I go out to lunch late. The afternoon foot traffic has dispersed, the sidewalks blank in the searing heat. So the wallet laying stranded in the middle, between the building and the curb looks particularly forlorn. I'll do the right thing by it, in this grubble hustler neighborhood, I won't leave it to chance.

It is the kind of wallet that has a long loop, for hanging around your neck, and I pick it up and stick my hand into it, looking for ID. I can see a wad of money, hear the clink of change, and then it hits me. The smell. Oh. The wallet is soaked in urine.

I've got my hands stuck into the wallet, my hands are covered in a stranger's urine. I can't put the wallet down. In picking it up I made a compact, I undertook a duty. I am repulsed by what is in my hands on one level. But also I am terribly sad. Someone is having a very bad day. A sudden sickness, an overwhelming loss of control, and in the scramble to maintain dignity, to get home, the wallet drops to the ground and an unsure fate.

And I take the wallet back to my office, put my hands back in one more time to pull out wet ID documents, an elderly couple in the buildings around the way, they are in the phone book, and I make the call. So they will not suffer embarassment, I put the wallet in a big envelope and leave it at our front desk for them to pick up. They never have to see me, to see me who knows their shame.