Wake of the Flood Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Think carefully about how you answer the first question of the day. Mine was: "Are you sure you want to go in today? You didn't get much sleep."

A lesser man might've gotten back into bed, but they build us different in Queens. I made it to the office in record time, did a quick Web trawl, headed downstairs to the gym...and realized my wedding ring was gone.

This has happened before. When I get bored, I get fidgety, and start twisting and futzing the thing around my finger and before you know it I'm on my hands and knees discovering muffin crumbs from the Clinton administration. But I usually can tell at once that the ring is gone, and can use my outerborough sonar to figure out where it hit. Today, nothing: absence all at once.

Nixed the gym, and spent the next two hours retracing my steps. I remember a homily once where the priest mentioned a family of haberdashers who had spent generations making socks--just socks--for archbishops. I can imagine a parallel family devoting their energies to corporate carpeting: the sacred grays, the little flecks of color like rocks at the bottom of an aquarium; immense sacerdotal significance.

Which is not to forget the grassy patch between the parking lot and the door to the office. First time around, I just did a quick kick-through: If the ring had fallen there, it would probably be on top of the blades, right? It's not like I could have ground it under the surface. But after the third or fourth hapless pass upstairs, I realized the grass was the best bet. Come on: How hard could it be to spot a ring on a carpet, no matter how much light it sucked in?

So, back to the grasslands, with a magnet this time. (Sister WTJ gave your correspondent an executive toy a while ago, one of those thingums where you create sculptures out of little metal Cheerios.) Bupkiss. But I knew I would be going back through that grass every day for the rest of my working life.

Around 8:30, I gave Mrs. WTJ a call to let her know we'd be heading to Fortunoff over the weekend. She didn't even say hello. Just: "I have your ring."

Also a stomach bug. I headed home to help out with the Squeaker and try to referee some of the home-buying phone traffic: lawyers, inspectors, oil tanks...you don't want to know. After a few hours of Daddy trying to edit with a baby on his knee, everybody was close to a meltdown: Wrong Turn Jr. wanted a stroll, and Mrs. WTJ needed a rest. I strapped on the lad and headed outside.

We had gone about a mile when we got trapped in a little sunshower: a happy accident! I ducked into the Municipal Building, which just happens to have the finest public water fountain I've ever come across. The rain let up; we got back on the pave.

This is what you call "foreshadowing." On the way back home--too far to make a dash for it, and me without bus fare--we got one of those SPECTRE weather-ray storms: You just about sniff the electric in the air, and inside of five minutes the sewers are turning into tidepools. We ducked under the awning of a dress store; the owner tapped the window to invite us in. And we watched the weather together.

After twenty minutes, it wasn't letting up and I was trying to rationalize a run. Mrs. WTJ didn't have the car keys, she was probably asleep anyway, and El Kiddo was commencing to whinge.

Then the miracle happened. The store owner, who had been charmed by Wrong Turn Jr., offered to give us a ride home. I put up a fight but gave in, and we got home safe and dry, to the relief of a terrified Mama. Always call. Always call. Always call.

Off to bed now. Hopefully we won't do it all again tomorrow. The miracles and recovered rings are wonderful when they happen, but I don't think I can weather another downpour to get to the rainbow.

@ 10:03:00 PM,

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