Karma [police]

The other night, after waiting 15 minutes for a bus, I reluctantly settled into the plush vinyl seating of a cab, on a journey southward to the LES to finish a viewing of, naturally, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Oh Willem Dafoe, how you frighten me). Frustrated by the lack of foot room (these Crown Victorias are monstrous, how can I, the only backseat passenger be squished?), I glanced down to inspect. To my surprise, I discovered a mysterious laptop bag, containing among other oddities, the laptop itself, maps, a speeding ticket, pages of haphazardly scrawled notes, and a crisp hundred dollar bill which I, pre-holiday-repentence, did not pocket. (Would have been a rather fallacious way to enter the Day of Atonement, huh?)

With extra luggage in tow, I arrived at my friend's apartment, so near the East River, he may as well have been wearing a lifejacket and polishing oars. "Ok. Before Christ graces us with his presence, I have a fun activitiy," I blurted out before even saying hello. Finally. All my Law and Order watching would pay off. I could call CSU for fingerprint dusting or hair analysis, or page the medical examiner for urgent DNA results. I could investigate credit card receipts and hack into Apple's computer registration system. Hmm, maybe I'd gone too far. Time to reel in the ship I sail called "USS Delusions."

We got right down to business, bubbling with glee at the task ahead of us. Papers were strewn about, maps unfurled, notepads inspected, as we tried to trace John Doe's whereabouts. He had rented a car in California and driven along the coast. He had horrible handwriting, favored red pens, and had just attended what seemed to be a big board meeting in Manhattan. A turkey sandwich had been purchased. Many business cards acquired. Some cds lay unopened. An ipod shuffle sat idly. I inspected the computer's contents, while my friend was lured off course by the ipod. "Don't do it," I warned, "He might know we plugged it in! We'll be ruined." Like delivering a speech at a school assembly, naked as if in your standard nightmare, our inspection seemed like a violation; exposure; a breach of unspoken trust. But we couldn't stop here; we were the primary investigators assigned to the case. DNA evidence was catalogued. Enterprise rent-a-car contract was decoded. Emails were infiltrated. The DVD player hummed barely-audible sweet nothings in the background; Christ would have to wait.

At 22:47h, the Case of the Missing Bag was officially cracked, and somehow, my empty Brooklyn lager was replaced with a fresh one. The victim? Head of an independent West coast record label (who definitely needed a handwriting lesson). He had been here for a meeting, and after having one too many dry martinis in the West Village and a sour phonecall that ended with the shouting of an expletive, he must have foolishly and absentmindedly abandoned years of hard work. (Ok, the last sentence was James Frey-ized...but doesn't it sound plausible?)

Later that night, as I sat in awe watching [SPOILER ALERT] Jesus die a bloody death for all of humanity's sins, I couldn't help but feel like a hero myself. The next day, emails were exchanged, I gushed about music, a meeting was planned on 6th Avenue, and many coincidences were discovered - we actually had a friend in common, and would both be in the same block of Manhattan on the same day. I could feel my good deed points piling up. Yesterday, I received a big white package, filled with heaps of cds, and records galore, including an LP never before released to the public.

So here's the recipe for success, happiness, rewards, luck: do your part, pay it forward, believe in good, put yourself in others' shoes, follow the humble Jewish carpenter and become a martyr for humanity's sins . . . for the karma police are out in full force. Especially in the West Village.