Tales From The Breakroom

It was my second double shift of the week. Rent was due in three days and I hadn't quite made enough to cover it. Unfortunately, working doubles was a necessary evil and yet still barely equal to one full shift from before covid-times. I sat in the windowless breakroom picking calcified gum out of the crevices of my non-slip shoes, trying to forget I still had over an hour to kill between shifts.

Every restaurant breakroom is the same, a former janitor closet that smells like old grease, doubles as a dry storage and is one of the only places in the free world you will still find an abundance of wire hangers. Out of sheer boredom, my eyes wandered to the things I usually pay little or no attention to. Tucked underneath a row of freshly dry cleaned uniform shirts was the large, cardboard box we used for lost and found. I was curious about what mattered so little that customers could leave behind and never come back for.

The contents were no big surprise. There were a dozen old or cracked cell phones, a few jackets, a handful of scarves and some random other junk. I tried a few things on, checking the fit in the murky reflection of the one way glass window. I imagined who the original owner was based on the quality and smell of the garment. I matched up scarfs, glasses, car keys and phones of similar styles, then tried them on, pretending to be each person. Some were old, some were young, some were british - all were drunk and forgetful.

I reached into the box one more time and snagged what looked like a belt. I needed a belt and the slim width suggested it could be a contender. The thought of repurposing something from the abandoned items was the most exciting thing that had happened to me in months. I pulled a little harder and let the variety of intertwined accessories slowly untangle themselves. Once completely free, I saw it was not a belt after all, but a strap to a tiny backpack. The quality of the leather suggested that it wasn't any sort of knock off. It felt expensive with good stitching and shiny black metal zippers. There was a tiny gold lock at the top that stood guard over the contents, a gatekeeper preventing all access. I contemplated my next move carefully, as trying on someone's scarf is one thing, but breaking a lock just to satisfy my curiosity was probably one step further than I was willing to go. Probably, but these are strange times.

The night bartender walked in, signaling to me that it was time to clock on. I tossed the bag back in the box where it sank to the bottom with a thud. I resolved to check on it every few days and if no one came for it in a couple weeks, I would revisit my moral boundaries and possibly revise policy. Now, maybe I already knew I was going to come back for it, but for whatever reason I covered it up with a few of the abandoned jackets and larger articles of clothing before departing to the dining room.

I thought about that backpack throughout my entire shift. I found every excuse to go into the breakroom that night, checking on the box of lost and found like a nervous mother. I don’t think I have to tell you that I didn't wait the originally proposed two weeks. After my shift, in an ‘I dont give a fuck’ moment I grabbed the backpack, put it over my shoulders, threw my coat on and hastily said my goodbyes.

As I walked home, I tried to think my next move completely through, I wasn't necessarily sure I would have the stones to break the lock. Please understand, I had no intentions of keeping the bag or stealing any of the contents. In fact, I solemnly pledged to myself to get the bag and its contents to the rightful owner.

But not yet, not tonight. Tonight I just want to escape into this private treasure trove and see where it takes me.

Any ethical or moral arguments to the contrary would be drowned out by the two glasses of wine I planned on downing in the tub. Call it a pre-emptive strike to prevent any second thoughts.

After my usual after work routine of a little weed and laundry, I grabbed the one bottle of decent wine I had tucked away for a special occasion. In the present state of the world, I figured this find qualifies as such. I started the bath water, blew the dust off of a novelty glass that holds an entire bottle of wine and grabbed the backpack.

Knowing it wasn’t coming off, I still tried to pull apart the lock but it wasn’t moving. Before I would even consider cutting it off, I decided to search the rest of the pockets first. Three zips and one flap later I had nothing other than a few crumbs. Frustrated, I flipped over the backpack and saw that there was one small zipper near the top, almost hidden in the seam. If this were mine, that is exactly where I would hide something important. I don't know why I closed my eyes, maybe I wanted to be surprised but the moment my fingers felt the coldness of the tiny key, I knew I had found the golden ticket.

Entranced, I put the key in the lock and turned it sheepishly, as if it was a jack in the box, ready to burst. The hinge popped open with a snap and I watched as the lock fell to the floor in one fluid motion, officially surrendering its post. I stared at the lock on the bathroom tile as I felt the weight of a decision to be made.

