Lost and Found

LOST AND FOUND

Samuel Vayne





The front lawn of a spacious, luxurious apartment building in Boston was still shrouded in shadow, the cold dewdrops hanging from the blades of grass. A lone beam of sunlight lanced through the frigid air to rest on the very edge of the grass, slowly creeping up the lawn and banishing the inky night before it.

As the sun completed its morning circuit of the lawn, it began it’s ascent up the building wall, eventually reaching the second floor window of room 214. The beam edged its way into the room, careful to leave no shadows behind. It pounced on the face of a sleeping young man, easing his eyes open.

Tim sat up in bed, bleary eyes searching the room for his alarm clock, which revealed the time to be 7:15.

Leaping out of bed, Tim scurried around his apartment, grabbing briefcase, putting on shoes, and attempting to comb his hair, muttering to himself about being late again the whole time. Finally, nearly three minutes later, he shot out of his door, only too aware of the breakfast he lacked.

Outside, the early Boston morning had long since started without him. Newspaper stands, hotdog vendors, and besuited businessmen littered the sidewalks, while cars dominated the road as usual. Tim plunged headlong into the heavy foot traffic and hurried on, determined not to be late again.

“If I’m gonna make it in time, I’d better take a shortcut,” he thought to himself as he stepped around an overturned garbage can. “No way the main road’ll get me there in time.” He just hoped that this shortcut worked, as he had never tried it before. If he was right, then the route that went behind the news building emptied off into Pine street.

Twenty minutes later, Tim was quite certain that he was wrong. Never good with directions, he had quickly lost his way. Unable to backtrack, he looked around in despair.

“Great Tim, you’ve really done it this time,” he muttered to himself angrily. “How could you get lost in a city with signs on every corner! I mean, how hard could it be to backtrack?” Furious with himself for his lack of navigational prowess, Tim stumbled onward. Rounding a corner, firmly resolved to ask directions, he stepped into the first building he saw.

This new building turned out to be a hotel. Very old, by the looks of it. Tim stepped inside, casting his eyes around the huge entrance hall. No clerks were at the desk, nor was there any bellhop to assist him. Frustrated beyond belief, he stalked over to the elevator, intending to go down to the basement and ask one of the maids.

“This is stupid, why don’t I just leave and find someplace else?” he irritably grumbled to himself. But nonetheless he felt himself stepping into the elevator, hoping beyond hope that someone down there would help.

The metal doors slid aside when he reached B1, and Tim stepped out into a long passageway, presumably leading off to the Laundromats. He started down it at a brisk walk, well aware of exactly how late he was. But what he saw then made him slow to a halt.

Off to one side of the hall was an old coat rack, hooks dusty from neglect. And on top of it was an ordinary, unmarked cardboard box.

Tim took the box down, unsure why he did so, and put it on the floor. The box was full of toys, of every shape size and color. Tim started rummaging through the box, picking up dinosaurs and cowboys, cars and dolls, blocks and puzzles. ‘This must be the lost and found,’ he thought to himself.

Suddenly remembering his quest, he thought ‘This is stupid. I’m an hour late for work, and here I am looking at children’s toys in a lost and found.’ But still, somehow, he could not pull himself away from the toys. Even as part of his brain kept trying to pull him away, make him leave, still he sat captivated by the toys. There was just something about them, he simply could not place it.

Tim felt a certain exhilaration by just holding the toys. Running his fingers down the grooves of the dinosaur’s back, feeling the smooth flat surface of the airplane’s wing, simply holding all these wondrous toys made him feel… happy? Possibly. He couldn’t place the feeling and emotion he got from the toys. All he knew was that he could sit here forever with them.

‘This is ridiculous,’ part of his brain thought, and simply gave up and let him sit there with the toys, lost to time.



Tim woke up some time later, still clutching the toys in his fists. No, not woke up, for he wasn’t really asleep. ‘What happened to me? Was I in a trance or something?’ All he could remember was sitting there, gazing fondly at his newfound treasures for… minutes? Hours? Days? Time held no meaning, everything was a jumble, ready to be discarded. For who cared about time, as long as he had his toys?

“No, this has gone too far,” that nagging part of his brain snapped. “You’ve got to go!” Reluctantly, Tim got up off the floor and put the box back on the shelf, resolving to inquire about it later.

