The other day I was sitting there, lost in thought, waiting for the J train to go from Bed-Stuy to Manhattan. For a change, the train was diverted again. You first had to go back one station, to Myrtle, to catch the express train to the city. It was almost one o'clock and since I hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, I nibbled on supposedly healthy brown crackers. Still nice to still my hunger. The train arrived fairly quickly and just to be sure I asked if I really had to go back first. Yes I did.
When I arrived at the next station, I discovered that my bag was missing when I got off. I looked around in a state of confusion and asked if anyone had seen my bag. The few passengers looked around in bewilderment and one even mumbled that I had not had a bag with me. Now I doubted whether I had indeed entered the train with my bag. I ran out of the train like a madman and asked the nearest conductor if he could call the Flushing station to ask if they could hold my brown handbag there if they had found it. I was going completely crazy. The fact that I had just withdrawn $100 from the ATM hurt and the fact that my credit cards were in my bag was, to say the least, very annoying, but the fact that on this particular day I also had my passport, driver's license and everything I could identify myself with in America with me made me desperate.
I ran like a rocket back to the previous station, hoping my bag would still be there. Huffing and puffing, it couldn’t be fast enough. My courage sank. Had I left it there or had it been stolen? How, what, when? Who were next to me? How could they have stolen it? Or had I really been so “smart” as to get on the train without my bag?
After what seemed like an hour I finally arrived at Flushing. Apparently the conductor had already been informed because he looked up and quickly let me through. My heart was pounding in my throat. Was my bag there or had it already been gone? Taken from under my nose without me realizing it? My last bit of hope shrivelled when I saw the empty bench. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to be seen where I had been sitting less than 15 minutes ago. With a straw of hope I asked the man who cleaned the station if he had perhaps seen my bag. But alas.
On the stairs down I felt abandoned, lost and incredibly lonely. Still, I had to call as soon as possible to have my bank cards etc. blocked and to report my passport as lost. Then it also dawned on me that I didn't even have a quarter with me. So I couldn't do anything and felt so incredibly powerless. I didn't even have a quarter! Although I have given small change to people who asked for money, I have often walked past them. I felt deeply ashamed, but I had no choice. I really had to call. My hope was the conductor who knew what was going on. After I had gathered a lot of courage I reluctantly asked "do you have a quarter for me to call". In a split second his facial expression changed from haughty: hello-I-am-not-a-social-institution, to here-take-it-because-I-can't-watch-this. My face must have shown how deeply unhappy I felt. Then I couldn't hold it in any longer. Confused and dazed from all the emotion, I walked to the phone with tear-stained cheeks to make a call.
It took me a few days to get back to myself, but I had gotten used to the fact that my bag with passport and everything was gone. The chance of finding your bag here in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn, the police said, is almost zero. My bank cards were blocked the same day, but my passport and driver's license, that would really take some time. I was busy thinking about how much bureaucratic red tape this would entail, when exactly three days later an unknown man suddenly appeared at the door and asked if I was Mireille. He asked me three times. Just to be sure, he got out his piece of paper with my name on it. Is this you?, he asked again, pointing to the piece of paper because the name was quite difficult to pronounce. I said yes, I am Mireille Liong-A-Kong. Then he said, I found your bag. I looked at him in disbelief. No, I said no. He said you left it in Flushing. You shouldn't do that. It slowly dawned on me that this good man had actually found my bag. It took me at least ten seconds to really realize it. I did my happy Indian dance in joy, hugged him and thanked him from the bottom of my heart. Not only had he found my bag, he had also delivered it all the way to my home. His name was Victor Maldonado and his sweet daughter had given him a ride.
When I asked him how I could thank him he said, “Take good care of your bag.” After some insistence he said, can you tell me where you bought that bag, because my wife thinks it is a very beautiful bag and I want to buy one for her. The bag had been a gift from my father I said, but that was more than two years ago and I don’t know if they still have it. Since I didn’t think it was appropriate to offer him my used bag I offered him a new bag of the same material but a slightly different model. My wife also likes this one, but to be honest she thinks yours is much nicer. If she has no problem with an old bag, she can have mine I said then. And so I parted with the most beautiful bag I ever had from my father. A bag for which I received compliments from completely unknown people. The same bag that was also found and returned by unknown people. That bag is literally and absolutely in good hands.