of clarity and introspection, he returned to delirium, hysteria and mania. He stated repeatedly that he had to get the stuff back–he was panicked that someone would use the information to assume his identity. I am not making this up. He thought someone wanted to steal his identity and he was panicked.
As a bit of a refresher, the guy was 49 years old, lived at home with his mother, wore nothing other than bike clothes (that were rarely laundered) and worked as a part-time tech for a cable access channel.
In Canada.
Yeah, that is the identity I want to steal.
Then I thought I might be judging him a little harshly. Perhaps he was actually independently wealthy–the eccentric millionaire type.
Well, at least I tried to envision it.
He said he saw a TV program once with his mother (he had to give her some time since it had been a while since he had brought her up), where there was a band of crooks that frequented bars and they would prey on unsuspecting patrons, steal their identity and then the victims would spend years trying to clear their name. I thought back to the bar the night before and although I was there for only a brief moment, I could not imagine a person that a criminal would target less than Ohmygod.
I tried to calm him down, but he was apoplectic. Knowing now that the situation was not all that grave, I lied. I said he would have to take a train back to Paris and go to the Commissariat himself. This was not much of a calculated risk. First, I had a pretty good feeling he feared authority more than he feared hygiene and would therefore never go before a ‘commissariat’ by himself. Second, if I were wrong and he did go back to Paris, at least he would be gone for a bit. He asked how much was a train trip back to Paris. When I told him it would be about 120€ (I made it up), or about ten times what was ‘stolen’ he paused and just shook his head in fear. I told him he needed hurry up and pack so we could get riding to our next destination, Chenonceaux.
He nodded. This caused the morsel of croissant (which had somehow miraculously remained affixed to his chin all this time) to be dislodged. He saw it drop to the ground and reflexively reached down to pick it up. I quickly turned and left. I did not want to witness what happened next.
Surprisingly, Ohmygod quickly (at least for him) packed up and got on the road. He was audibly mumbling about the need to “Call the Cops” so I assured him that I would stop by the police station in town and ask if they knew of any miscreants in town who might have perpetrated the heinous crime. (Yes, I was being sarcastic–I could hold it back no longer. Since Ohmygod is not even as sharp as a bowling ball, he did not pick up on it at all. In fact, he appeared relieved, even empowered, by my planned course of action.)
After he peddled off (initially in the wrong direction until I shouted after him and got him to turn around), I milled around town for a bit so that he would get a decent head start–riding with him all day was lower than last on my to-do list.
After almost two hours of killing time, I hopped on my bike.
On the way out of town, I decided to stop by the bar we had visited the night before, just on a whim. Most bars (particularly outside of Paris double as cafés in the morning). Often, the same wait staff will work both shifts. Sure enough, our waiter from the night before was serving up espressos from behind the bar. I had been to the bar countless times, and the waiter knew me by sight. He started shaking his head and cracked a smile as he placed a fanny pack on the counter. I opened it to discover all of the ‘stolen’ items including about 20€ in cash. I asked the waiter if Ohmygod had paid his bill before leaving the night before. He smiled sheepishly and said no, but it was OK, no big deal. I took out the money from his fanny pack and handed it to the waiter. The waiter refused, but I insisted since it was not my money–although they were such nice people I would have paid it myself. As I said, I would go to this bar every time I was in town, and I wanted to make sure that they were taken care of. I figured I would come up with a story to tell Ohmygod if it ever came to that.
As he put the cash in the register, he said “Merci, et bonne route” (‘Thanks and have a good ride’). After a pause, he added with a sardonic smile “Bonne chance” (‘Good luck’).
As I walked back over to my bike, I looked again in the fanny pack (briefly forgetting the long ago learned lessons on disease prevention). Birth certificate. Social security card. A driver’s license that was missing the upper right corner and about 1/3 of the overall mass (including most of the number). A picture of an older woman (mom?).
Bonne chance indeed.
the drunken cyclist 