I should just look inside quickly, find some identification and be done with it.

But there was another emotion present, a darker and louder one that needed something more than just to be a good samaritan. I desperately needed to feel something.

With a deep, cleansing breath I reached inside. I found sunglasses, lip balm, and a black book about the size of a journal. No receipts, no business cards, nothing identifying. My first instinct was to open the book, but I stopped myself and crawled into the bath instead. I needed to slow it down. If the book was full of grocery lists or kids school schedules then my adventure was over. Delaying possible disappointment, I left the backpack and its contents propped up and facing me as if we were about to have a conversation.

I was starting to feel selfish that I was relying so heavily on the contents being interesting enough to break up the monotony of my life. What was I hoping to find? I let my mind wander over what I thought the most realistic possibilities were. I wondered all the who, why and where questions you would imagine. Honestly, I think what I was really doing was trying to dream up a story that would justify my breaking into someone's personal belongings.

Why do I even pretend for a moment I am not going to read it.

I grabbed the book and opened it, slowly flipping through the pages with my thumb as if a magic spell was about to be released. I found the front half full of writing, page after page, top to bottom, no real breaks but the ink would change colors every so often. Some pages were neat, colorful and almost bouncy with doodles of smiles and sunshine. Other pages looked like they were written by a completely different person. The words were close together, almost like one long word, with no regard for margins or punctuation. The handwriting on those were messy, the pages curling from the extreme pressure the author had put on the paper. Some pages even had small tears, where a word or sentence had been scribbled out over and over until it finally ripped apart.

Holy shit, this is a diary.

I had found a diary.

Flipping through the first half again, I went straight to the messiest pages. The writing was tough to decipher and there were blurs from dried tears sprinkled across the ink like black splatters of water color paint. I squinted in the dim bathroom light and did my best to read the words:

“A month ago I was dining in a private club in Manhattan in a $5000 dress, today I am laying on a bare mattress, watching movers repossess my furniture. I cant do this anymore, Tweak has made me and ruined me all at the same time. I wish I didnt need it. I wish I didnt want it."

Jaw hanging, I prematurely exited the the tub covered in suds and dried off with one hand, still holding the book in the other.

So many questions... How could she afford a dress like that? Why was she in Manhattan and where is she now?

Not wanting to put it down, I tried to do a one handed towel wrap around my hair and failed, dropping the book to the bathroom tile. It fell face down and as bent over I noticed a narrow piece of paper had fallen out of the pages. I unfolded it and found it was not a piece of paper, it was a cashiers check for twenty thousand dollars made out to cash. I flipped it over and over again looking for a name, an account number, a signature - anything, but there was nothing. There was a date and a hard coded memo, “Void After 90 days”. Although I can see my kitchen wall calendar from where I sit, unfortunately I had stopped turning the pages in March. It was a symbolic gesture that was doing me absolutely no good at all right now. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the calendar. The check was due to expire the day after tomorrow.

That settles it, I have to read it all and right now.

Finding out if there is more information inside the pages is the only chance of getting this money into the rightful hands, before it's nothing but a worthless piece of paper.

I grabbed the half empty bottle of wine, the diary and retired to the couch. From the first word, I disappeared into the story and read it all in about two hours. The diary documented events for what I estimated was about 4 months of her life. But other than locations there was not a single identifying piece of information. All I knew for sure is that it belonged to a young woman. She wrote about memories from her happier days of modeling straight out of highschool and rougher days, gripped by an addiction. She referred to ‘clients’ and expensive gifts which she would sell for cash. On her best days she was setting goals, on her worst she was searching for a will to live. There was no mention of a home, family or friends. Just money, or the lack of it and what she did to earn it.

I laid in bed and weighed out every possible option. The only fact I was sure of was that in two days the check would expire. The only way I could think to preserve the money, was to deposit it.

I went to the bank the next morning.

I dropped the backpack into the lost and found box and planned to sit on the money until the work cleaning party. Anything left in the box would get thrown away so I figured if I didn’t find anything and she hadn’t come back by then, I would take it as a sign and keep the money.

I never told anyone about the money, and no one ever came looking.