I accidentally left my much beloved cheap translation of Montaigne’s Essays on top of a Redbox that I was holding Sylvie up to so she could make her own selection (as she insists). The book nowhere had my name in it, only an appointment card for a dentist’s office that I had been using for a bookmark. Someone subsequently found the book, took it inside and gave it to a McDonald’s employee. A McDonald’s manager discovered the appointment card and called the dentist’s office. The dental receptionist checked their calendar of appointments and discovered that an appointment for that date and time had been held by yours truly. And so I received a call from my dentist informing me that a book possibly belonging to me had been left at the Redbox in the McDonald’s parking lot and could now be retrieved at my leisure.
*Optional footnote on the actual reason why I left the book.
Because I had left the McDonald’s in an embarrassed fluster. My two-year old daughter, giggling and singing while she danced with her ice cream cone, dropped her cone and uttered a nicely contextualized and pitch-perfect “Well, fuck it” suddenly drawing gasps rather than smiles from several surprised onlookers. I of course would like to blame other kids at the sitter’s, or maybe (I now realize) that Mumford & Sons song that sometimes plays in our house. But, truthfully, that particular word is probably not entirely absent from my vocabulary, or from my wife’s. So I guess we are going to have to start being more careful now.