It's True: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

I finished 100 sit-ups after a pathetic 15 minutes of lifting, crashing, re-lifting, falling, shouting at myself in my head, thinking of people I hate, "I'm enough, I'm not enough, I'm the best and no one can stop me, I'm a fucking idiot, who the fuck am I, what the fuck am I shouting at myself for, stupid ex girlfriend's mood listed on stupid myspace with stupid 'in a relationship,' fucking loved! her mood is 'loved' with the stupid heart-for-eyes emoticon and stupid army guy-looking boyfriend, deleted yesterday as I'm, not, feeling, particularly loved, 70, I, must, keep, ouch, fucking, ouch, doing these fucking sit-ups, on account, of their, fucking ouch, being, too, ouch, fucking, ouch, hard, ouch, for me to, do, 100." Ouch.

It hurts just remembering.

So, finishing up with my casual sit-up routine, I decide to round it off with a relaxing walk. Perhaps to a bookstore. I cut across the street, through the parking lot of the Conservatory of Music, and jaywalk my way onto Union Street. It's about 8:30, the sky is dark, but the street is well-lit. On my left, I pass a familiar dog who just loves barking at me, who is not kept on a leash, whose owner seems to think that's OK, and who immediately begins to bark (again) at me as I pass.

Now, I don't like dogs. I don't hate them. I do hate people who pamper them, and yet have no problem walking right by homeless people without doing a thing or who fail to give to charity preferring to give their sweet little beasts the finest beastfood on the market. And I do hate this dog. This dog who used to bark at me daily on my way to and from work. This dog who I've, numerous times, imagined punching hard in the eye. This dog that is barking at me for the 100,000th time.

The fence is low enough so that it wouldn't have to jump to bite me, but it doesn't. Thankfully. And I pass by it. I forget all about it soon.

A few blocks later, I look down and see a wallet sitting on the ground. So I pick it up, and take a quick look around to see if perhaps it belongs to someone nearby. Nope. And I can't find a number for its owner. So, it seems, I'm going to have to track down this Joann Chang. She'd otherwise have to make do without her two credit cards, her old student ID, her identity.

"Chang...this should be easy," I jokingly tell myself as I pocket the leather accessory and continue walking. Ten or fifteen blocks later, I reach the bookstore...and they're closed. So it's either on to the next bookstore, which I know is open for another hour or so, or back home to make some calls and try to return this wallet. I stop in Famima for some overpriced blueberries and green tea, and head home. I pass the bastard barking raving lunatic beast of a dog, and arrive at home to my cell phone.

She's got a health card, an old Berkeley student ID, a CA Driver's License, two credit cards, a library card, a Von's Club card, a bunch of pictures of her not-ugly family, a few cheesy quasi-spiritual quotations, and a Caltech Employee ID, which would be one sure-fire way to track her down. Oh, and a hundred some odd dollars.

I peak through a few more pockets, and a business card for an Andrew who shares her last name pops out. It occurs to me that Asians must have frequent awkwardness in discovering that someone they might date has the same last name. But I figure it's more likely her brother or father and I call the cell phone to find out I'm right.

Her brother, Andrew, answers the call, explains that it must be his sister’s wallet, and is soon awkwardly thanking me for doing this favor. So he gives me her number, I call her, we arrange to meet on the corner where she dropped it, and then she awkwardly thanks me as well. "Uh, oh, uh, um, and thank, uh, you...thank you, see you soon."

In ten minutes, I'm back at the corner. But in five minutes, I'm passing the same beastly mutt bastard shit-breathing dogbeast of hellish and endless barking. He's (she's?) even worse this time. He (it?) follows my every step from about a foot away, easily close enough to snap and bite me. But I ignore the ugly hair monster and trek my way back up to Wilson Street where Joann is waiting.

"Joann, right?" I yell from thirty-five feet. "I believe this... belongs to you."

Without a word, Joann meets me halfway and I hand her her identity back.

She smiles a big smile, is unable to convert it well to words. In a shy tone that conveys surprise that I've done this, she mutters, "Oh, gosh, I...thank so much for, doing the work, to track me down."

"Yeah, no worries. I know the feeling and it sucks. It's all there," I say pointing to the wallet. "I considered giving twenty bucks to this random crackhead who asked me for money, but in the end I decided it wasn't mine to give."

"Oh, hehehee, thanks."

Now I don't really want to carry this conversation on. My job is done, I’ve felt mensch-like and happy to do it, I’m not going to awkwardly request money and I probably won't accept any unless she really wants to push the issue. Y'know, push the issue as though she wouldn't feel comfortable unless I took something? To avert this, I quickly tell her to "Have a good one," and then spin around to head home.