Walking across the main lobby a few seconds later, he noticed that it was once again completely deserted. Shrugging his shoulders, he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Streetlamps flickered, struggling to fight the smothering blackness of midnight.

“I’ve been there all day and all night!” he realized, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. “Those toys… what have I done?” Turning, he sprinted up the street, briefcase dangling from his left wrist.

“Oh, Sam is going to kill me! I’m so late!” he whispered to himself as he rounded a corner and found himself back on a main road. Hailing a taxi, he made it back to his apartment in fifteen minutes.

As soon as he opened the front door, a dark figure leapt onto him, squeezing him tight.

“Oh, Tim!” his girlfriend Samantha gushed into his ear. “Where were you? I was so worried! I came over to have dinner with you, and you weren’t home! I called the bar, and your work, and all of your friends! No one knew where you were! I almost called the cops!” She was crying now, fat drops falling onto his shoulder as he hugged her.

“Shh, Sam, it’s okay, I’m home now.” After a few seconds, he turned his head to her and added, “Hey, Sam, I know it must be scary for me to be late, but what’s the big deal? I was only seven hours late!” he said, not unkindly.

“Seven hours? She sobbed, looking at him with confused eyes. “You’ve been gone since yesterday afternoon!”

“What?” Tim exclaimed, a wave of shock crashing over him. “I was there for two days?”

“Yes! You never came home from work on Monday!” came the watery reply.



Sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of coffee long since gone cold clutched in his hands, Tim stared at the table, thinking hard. How could he not have noticed two days go by? What was it about those toys that made him forget everything, forget his hunger, his anger, his duty, everything?

He had sent Samantha home crying, for he would not tell her where he was. She begged and pleaded, obviously scared for his life, assuming gang involvement, kidnap, amnesia, and all sorts of explanations, but Tim just would not tell her. He didn’t even know why he did this to her, just something in his mind wasn’t ready to divulge the secret of his toys. It wasn’t greed, just a gentle but firm suggestion that he not tell anyone.

All the same, he was still appalled at what he had done to the girl. He was always so gentle, so caring with her. What made him treat her the way that he had? Was the hold that his toys had over him really that strong?

“Funny, I’ve even begun to think of them as my toys,” he laughed bitterly, catching and correcting himself.



Early the next day, before the sun even begun its dominion of the world, the bitter dark morning found Tim already speeding down the sidewalk. He had risen extra early so that he could find the hotel again. Having taken the wrong way several times, he was getting very frustrated again. Indeed, despite his early start, the sun was almost showing itself over the horizon before he found the dingy old hotel.

Walking into the front lobby, he was relieved to find an old security guard lurking by the elevator doors. Tim called out to him, walking towards him quickly.

“Hello sir, I was wondering what you could tell me about those toys in the box down in the basement?” he sputtered rapidly.

“Oh, those ratty things? They’ve been there for years. Long as I can remember, in fact. They were there when I took this job, oh four years ago next Monday.”

“Why so long?” inquired Tim. “Why hasn’t anyone claimed any of them?”

The guard looked at Tim over his glasses, his eyes searching his. Finally, the guard responded slowly, still suspiciously sweeping him with his gaze.

“No one has claimed any of them this whole time that I’ve worked here. Why are you so interested anyway?”

“Never? Not a single one?” somehow this news made Tim inexplicably sad. He felt like he was one of them, like he had been abandoned for at least four years.

Without answering the guard’s question, Tim walked out of the building, careful to let the guard see him leave. Then, without really knowing what he was doing, Tim looked though the window and watched the guard until he strolled over to the desk, grabbed a newspaper, and disappeared behind it.

Stealthily opening the door, Tim surreptitiously stole across the room, muffling every footstep. Amazingly, he got all the way across the room without the guard looking up at all. Tim was convinced that surely the ding of the elevator would rouse the attention of the old guard, but he remained oblivious to the sound.

“He must be deafer than my granny Fran,” Tim thought. And sure enough, he could see the guard’s hearing aid lying on the desk in front of him. He must have taken it out to read.

Chuckling mischievously to himself, Tim descended to B1, once again. There was the box, same as before. Before he took the box down, he set the alarm on his watch, so that he would not be lost to time like last time. Then he sat down with the toys and started sorting through them.



