JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

We were wandering aimlessly around Power Plant on a Sunday afternoon when
we spotted a Blackberry lying on the floor outside an underwear store. I don’t know how long it had been lying there, but people were ignoring it pointedly. They were giving it a wide berth, as if they didn’t want to seem interested in other people’s property, or they suspected a prank instigated by a TV show.

I don’t know about you guys, but I love a mystery. Riccardo had read the complete Hardy Boys and I’d read all of Nancy Drew, so we decided to play Hardy Girl and Nancy Boy.

“Looks like it was clipped onto someone’s belt and it fell off,” I said, examining the faux leather case. “Which would make the owner male, heterosexual.”

“It could’ve fallen out of someone’s handbag,” Riccardo pointed out. “Making the owner male, homosexual.”

“I do not approve of wearing gadgetry on one’s belt,” I declared. “Unless one is the Batman, preferably Christian Bale.”

“But I approve of handbags,” said Riccardo, who will someday marry a white handbag.

A thought flashed in our heads simultaneously. “What if the owner is cute?!” we chorused.

“Like…like Alain Delon circa 1967,” I said, palpitating but not forgetting to pronounce the name Alaaahn. I had just seen Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Samourai, so at that moment he was my standard of beauty.

We wandered into a shop to look at handbags. “He should’ve called by now,” I said.

“Maybe he hasn’t realized his Blackberry is gone,” Riccardo said.

“Maybe he’s alone and can’t borrow a cellphone to call his Blackberry.”

“I notice that people with Blackberries also carry a cellphone.”

“Maybe he has to go home and call us from there. In any case, I don’t think I want someone who clips stuff on his belt,” I said. “It’s so Dilbert.”

“Wait,” Riccardo said. “What if it’s a girl?”

“No!” we chorused.

We decided to walk to Cantinetta across the street and have an early dinner. “If the phone rings, how do we know it’s the owner?” I wondered. “What if it’s someone else and he thinks we stole the Blackberry?”

“Then he can tell us whose Blackberry this is,” Riccardo pointed out.

“What if he told everyone he was out of town for some illicit activity and we inadvertently reveal that he’s in town after all?” I do write for a living.

“If he doesn’t call soon, we could look at his directory and ask his friends who he is,” Riccardo suggested.

“Then we can ask them to describe him,” I added helpfully.

The owner was taking too long for someone who had just lost all his notes, directories, possibly his entire life. At least as I assume that’s what the Blackberry contained. After we had ordered dinner, the Blackberry rang. Riccardo pushed it towards me.

“Answer it,” he said.

I pushed it back. “No, you answer it, cause you’re a guy. If it’s his girlfriend calling and a girl answers, he’d be in trouble.” See how considerate I am.

“Assuming it’s not his boyfriend calling,” Riccardo said. We looked at the caller ID. “That must be his name.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “It could be the friend whose phone he’s using right now.”

“Hello,” Riccardo said. “Yes, we have it. We found it outside a store.”

“Women’s Secret,” I piped up. “Hey, what if he’s a transvestite, and he was in the store buying lingerie?”

“We’re in Cantinetta,” Riccardo told the caller. Then he gave directions to the restaurant. “He doesn’t know where Cantinetta is, so he’s not from this neighborhood.”

“How will he know whom to look for?” I asked. “Did he ask for a description?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“That’s odd. I don’t like it when people don’t get in the spirit of things. Maybe we should’ve demanded a ransom.”

Through the glass we spotted a middle-aged man in shorts walking towards
us. “Don’t be him!” we cried. “Not you!” Fortunately he walked right past us.

Another man, also in shorts, crossed the street and approached the restaurant. “That can’t be him!” I said. “It would ruin my movie!” At this point anyone who was not Alain Delon circa 1967 would be a massive disappointment.

Chus arrived from work. Aesthetics is a demanding trade; he sometimes works on Sundays. “We found a Blackberry!” we told him.

“Maybe the owner’s cute!” Chus said.

Five minutes later a guy walked into the restaurant. Early 20s. T-shirt and shorts. Generic-looking. He headed straight for the Blackberry on our table.

“Is this yours?” Riccardo asked him.

“Yes.”

“When did you realize it was missing?” I asked him.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“Where was it?”

“It was clipped to my belt,” he said.

“Never wear stuff on your belt,” I admonished him, for his own good.

The owner of the Blackberry just stood there. “Well,” he said, “Thanks.” Then he practically fled.

“He didn’t even give us his name,” Riccardo noted.

“He didn’t even ask for our names,” Chus added.

“He didn’t even insincerely offer to buy us a round of drinks,” I said. “I would’ve bought us a drink. Not only are we helpful, but we’re also extremely clever.”

Young people today are so uncouth.

“I thought he was cute,” said Chus.

I snorted. “That was not Alain Delon.”

“That was not a Goyard handbag,” said Riccardo.

In any case we got a story out of it. In the Hollywood version it will star Christina Ricci (the forehead), Peter Sarsgaard (the hairline), and James MacAvoy (because Claudia Cardinale wouldn’t do it).