Seventy-three-year-old George McNeilon selected his food in Value Mart more carefully than NASA chose its candidates for the space shuttle. Leaving the cashier, he estimated he had saved eighty cents. He was pleased.
At the exit, the chilly wind reminded him of his gloves. They were not in his pockets or grocery bag. He clearly remembered putting them in his coat pocket. A thorough search confirmed they were lost inside the store.
Old George had bought the black gloves on sale ten years ago for $35. They were genuine lamb skin, soft, warm, and durable—far better than the cheaper pairs he used to buy. His impulsive purchase had even boosted his social status, drawing envious stares on the bus. He cared for them meticulously, so they looked new. Losing them felt like losing a child.
Bad luck, he thought, to lose them on New Year's Eve.
George, calm outside but frantic inside, re-entered the store. He retraced his steps through the bread section, dairy aisle, and the salt and sugar aisle. His anxious search was in vain. Anything black would have been easily spotted against the white bags, but his gloves were gone.
He ran through other aisles and checked with the cashier. Nothing.
"Society has changed," he murmured. "Years ago, people returned lost items. Not anymore!"
He didn't give up. This time, he scanned other shoppers' hands and baskets, staring at anyone with black gloves. A glimmer of hope appeared when he saw a woman wearing similar dark gloves, but hers were too small. He considered asking a well-dressed man wearing black gloves but decided against it, reasoning a thief wouldn't wear them openly. He then tried to spot bulging pockets but soon gave up, admitting, "I am no detective."
Dejected, he inquired at the cashier and the manager's office. Both answers were disappointing. "Such expensive gloves, who would give them up?" He finally waddled out.
It was freezing, perhaps zero degrees Fahrenheit. Without gloves, he shrank his hands into his sleeves. On his short walk home, he shivered so violently a kind bus driver stopped to offer a ride. Too cold to speak, George could only gesture a trembling refusal.
At home, he was at a loss. He needed gloves. Buying cheap ones meant soon replacing them; a new leather pair would cost fifty dollars. He was upset that people no longer returned found items.
After the holiday, poor George decided to buy another pair. Before boarding the subway, he stepped into Value Mart one last time to check the lost and found. "What colour?" the woman asked. "Black," he said. She looked in a drawer and pulled out a pair of men's leather gloves. "Are they...?"
"Yes! Those are mine!" George exclaimed, his eyes glowing with joy.