The beeping of his watch aroused him from his enchantment. Looking up, he saw that he was alone in the hallway, of course. As there were no windows, he just had to trust his watch that he was not late. Sneaking past the elderly guard, who had fallen asleep at his desk, Tim ran out into the street and sprinted home, arriving right at the time that he usually arrived from work.

Samantha was already waiting for him at home. She had brought her dog, Basquiche, a long haired golden retriever, with her. Tim often teased her about the absurd name of her animals, but nonetheless she continued pulling names out of Native American folklore.

“Hi, Sam!” he called from the front door as Bas jumped around him, trying to lick the highest point she could reach.

She came out of the living room and kissed him, telling him about her day at work while he didn’t listen. He was still thinking about the lost and found…

“Hey, are you okay?” she said, sliding closer to him on the couch, a look of concern on her face.

“Yes, yes,” he snapped impatiently, waving her off and standing up. His thoughts were full of the toys. He had to see them again! “I’ve got go out.” He started walking towards the door when he felt her small hand upon his arm, turning him around.

“Tim, please listen to me. You’re not acting the way you used to. We need to talk about it.” Her voice was almost hysterical.

“No time right now, but you wait here! I’ll be back soon,” he called over his shoulder as he turned away and grabbed his keys.

“I love you Tim!” Samantha cried after him as he opened the door. Right before the door closed, he could distinctly hear her crying.



Inserting the cold keys into the keyhole several hours later, he opened the door to his apartment and stepped inside, calling as he went.

“Sam, I’m home! Where are you?” He looked around in the dark, quiet house, a sense of foreboding rising up inside him. Throwing down his keys and coat, he started racing through the house, yelling into each room.

“Sam! Sam! Samantha!” Each room he discovered empty added another ten pounds to his heavy heart, until there was only one room left; his bedroom.

Sprinting down the hall as fast as four years of college football would carry him, he pushed open the door, uncaring about the sound of splintering wood as the doorframe cracked. Just as he dreaded, his room was empty except for a note resting on his pillow. He picked up the tearstained, slightly crumpled piece of paper and read:





Dear Tim,

I can’t possibly convince myself that I’m ready to end this relationship, it’s meant so much to me over the months. But I just can’t keep going like this. I’ve tried to help you with your problems, tried to be there for you, was worried sick when you were gone, and all the while you were cold and uncaring towards me. It was cruel and inhuman, not at all the Tim I once knew, and I’m sick of being taken for granted like this. I’ve cried too much for you, and I got nothing in return.

I can’t stay here and let you do this to me, I can’t possibly lie down and take this. I think it’s best for both of us if we just end it.

I don’t know if this new you will even care, but I’ve changed my phone number and asked the landlord of my apartment not to let you in. Please just don’t try to contact me. It’s best if we just forget about each other.

Regretfully,

Samantha.



Tim stood there for several minutes, reading the note over and over again, memorizing it. Then he slowly sank down onto the bed, gasping for air. How could it be over, just like that? All those months of good times, strolls in the park, late night phone calls, all the memories. All gone because of what? The toys…



Thursday night found Tim sneaking back into his apartment, trying not to wake his neighbors. He had spent all day with the toys, caressing them, holding them, feeling their strange energy flow through him, and now he opened his front door as the wall clock flashed 11:37 pm.

The first thing he noticed was that someone had slipped an envelope under his door. There it lay, on his welcome mat, addressed to him. Tim picked it up and slit it open as he made himself a cup of coffee.

The contents of the letter made Tim splash hot coffee all over himself. Swearing, he got paper towels to clean up the mess, while rereading the letter. It could not be!

It was from his boss, downtown at the aluminum plant that he worked at. He had been fired! Rereading the note, Tim confirmed that four unexcused absences from work resulted in immediate termination of employment. As if to seal his fate, the boss’s loopy signature glared up at him from the bottom of the letter.

Sinking down to the floor, tears jumping to his eyes, Tim berated himself coldly.

“Tim, you are 24 years old, and you are playing with toys! And now look where it got you! Your girlfriend left you because of it! You got fired from work because of it! What’s wrong with you?”

As he sat there on the cold tile floor, a knock sounded at his front door, a harsh, strong bang against the wood. Getting up, he eased his way to the door and opened it to reveal a short fat man whom he recognized as Hugo, his landlord, standing on his doorstep with three very large, mean looking thugs behind him.

