Aster Athens, Lost-and-Found Detective

On my days off, I work as a Lost-and-Found Detective. I deduce that you may be confused, most likely asking something similar to “A lost-and-found detective? What’s that?” and I would laugh and pat you on the back and laugh some more and then say, “Why, it is only the worst job any financially struggling world-class detective can hope to have.”  Then, you may ask, “How can a world-class detective be struggling financially?” and I would laugh and pat you on the back and cry and say “Detectives cannot deduct the stock market.”

As a Lost-and-Found Detective, I pledge to two salient duties : (1) reuniting morose victims of their own forgetfulness with their lost items via a particular institution’s lost-and-found, and (2) reuniting my sanity with my mind, also a victim of their forgetfulness. Many a time a sweater or textbook with no obvious owner has caused me to question my stature as World-Class Detective Aster Athens, and equally many a time have I endured and prevailed due to my own stubbornness. I am proud to truthfully claim that no item in any of the Lost-and-Founds I have surveyed has escaped from the clutches of my intellectual superiority.  They wrangled and struggled in my grip, but it was always too tight, too determined.  My grasp was World-Class, and my World-Clasp was apparently needed at Woodward Academy, for that was where my next lost-and-found was situated, and that was where my deduction abilities almost met my match.  Almost – because I am Aster Athens (World-Class Detective), after all, and I put the “Found” in Lost-and-Found. I guess I put the “and” in as well. 

Allow me to guide you through the twists and turns of my escapades.

1. A Lost Copy of 1984

Some apparently politically-motivated student had lost a rather untouched copy of 1984, which sat at the summit of the lost-and-found bin, aloft wrinkled jackets piled over creased umbrellas and water bottles so old that they bubbled full of gone-bad water, hydrogen-bonds crumbled, the laws of adhesion anything but adhered to.  The book itself had no distinguishable qualities, except for a startlingly impressive drawing of, I assume, Big Brother. Now, the drawing was quite detailed, and I may or may not have been able to discern some features that were remarkably similar to a certain English teacher who taught that very novel… I say may or may not, and that still remains true, but I may or may not have shown that teacher the copy, and that teacher may or may not have known exactly which student that copy may or may not have belonged to, perhaps enumerating their accolades of rebellion; I was impressed, really.  May or may not — much like 1984, reality is whichever you believe, and I wish to believe that student did not have to confront the brunt of their teacher’s wrath. However, the unbecoming expression coloring Mr. Big Brother’s face a remarkable shade of red may support the contrary…

2. A Lost Binder

When I came upon a binder sandwiched between a sweater and the copy of 1984, I was quite relieved, because surely some name would be inscribed on a paper tucked inside the folders — an open and shut case.  This binder was not an open-and-shut case.  Scribbled all through the sleeves was the most harrowing handwriting I’ve seen, and pardon my colloquialism, this side of the Mississippi, and I truly, truly doubt the Great Plains would have anything approaching this. It was detestable, and, had I not been a multilinguist, the handwriting would have feigned for some expertly-woven kanji calligraphy. 

After calming myself from the initial shock, I relayed through the corridors of my mind, an exhausting feat, and came up with one of my most genius deductions yet.  With great haste, I referenced the student directory to find whose parents were doctors.  I narrowed my mental list down to students whose parents were both doctors, and I pruned it even further by researching if their parents’ parents were doctors as well. Only some horrific coincidence of recessive genes could have resulted in those obscenities, and I returned the binder to its owner after thinning the list into one, surely Hopkins-bound student.

3. A Lost Computer

Hidden near the bottom of the bin, a computer rotted away, its hinges rusted and its sheen lost with age.  When I unfolded the laptop, my wish was to see some name emblemed on the sign-in screen, some “James Smith” pointing me to the right person.  In my many years as a Lost-and-Found Detective, however, I’ve learned that, if life gives you lemons, you got lucky, and, almost mocking me, on the sign-in screen was one “YOURMOMLOLLOLLLL;)))),” complete with a profile picture of a chihuahua staring morbidly out the screen.  Perhaps this laptop would be better lost, but I am contractually obligated.  

I must admit, YOURMOMLOLLOLLLL;)))) had me completely stumped.  No progress was made through an intercom announcement (I would be out of a job if any of those calls worked), and no teachers observed students with missing laptops, which was strange because some student was always remiss of their computer.  Perhaps the world was challenging my record, urging me to forfeit, attempting to revoke me of my world-class status — talk about a traitor.  Nevertheless, the world was indeed succeeding, and, in an anxious stupor, I received a call.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Hi, honey, have you seen my computer?”

4. A Lost Wallet

Aster Athens is no thief, but when I found a wallet carrying no ID or driver’s license or any helpful hint hiding behind some fold of leather, my morals wavered.  Only slightly, however, like a ripple in a brooklet, and I was soon fingering through the sleeves not as a crook, but as a (World-Class) detective rifling for a lead.  Suddenly, my fingers skimmed against a slip of paper.  Scratched out on it was a phone number coupled with the words Call me and a little sketched heart.  I groaned and re-flipped through the wallet, and I flipped through it again for good measure, but I couldn’t muster any other clue.  “Matter can neither be created nor destroyed,” they say, but having some ID magically manifest really mattered to me then.

With little other choice, I called the number. 

“Hello?” the girl on the other end answered.

“Yes, hello, who is this?” I replied.

“Oh! Oh, Mr. Prichard, I didn’t know that–”

“Oh! Mr. Prichard, yes.  Yes, I am Mr. Prichard.  You were expecting a call from…?”

“Adam.”

“Of course, Adam!  Yes, Adam, my son!  Adam Prichard, right?”

“…Right.”

“Right! Thank you.”  

I hung up.  Adam Prichard caused himself–and me– a lot of trouble.  Luckily, that trouble was the coda, the end bar inked into the hours spent scrounging for suspects, their obliviousness my oblivion.  Weary, but not defeated, I hand Mr. Prichard his wallet, and I retreat to my estate.

Reflecting on my time as a lost-and-found detective, I’ve decided to shore up the leftovers of my energy and construct a poem:

Oh, lost-and-found,
How you confound
Me, Aster Athens, World-Class Detective

— Aster Athens, World-Class Detective