It’s Me... I’m the Creep
The slightest brush up against “Me Too”
Penned April 14, 2025 by Penny Sue Denim
I found a wallet.
It called out to me from among the $3.99 sock bundles in the crisscross wire bin. There was a handful of cash and several other things that made my head spin at the thought of someone having to recover them.
And there was a cheque: “To the estate of. . . .” Any other year I wouldn’t have perceived its significance. But here I was, a freshly squeezed widow, holding the missing wallet of a man who’d recently lost something even more valuable.
I’m a landlord and a parent. I have a particular set of skills: I’m adept at the intricate art of online investigation. In other words, I’m good at creeping people.
I took several steps to track down the owner, starting with dropping the obligatory “In Search Of” post in the local Facebook drama & gossip hub. I texted and then called a mobile number found in the wallet. I discovered that the misplaced man was retired from a career in finance and went by a different first name than stated on his official ID. I learned that he was himself a member of the local Facebook gossip hub, which allowed me to tag him in my previous post.
Ultimately, our city not being huge, I dropped by the address featured on his ID and left a note in the mailbox with my phone number on it. Really, leaving the wallet there would have more than exonerated me in my quest to get it back to its rightful owner.
But.
My anxious part said, “What if he recently moved? What if the paperboy steals the cash. . .”
My curious part said, “Let’s see where this goes. . .”
My nosey part said, “Things won’t turn out right in the world without my oversight. Surely, I’m needed. . .”
My thrifty part said, “Maybe there’s a reward. . .”
My compassionate part said, “I wonder who he recently lost . . .”
Much later in the day, I received a call from a very relieved man. As a parent, I’m private about my home’s location, so I agreed to deliver the wallet to his house.
I don’t like to give in to stereotypes, but sometimes I do. Whenever I ran errands to private residences, I used to send my husband a name and address, checking in with him once I’d left. Since his death, I started doing this with the women in my life. But today, I didn’t. This time, I just didn’t. It’s a respectable area of town, I surmised, and I threw caution to the wind.
Upon arriving, I found a set of keys in the door. I rang the doorbell, and an elderly man of medium build appeared with a face full of pure gratitude. We exchanged pleasantries, mostly involving the found wallet and his relief.
He embraced me and, though I’m not a hugger, somehow, I didn’t mind. Loosely, I embraced him back, this man who I knew was my father’s age. However, I wasn’t so comfortable with the kiss he planted on my cheek.
Once I stood in my own space again, for some reason I said, “You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of their wallet. I’m sorry to intrude, but have you recently lost someone?”
Our conversation turned to the experience of being peers in grief. He invited me further into his home, wanting to show me the shrines he’d raised to his wife whom he had lost a couple months ago, after some fifty years together.
He said, “I won’t hurt you!”
For the second time since arriving, I surveyed my surroundings. I sized him up, feeling confident in my height and youthfulness when compared to his elderly frame.
He showed me around his immaculate main floor and the many surfaces where he’d placed candles, mementos, and photos of his late wife. He sang her praises and shed a few tears.
He spoke about their distant travels and the accrual of a considerable amount of material possessions. He thrilled me when he shared that he’d named one of my favourite charities in his will. He mentioned having no children.
He thanked me again for the returned wallet, for the compassionate thoughts, for being such a dear. Embracing me again, he planted another kiss on my cheek.
We agreed to meet again in a week or two for coffee.
I thought that’s what I wanted. To be there for this lonely man, a replica of my children’s grandfather, in his grief.
My active imagination wouldn’t overlook the notion that certainly he could be done the favour of being supplied an heir.
I’ve wondered if he’s okay. I’ve reflected on the lost wallet, the hours that passed before he seemed even to miss it (despite my proactivity in orchestrating its return), and the keys left in the front door’s lock mechanism. Were these indicators of dementia? With no children, and no wife, who’s looking after this man?
Then I recall the kisses.
Thing is, my children’s grandfather doesn’t even kiss me on the cheek.
I have no stomach for unwanted advances of any kind—ill-intentioned or otherwise.
I’ve never picked up the phone. And quite honestly, I’m relieved he hasn’t either.
~ ps denim
With accompaniment from My Unapologetic Playlist:
post script
It might seem like I’m using the statement “Me Too” flippantly. I promise I’m not. Believe me, I’ve wrestled with the questions around whose grief is acceptable and which loss is valid. I’ve learned that it’s not mine to decide. It’s also okay if you can’t offer the same space.
In somber solidarity, I gaze toward the little girl whose loss started it all.
Loved your balanced perspective of people and situations
A complicated situation exists here, but I think the right thing was done by both people. Both went a bit past their comfort zones, and both sensibly withdrew after a real sharing of sympathy and concern. Beautifully told.