“Yer time’s up, Tim. I didn’t get the rent in time, so now we came to help you move out. Go on boys,” he growled in his raspy voice. Before Tim knew what was happening, the three thugs muscled past him and began picking up furniture at random and tossing it out the front door and down the stairs.

“No, stop!” Tim cried, trying to wrestle the coffee table out of the hands of one of the brutes. The man scowled at him, then reared back and punched him square in the jaw.



Colors swimming together in a haze. Tim slowly sat up and groggily took stock of his body. His face hurt, he had a massive headache, but everything else seemed to be intact. Looking around revealed that he was lying on the sidewalk in front of his ex apartment, next to a pile of broken furniture and scattered clothing. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the thugs had torn every article of clothing he owned neatly in half. Getting up and trying the door revealed it to be locked.

“How on earth could this happen to me?” Tim wailed into the night. Three disastrous events occurring within hours of each other. What was going on? “My life is crashing around my ears,” he moaned, before turning away from his belongings and starting down the street. He would go to the only home he had left now…

Twenty minutes later, Tim was curled up under the coat rack with his beloved toys. They were all he had left, the last thing that brought comfort in his life. Comfort, was it? He had no idea. All he knew was that right there was where he was supposed to be, curled up with his toys.

For what seemed like the millionth time, Tim started sorting through the toys, wondering what it was about them that had such a strong hold on his mind. Only this time, there was something different about them. No, on second thought, not something different about the toys, just the way he perceived them. He began to see them in a new light.

For the first time, Tim noticed patterns in the toys. There seemed to be at least two of each kind of toy, each group matching perfectly. As soon as he put the two cars together, he felt at peace somehow, like a small weight had been lifted from his heart. He experienced the same sensation when he placed the three astronauts together. As he continued his work, he felt… accomplished. Like he was fulfilling a task he had begun a long time ago.

Tim worked into the night, stacking the Rubik’s Cubes, lining up the soldiers, grouping the horses. He worked long and hard, for the task was not as easy as he had first thought. Some toys were not very obvious matches, being different models or types. Often times, Tim found himself faced with a dilemma of what to match with what, and at these times he felt a horrible sadness mixed with pain in his heart, as if his very brain was urging him to complete this mysterious puzzle.

Once, he had matched two objects incorrectly, placing three plastic dogs together, and a horrible stabbing pain spiked through his very soul. Pure torment and agony was all he knew for those few short seconds, until he looked closer and realized that one was slightly different than the other two.

“It’s a wolf,” he realized, moving it over with the Indian hunter, with it’s little plastic feathers and bow. The pain immediately vanished and a feeling of immense relief washed over him.

“This is really weird,” Tim thought to himself as he dove back into the box. “I’m feeling all these emotions that I’m sure aren’t mine. It’s as if someone or something is putting their instincts and emotions into me, like programming a computer,” for a few seconds he imagined angels controlling him like a puppet from above, before resuming his search for matching pairs.

How many days was he there? He had no idea. All he knew was that hunger had no meaning to him, fatigue was washed away, as if something unseen was desperate for his success, determined to help him out in any way possible. Again, the thoughts of spirits, ghosts and angels stole across his mind as these foreign waves of joy washed over him at every match.

The sun was setting once again by the time Tim had finished his task. Well, not quite finished. There was still one toy left in the box, a little red ball. As hard as he thought, he simply could not see any place for the little rubber sphere to go. Everywhere he placed it seemed to be all wrong, like it just did not belong anywhere. Severely puzzled by the strange little ball, Tim threw it back into the box.

Immediately, all the fatigue, hunger, and dehydration of two or three days hit him all at once. Crawling to the elevator, he reached up and weakly stabbed the up button. Just before the elevator doors closed, Tim glimpsed back and noticed the toys were arranged in a strange yet not unpleasant pattern, like something one might find in a child’s picture book of clouds and angels.

Tim was so tired crossing the lobby that he did not notice the old guard sitting behind the desk.

“Hey! You! Closing time was 45 minutes ago! How did you get in here?” he shouted at him, shuffling closer and inserting his hearing aid.

Tim turned and dashed out of the front doors before the man could get ahold of him. On the front steps, he heard the guard shout “I’m calling the cops!”

Now free, he looked around. Where was he to sleep tonight? Walking two blocks down to the local park, he grabbed a stray newspaper for a blanket and settled himself under a tree. His first night as a homeless was going to be hell, he just knew it.

