Nobrainer’s Think Tank

This is exactly why I hate being nice. This is why it’s a lot easier to not care. This is the as yet unresolved tale of trying to do a good deed…

Last night I had to TA a help session. Through the 2 1/2 session, maybe 30 or 40 students came and went. As the last student left, she noticed someone had left their keys. Reckoning that I’m a trustworthy guy, I took possession of them because whoever else finds them next may not be as nice as I am. It so happens, there’s a little, velcro wallet attached, with student ID. A quick look on the student phone book gives me the student’s email and phone number. Messages are quickly sent to both. I kill some extra time in the classroom where the help session was, then spend a couple hours in my office downstairs. I reckon, that when you lose your house keys, car keys, student ID, and whatnot, you would check your messages in case someone found them and thought you might like them back. But what do I know?

I hear nothing last night. Hey, it was Thursday night before Halloween. I should have been out partying myself, so it’s entirely possible to be distracted. Through noon today I have still heard nothing.

Being sick of holding onto something that the owner doesn’t seem to want back, I return to the wonderful internet. Does UVA have a central lost and found? Not one that I can find. Assuming that there is a dorm key attached, I reckon I’ll drop them off at the housing office. I’m unable to determine the existance of a central housing office. There are, however, a bunch of PO Boxes I can send things too. Whatever. Surely the university police would be an appropriate entity to take control of the keys. (who thinks they can guess where I’m going with this?)

Upon entering the police station/visitor center, I ring a bell for service. A man appears behind the presumably bullet proof glass. I slide the keys in the little slot underneath, explain that I found them and that I frankly don’t want them. The man behind the glass, an moderately aged fellow, is perplexed. “Do I know who they belong to,” he asks? Well there is an ID attached. At which point, he stares at the outer part of the orange wallet. His attention slowly shifts to the keychain, the part which appears to be a newspaper advertisement. After digesting the approximately 3 dozen words on the keychain, he turns his focus to the hand sanitizer, which has it’s own little rubber case that attaches it to the monstrosity that is this keychain.

Now, it’s occurring to me that the guy is a little slow… or at least I hope he’s slow. I don’t want to be an ass. It’s perfectly clear to me that the wallet holds the ID. Stating such obvious things generally isn’t appreciated. But I casually guide the poor guy’s attention back to the wallet, insisting the ID is inside. There’s an outer pocket — a clear, empty outer pocket — that he digs into. This futile action leads to perplexity. I suggest he try opening the wallet. After additional fumbling, he finds the velcro edge and tentatively gets it open.

Faced now with 2 more pockets, the one that is not sealed shut, from which the ID is nearly about to fall out, he prods the one that is zippered shut and full of change. “There’s something in here,” he exclaims. Really feeling sorry for him, I finally get his attention focused on the other pocket and the enclosed ID, a student ID. After taking it in for a bit, and with uncertainty in his voice, he establishes that the little plastic card that says both “University of Virginia” and “Student ID” may in fact be a student ID.

“Well we can’t take this,” he quips as he pushes the keychain/wallet combo back to me underneath the the bulletproof glass.

“Well I don’t ‘em. What am I supposed to do? Keep ‘em for myself?”

“You have to meet with an officer,” which they they apparently don’t keep around the police station, “and he’ll have to file a report… It’s a stupid system,” he adds. “Call this number.”

Why do I have to call someone to get the police to come to me when I’m at the police station? I’m glad they’re not in the office stuffing their mouths with donuts when they could be out patrolling while stuffing their mouths with donuts. Isn’t the point of the station to have someone there to communicate with?

So I call the number.

“Communications,” a surprisingly vague comment, answers my call. I explain the scenario. “Why would they tell you to call us?”. . .

Karma better reward me big time when I finally get this shiat straightened out.

UPDATE: The keys have been returned to the proper owner without police intervention. I also refer you to my previous impressions of the local police force.