Perhaps you can imagine my surprise.  There I am sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to be called back for my annual exam.  There’s a newspaper on the coffee table and I’m flipping through it.  I haven’t held a newspaper in my hands in years.  They’re such dinosaurs now.  And I can see why.  There is nothing but wire stories that are thinly veiled advertisements for something I don’t want or need. 

I flip the page and there’s a whole page of tiny print.  Legal ad of some sort.  I flip the page but quickly turn it back.  Was that my name? My old name? 

Sure enough.  Maureen D. Jackson and my address from ten years ago.   

I scan the beginning to try and figure out what I’m looking at.  Secretary of State – Unclaimed Property.   

Unclaimed property? 

What? 

And WHAT? 

I file a tax return every year.  They didn’t need to resort to paid advertising to locate me. Doesn’t one part of the government talk to the other? 

I can’t imagine what I might have left in the state’s hands ten years ago when I was still married to Doofus. There’s a number to call.  I program it into my phone. 

As soon as I’m done with the doc, I sit in my car and call. 

I’m transferred a few times, put on hold, and finally speak to a woman who sounds frazzled.  Yes, I imagine her phone is ringing off the hook.  There are a lot of names listed.  

I give her my name and tell her why I am calling.  She puts me on hold.   

Eventually, she comes back and says, “Yes. You are on my list. You need to file a claim.” 

“How do I do that?” 

She explains that I must go online and fill out a form. 

By the time I get to my office, I’m mystified. 

I have wracked my brain and can’t imagine what it is they have.  Doofus and I were poor – he had a gambling problem.  There was never any money.  Any savings or retirement we had was raided several times over to feed his habit.  We didn’t own any land or shares of a business.   

Stymied.  What could the state know about I didn’t? 

During lunch, I filled out the form.  I had to key in all my addresses for the past ten years as well as my social security number and birthdate.  Not once did they ask about Doofus.  So, it wasn’t joint property.   

I wracked my brain some more.  Nothing came to mind. 

And then the fantasies started.  I daydreamed of large sums of money.  A windfall that would change my life.  A distant relative had left me money.  An unclaimed lottery ticket.  I tried on scenario after scenario.  Nothing even a little bit plausible. 

But hope had blossomed.  

I could sure use some cash. 

The confirmation email I received informed me I’d hear something in 10 to 12 weeks. 

An eternity.  

My dreams got bigger as the days passed. At one point, I convinced myself it was a boat.  Why a boat?  I have no idea.  I was stretching into the ridiculous. 

I started a list of what I’d do with the money beginning with the greatest need and descending into wants.  I kept rationalizing until “Vacation in the Maldives” became a need and occupied the first position on the list. 

I even started shopping for a bathing suit. 

I drafted my resignation letter. 

I knew I was being ridiculous but hopes and dreams had been absent from my life so long that I couldn’t help myself.  I had left Doofus, but my finances hadn’t much improved.  One income in these times is just not enough.  There was never enough.  Every cent that came in was earmarked for something. 

I routinely tapped into my 401K for emergencies. Like the time I hit the pothole from hell and had to replace all 4 tires the week after Christmas. 

At 9 weeks, I begin checking my email at all hours of the day.  I wake up at 2 am to pee and check my email.  I check my email at red lights. 

At 13 weeks, I call the state to ask them how much longer. The still frazzled woman tells me they initiated the paperwork for the state to send a check. 

“For how much?”  I ask. 

She doesn’t know. 

“How long before I get the check?” 

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d give it six weeks.” 

SIX WEEKS 

I can’t live another six weeks like this. 

But now my fantasies really start spinning out of control. 

A new house. Early retirement.  The Maldives.  Those cute shoes at Amazon that have been in my cart for 6 months. 

I can’t sleep.  I am not eating well either.  The hinge on the door to my mailbox is getting a workout. 

Then one day it’s in there. All by itself.   

The familiar envelope like state tax refunds arrive in or used to before direct deposit. 

I find myself not wanting to touch it. 

 I just look at it sitting in my oversized black mailbox.  I consider taking a photo of it. Posting the pic to Facebook with the caption —- The Day My Life Changed. 

I don’t want to open it. Hoping and dreaming have been a nice change. 

I don’t want to lose that. Reality has never been kind to me. 

I take the check out of the box and carry it into the house.   I sit at the kitchen table passing it back and forth from one hand to the other. 

Five minutes. 

Ten. 

I set it down and poured a cup of coffee.  

I look at it. 

I do take a photo of the envelope on my scarred wooden table. 

I don’t post it. 

Finally, using a pair of scissors, I carefully open the envelope and pull out the check. 

$16.55. 

There is no explanatory paperwork. The memo field just says surplus property. 

I laugh and drain my mug. Put the check in my purse. 

Turn on Wheel of Fortune. 

By the time Vanna is strutting around the stage, I am wiping slow tears.