Friday, September 12, 2008

Panic at the Disco...

Not the band. Literal panic. Literal disco.

Last night we went to the Imperial. It was Disco night. We had started drinking at the office. I was already buzzed when I arrived at the Imp and added one more drink to that. It was me, the other Begich guys and the Obama kids. We danced some. We had fun. We, along with afro bedecked Miss C, crooned Sweet Caroline. So good. So good. So good.

When bar close came around, I went to grab my purse. It wasn't at the table. It wasn't near the table. It wasn't behind the bar. It wasn't in the bathroom. It wasn't in trash cans. It wasn't behind speakers. It wasn't under tables. It wasn't under billiards. It wasn't in the Imperial. It wasn't in a trash can outside the Imperial. It wasn't on the street. It wasn't at the office (I knew it wouldn't be). It wasn't at home (I knew it wouldn't be).

It was gone.

It was stolen.


At. The. Disco.

Mr. C called Mr. B to get Miss R's number. Miss R was drunk.

"Did you grab another purse?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"We're in front of the Imperial, will you bring it?"
"Be there in two minutes."

Relief and celebration.

1 minute.
2 minutes.
3 minutes.
4 minutes.
5 minutes.
6 minutes.
7 minutes.
8 minutes.
9 minutes.
10 minutes.
11 minutes.
12 minutes.
13 minutes.
14 minutes.
15 minutes.

"Hi. Where are you with the purse?"
"What purse?"
"Miss R said she took an extra purse."
"We don't see a purse."



We walked up the hill to the office. Then toward home. We decided to call my phone. It went through.


Background noise.


>insert exceedingly ridiculous string of profanity from Mr. A<

>insert pleaing from me<

>insert exceedingly loud and exceedingly angry string of profanity from me<

All of this is taking place within a stone's throw of the Governor's mansion.

Three slightly intoxicated, panicked, angry twenty-somethings screaming, roaring, and whimpering into a cellular phone.

Defeat. Again.

I pounded on the door of my apartment. I was yelling into the cracks.

Miss J cracked the door, looking scrupulously out before opening it fully. I apologized profusely and explained my dilemma.

I went to bed.

I awoke to 80's music on KXLL and hit the snooze button a few times. I didn't sleep more, I just thought. Thought about packing. Thought about what to wear. What to bring. How to get ID.

We're flying to Anchorage today. ID is the most important thing. I could be poor, I could be phoneless, but without identification I could not be.

I managed to clean up, pack, get ready, think out a plan, and get to work one minute early.

"Mr. C," I said, "Don't freak out..."

Any conversation that starts with "Don't freak out" is a conversation that will lead to freaking out.

"My purse was stolen. It has all of my ID." . . . "I'll fix it."

"Fix it before 10:30, that's when I'll start really freaking out."

9 am to 9:30ish am was full of barked orders, frantic calling, web searching, connection calling. We were using every resource we had between us. We were panicked, frenzied, frantic...

Then Miss R's friend walks sheepishly in. He stands in the doorway holding the purse.

"Miss R says she's really sorry."

1 comment:

Myron Davis said...


That is exciting, I'm glad it all worked out in the end though!