Tokyo Station Blues, Part 2

I decide on a whim—perhaps the planets are aligned perfectly today—Tokyo Station deserves another chance.  It doesn’t, of course.  I’m being generous.  “This doesn’t happen often,” I want to say to the station, an inanimate object with no capacity to be grateful.  “Don’t get used to it.  It won’t happen again.”

I have thirty minutes before my train leaves to go up north, and I decide to go down into the abyss to the “Tokyo Station Lost and Found Office” to locate my stolen wallet.  Perhaps some kind soul picked up my wallet and turned it in.  Perhaps the pickpocket, after taking my money out tossed it into the trash and one of the cleaners found it.  This is Japan.  This happens here all the time.  Wallets dropped and stolen are often returned.

Before I navigate the multiple passageways down into the catacombs, I must first figure out where this office is.  I need a map.  Usually displayed on one face of the rectangular columns holding up the sky (ceiling), so long as I can find the map I can find the office.  Yes.  I can do this.  I do indeed find a map and look at the hallways, stores, escalators, elevators, and restaurants spread out, the crisscrossing intersections making the station look like it’s a city.  First floor, B1, B2, I keep looking and finally find it, tucked away deep into the corner, far away from anything civilized.  Of course.

Undeterred, I begin.  Following the signs, I only get lost once.  When I turn the corner, I see a long hallway leading to a large window where two seated men await.  It’s like a scene from a dream—“You must first walk down this long hallway before you can…” and here Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones would either say “find your way into heaven” or “find the Holy Grail” or “fulfill your destiny.”  There’s nothing between the two men seated behind the window and me.  They see me coming, and I see them watching me.  I start walking towards them down this very long hallway.  This is some how comical.  Truly.  This is like a movie.

I finally stand in front of them and say, “My wallet was stolen by a pickpocket awhile ago and I’m wondering if anyone turned it in.”  The two men look at each other.  What?  Was I not clear?  I feel like turning around and saying to the ceiling, “Well?” hoping to hear Mr. Freeman or Mr. Jones say just the right thing.  I don’t, of course.

“What did it look like?”

I describe it.

“Was there anything that had your name written on it, inside the wallet?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Driver’s license, health insurance form, Alien Registration card, credit cards…”

“Got it, got it.  So your name would be clear, address too, if anyone handed it in.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”  I tell him.

One of the two men is typing in my name while I realize the other has been typing in what I’ve been saying up to this point.

“Well, I don’t see it under the description you gave me,” the second man says.

“When was it stolen?”

The date?  The exact date?  Hmmm.  I don’t actually remember the date.  Awhile ago?  I inhale, looking at the calendar on the wall and pick a random date three weeks back.  That feels about right.

“Whoa,” the first man says.

“That long ago?”

“Yes,” and then, “Wait.  I have a copy of the police report.”

“You went to the cops?  Did they find it?”  Huh?  No, they didn’t find it.  That’s why I’m here.

“Yes, I went to the cops, and no, they didn’t find it, and the date…..January 29^th.”

I swear I saw them both roll their eyes.

“Well, that’s different,” the man on the left says, evidently annoyed he has to retype the date.

“That changes everything.”

Now I’m annoyed.

“How does that change everything?” I ask.  “You’re a slippery little man and I’m not in the mood,” is what I really want to say but don’t, because my mother raised me with manners.

“I have to retype the date now.”  Yes.  He actually said that.  I’m this close to turning around and throwing my hands into the air, yelling at the imaginary Mr. Freeman and Mr. Jones to “Get down here and fix this!” but decide not to because….I’m sane.  Or something.

“Nope.  It’s not here,” he says, leaning back as if he accomplished some intricate and complicated deed.  The first man folds his hands in front of his chest and says, “You know, if we’d found it, if it had been turned in we’d have sent you a postcard by now.”  I swear I have to keep from laughing.  You’d send me a postcard?  But, they’re serious.  It’s true.  I would have been sent a postcard saying, “Your wallet has been returned to the Lost and Found Office in Tokyo Station.  Please call this number to schedule a pick up time and date,” or something of the sort.  I would have squealed hoping the photos of my son and nieces were safe, the little bits of paper I’ve collected over the years are still tucked away in the side pockets, my lucky $2.00 bill safe.  Back to the postcard, though.  I cock my head to the side and say, “So, if you’d have found my wallet you’d have sent me a postcard.”

“Yup,” they say and they’re so proud.

“So, there’s no way it would be here,” I say as a statement and not a question.

“Not unless they turned in just the wallet and took all your IDs out or it just showed up today.”

“Hmmmm.”  I nod.  I feel there’s a sort of “Oh, dear poor woman.  If you only knew how things worked here, you could have avoided wasting our time” attitude hanging in the air and right there, I choose to fully embrace the fact I will never see that wallet again.  Ever.

I also decide Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones are having a good laugh at my expense and start retracing my steps leaving behind what surely must be a sort of Hollywood version of hell.  Tokyo Station is full of tricks—nasty ones at that—and I just wasted 20 minutes trying to relocate a wallet I’ll never see again.  Perhaps it’s time to start riding the bullet train from Ueno Station and avoid Tokyo Station altogether.  In fact, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do from now on.  Ha.