Feeling good as I'm walking back, I think of the phrase "good deed" and consider that the old adage, "No good deed goes unrewarded," may possibly be true. But then I'm forced to remember the fact of that beastly dog I'm going to pass in a couple blocks. A deep breath and I sigh, "Hwuaauaaaah, no good deed goes unpunished." It was a cynical saying oft repeated throughout my childhood by my father. Chess players love quotations they can hurl at each other in timed blitz games in a crude but effective tactic of distraction that is adored by coffee shop and park-players.

Well, my attention is turned and now I'm back to fantastical brawls with my least favorite neighborhood animal. (I can't count the number of times I've wrecked that bucker...in my head.) But, for the first time out of the four instances I pass the thing today, it (he,she?) is completely silent.

And I begin to feel at ease.

Two seconds later, a cop car comes along. The driver slows down considerably when he sees me. I'm taken aback by how closely he's looking at me, and then on come the lights.

I stop. Fuck. No good fucking deed, I hate cops. He's out of the car surprisingly quickly considering the size of his belly.

"TURN AROUND, PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD."

My nerves weren't made for this. I hate cops. My head and face feel very tingly, my adrenalin is pumping, this type of thing makes me queasy. Facing him, I place my hands on my head.

"NO, turn around!"

Shit, wiring not made for this bullshit. I turn around.

"Interlace your hands."

I do it.

Pressing my hands to my head with one hand, he starts to frisk me with the other. "Where are you coming from?"

"Actually," I can hardly believe it myself, "I'm coming from returning a girl her wallet." Fuck, that sounds like a stupid lie made up by a guy who just did something illegal. He thinks I'm an asshole for sure.

"From returning a girl her wallet, huh?" he chuckles lightly, confirms my suspicion of his disbelief. "Where do you live?"

He's frisking away, grabbing all up at my crotch. Grabbing, molesting, copping.

"Harkness," I reply.

He finishes the frisk, pulls out my wallet, and takes a small step back. "Where on Harkness?"

I'm breathing heavily with fear. I've never had a pleasant experience with a police officer in my entire life. I've not done anything here or really anywhere else, but they fucked with me a bunch of times when I had longer hair. Cops treat long-haired guys the way they treat black guys. Perhaps worse because there are black guys on the force but no long-hairs.

"Seventy," I tell him with what little breath I have.

"OK," the fatty goes as he points at some steps nearby, "Have a seat over there, and I'll explain what's happening here."

I turn around and ask him what I did wrong.

"NO, SIT DOWN right there," he says with the obnoxious arrogance that goes with his profession.

I do what he asks, and I watch as he peers through my wallet. Strange that this uniformed monkey should be the first person other than me to hold this possession of mine in his hands, and that he should be holding it just moments after I returned a lost wallet to its rightful owner.

"OK...your address checks out. Tell me, have you ever been arrested before?"

"I, uh, yeah, uh, no." And I pause before blurting out in rapid fire, "Well...yes. I was a minor, I was taken into custody when I was like seventeen, but I wasn't ultimately charged with anything--Does that count?"

"When you were seventeen? How long ago was that? Take a deep breath."

Real nice guy, concerned about my breathing. "Uh...5 years. And nothing since then." It was actually 6.

"That's good," says Piggy McSchmidt. It was good that I'd stayed clean or whatever. I'd not done anything then, and I didn't do anything now.

"And what do you do for a living?"

"I sell computer parts."

"Where's that at, now?"

I can't see the relevance of these questions. I pork your ugly mother while she eats your leftover donuts. But I don't say this. "It's in San Dimas. It used to be right up here on Walnut."

He got a call on his radio: "Positive ID in custody, I got him!" cried the police officer in the distance.

"Are you sure?" sounding disappointed, "I found a match, too. Positive ID...for sure?"

"Yeah."

"Cuz I got a guy here, but if you're sure...?"

"10-4, I got him, " said the piggy in the intercom. This brown-skinned, black-haired, generic, fat cop, for the first time since stopping me, looks me up and down again as though I might just be innocent. "What happened here is, a few blocks up that way on Mar Vista, we got a report of someone lookin' into windows...Caucasian, khaki shorts, you fit the description. I hope you understand."

I sigh with relief, then, "My cock is bigger than yours, you shitbag." I don't say this out loud because, well, obvious reasons, but, for one thing, I like having my balls in tact.

He turns right around and is a foot from his car before he says, in an almost robotic tone, "All right. Thank you, for your...cooperation."

"Yeah," I mutter, and squint. "Cooperation!" He can hear my sarcasm, but is too much of an asshole to apologize beyond this one pathetic thank you, and makes a wide U-turn, and drives off.

Shit, I hate cops. Now I know they do an important job, and he didn't do anything he wasn't supposed to do. But it doesn't change my feeling utterly molested. If only I'd left the wallet on the ground, none of this would have happened. My five-minute walk home is spent in remembrance of my dad's words. No good deed goes unpunished. No good deed goes unpunished.

© 2007 FussyPucker.

five-o@fussypucker.com