The Golden Rule

George sees the black leather wallet drop to the sticky floor but doesn’t get a good look at the guy’s face because the guy is already darting away toward the sound of the opening notes of the concert. Everybody is rushing forward as the house lights dim and the opening guitar riff rings out. It is only the crowd’s focus on the show that distracts all of them from the wallet and by some miracle, George is the only one who sees it.

Rushing ahead with the rest of the throng, George scoops up the wallet in the half-light of the ramp into the arena. A few people sigh and mutter at him, suddenly stopped and impeding their progress to their seats.

“What is it?” Rachel shouts to him over the din of cheers and drums. “Why did we stop?”

“A wallet. Somebody dropped it and ran to his seat.”

They move out to the concession stand where they can hear themselves think. George opens the wallet and looks at the driver’s license.

“Let’s see who we have here,” George says and reads off the laminated card.

“One Mark P. Worthington. Age 34. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 5’10”, 185. So we know who to look for.”

“Poor guy. I know how I’d feel.”

“Feel?”

“Well, I’d be panicked if I reached for my wallet and it wasn’t there. All my credit cards and cash gone,” Rachel says. “Uh … did he lose a lot of cash?”

George lowers his eyebrows and smiles, then rifles through the wallet. “One, one, five … thirty-seven dollars. So not that much.”

Rachel’s shoulders slump a little and her mouth droops. “Not that much. Well, at least we know what he looks like so we can find him.”

From the stage, they hear the lead singer greet the crowd with the name of the city. The crowd, with at least two empty seats, roars back at her. The two peer into the arena and see the red and white and purple lights move over the undulating mass of people.

“Good luck finding him in there. Must be 10,000,” he says.

“Well, maybe we can narrow it down. Where do you think a guy like that would sit?” Rachel says.

“Let’s see.” He opens the wallet again. “Mid-30s so he might be too old for crowd surfing on the floor. And he lives in … whoa. A very ritzy zip code. So no cheap seats.”

“VIP section? I know I would. But maybe we’re assuming too much to think he’s rich. What else … what else is there?”

He checks the other side of the wallet. “Amex black card. Wow. Isn’t that the one that’s by invitation only?”

“Yeah it is,” she smiles. “I’ve heard there’s no spending limit on those. So he’s a high roller.”

George sights another plastic square. “Speaking of high rollers, Mr. Worthington also has a Caesar’s VIP card. If he likes to gamble, maybe he got this card because he’s bad at it.”

“Right,” she says. “Maybe the casino gave him that card because he spent a lot there. So he could make a lot but also blow a lot.”

“So he could be cash poor. But how can we find this guy?”

Rachel’s eyes light up. “I know what we can do. Follow me.”

One level down, they find a security guard, who directs them to the lost and found. They hoof it to the other side of the arena while on stage, the band finishes its first set while the lead singer changes costume.

“So we can just turn it in and not worry about it,” Rachel says.

“Should we?” George asks. “I mean, we should but what’s the good if he doesn’t know who found the wallet?”

Rachel smiles. “Got it. Maybe he’ll be … extra grateful to us.”

“Let’s hang back and wait for Mr. Worthington to come back. We know what he looks like so we won’t miss him.”

It’s mostly quiet as the two wait off to the side. Only a few people walk by, none matching the man in the driver’s license. The band blitzes through one song after another, the sound muffled by the concrete walls.

“We’re doing the right thing, right?” George says.

“Sure. The guy will check here. We’ll see him, I’m sure.”

“No, I mean in general with this wallet.”

“Of course we are,” Rachel answers. “It’s sort of the Golden Rule. If you find a wallet with just cash and no credit cards or identification, you can keep it because there’s no way to get it back to its rightful owner.”

“Right, because there’s no way to walk around and ask, ‘Is this your cash?’ Any thief could claim it,” he says.

“But if you find a wallet with ID, you always try to return it.”

With the music continuing to pulse from some distance away, they watch the trickle of people, none of whom is Mark P. Worthington. After some time the music shifts to an undulating, roaring ballad.

Rachel smiles. “You remember this one?”

“Sure I do. We heard it on the car radio a couple weeks after we got married. We were taking it back to the shop to fix the … was it the transmission?”

“Yeah. What a piece of junk that car was. And we were so broke that the transmission about wiped us out.”

“Had to eat Ramen for about a month after that,” George chuckles. “We made it, though.”

“We made it. We always managed to. Never got rich but we still have each other.”

Rachel kisses George.

The show ends in sustained whoops and cheers and soon the fans file out. Soon enough they see him: Mid-30s, brown hair, hazel eyes, about 5’10”.

George approaches him. “Mark P. Worthington?”

“Uh … yes?”

“I have your wallet. You dropped it outside the concession stand before the show.”

“Oh, thank God. Thank you,” Mark says as George hands him his wallet, his $37 cash, Amex black card and Caesar’s VIP card.

“We couldn’t find you in the crowd so we figured we’d see you here,” Rachel explains.

“Well, thank you for being good Samaritans.”

For a second they stand in silence. “So …”

“So thanks again,” Mark says. “I really appreciate it.”

Mark shakes their hands. George and Rachel watch him go, still standing there even after they lose him in the crowd.

“So that’s it?” she says.

“So that’s it,” he says. “Oh well. Let’s go home, babe.”

The two join with the crowd in its artery flow out of the arena. They are quiet as the fans chatter excitedly around them.

Rachel says, “I wonder how the concert was?”