The next morning, Tim arose to find himself unshaven, starving, but strangest of all, shivering, dripping wet. Apparently it had rained in the night. How had he not noticed?

“I suppose that’s what happens when you stay awake for three days straight playing with toys,” he chuckled to himself, getting up and walking in the direction of the hotel. Very strange, he thought to himself, that when he was away from the toys he could joke about them, think clearly about them. But, like a junkie to crack, Tim felt himself inevitably drawn to the hotel. In the toys’ presence, he was a different man, or was he a man at all? More like a hollow shell, taken over by all these alien emotions until the time that he leave the dark basement, till the time he saw that reassuring plaque that said B1 in bold letters, that plain cardboard box.

Entering the main lobby, Tim was immediately bombarded with the old man’s cries.

“You’re that bum that broke into the basement last night! I should call the cops on you!”

Ignoring the old guard, Tim pushed right past him and entered the elevator, completely oblivious to the man’s shouts and yells.

The first thing he noticed was that the toys were no longer on the floor. They had vanished! Immediately he began to panic. For the first time in a long time, he realized, this emotion was truly his own, emanating from his brain. What if the toys had been stolen and he had no chance to touch them ever again?

Almost immediately, the same foreign emotions returned, calming him and quelling his fears. Somehow, he knew that everything was going to be all right. He calmed down, took deep breaths, and walked over to the shelf and took down the cardboard box.

The box was completely empty save for the little red ball, rolling around at the bottom. Tim picked up the ball and pocketed it before replacing the box on the shelf and returning to the main lobby.

There was the guard, sputtering into the phone, some nonsense about having cornered the culprit in the basement and holding him until the cops arrived. Tim calmly walked up to the old man and gently pulled the phone out of his hand, hanging it up and throwing it aside.

“What happened to all the toys?” he asked the old man calmly, never taking his eyes off of him.

“Hey what are you doing? Get away from me,” the old guard exclaimed, stepping away. Tim stepped forward and grabbed his wrist, holding him in place.

“What happened to the toys, old man?” he said, a little more firmly this time.

“What, you crazy? You some kinda pothead or somethin’?” the guard said, fear in his eyes for the first time.

“Tell me what happened to the toys. Now.” Tim increased his pressure on the man’s wrist. He knew inside that he would never hurt the elderly, but he was so desperate to find out the whereabouts of his beloved toys that he had to intimidate the guard.

“Th-th-the toys? They were all claimed this mornin’! I swear!” he stuttered, trying to edge away from _.

“Claimed? All of them? By who?” Tim felt some unrecognizable emotion at the news. Could have been despair, could have been ecstasy.

“I dunno! They didn’t show their faces! A group of children in long white robes just sort of glided in and all left with two or three toys! Honest!”

Tim released the guard and walked across the lobby, pushing the door open and stepping onto the street. For some reason, what the guard said had just felt… right. He was at peace with himself, at peace with the world at the moment.

Tim could have sworn he heard a child’s voice whisper in his ear, “Thank you!”, but then he shook his head and dismissed it as the wind.

Walking home from the hotel, the ball clutched in his fist, Tim felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. Finally, this hellish quest was over, and he was free to get on with his life!

As he rounded the last corner and started up the street to his apartment, he saw a lone figure, leaning against his front door. No, can’t be, he thought as he peered closer, squinting his eyes in the late afternoon sun. But it was…

Samantha leapt off the landing, taking the stairs two at a time, until she was on the

street and racing towards him. Tim could see that she had tears in her eyes as she ran and jumped into his arms, hugging his neck tightly. Sobbing into his shoulder, she whispered “I love you Tim,” into his ear.

“Lost and found,” he said to no one in particular, looking down into her beautiful eyes.

There, that warm, breezy August night, standing on the Boston street with Sam in one arm, the little red ball in the other, Basquiche jumping around them, Tim finally felt… happy.



























































Epilogue

Scott’s frustration was running high as he jogged around the corner, briefcase in hand. He would surely be fired if he was late again! Running up to the front doors of the first building he saw, he went inside for directions.

“Hello? Can anyone tell me how to get to the Channel 8 News building from here?” Scott yelled into the empty lobby. Swearing loudly at his bad luck, he stormed across the lobby to the elevator bank below.

Squinting down at the small display of buttons, Scott impatiently pushed B2…