Kluge

My friend Gary Marcus recently wrote a delightful book Kluge: The Haphazard Construction of the Human Mind, about how the mind is not so much a machine of logical precision as it is a contraption of string and baling wire – a consequence of how the human brain evolved. Today I had an experience that illustrates his point splendidly.

Yesterday I went out to a formal event, and didn’t really want to carry a bulky wallet in my fancy suit (spoils the look). So I stuffed some twenties and a credit card in the pants pocket of the suit, and left my wallet at home.

Coincidentally, my housekeeper came yesterday for her fortnightly magical rescue of my humble nest from its otherwise sorry state of entropic disaster. Some of this magic involves relocating my various strewn possessions into logical places, presumably so that I can find them more easily. That’s the theory anyway. But as a wise individual once observed: Theory and practice are the same in theory, but different in practice. I confess I have been known to hide things before she comes, as a kind of trovarian insurance policy.

And so it came about that I woke up this morning and realized that I had no clue as to the location of my wallet within the apartment. Of course this happened, as it invariably does, exactly at the moment of my intended egress, which I had timed to the secoond so as not to be late for an important meeting at the University. Needless to say, I not only ended up being late for the meeting, but I also arrived without a wallet, a circumstance that was both awkward and educational. For example, I learned today that guards in lobbies who don’t recognize you will generally not accept your friendly greeting of “oh you must be new here” as a substitute for proper identification, no matter how pleasantly you smile at them while you are saying it.

I came home in the evening determined to find my wallet. I searched, at first with the calmness that comes with certain confidence of success, and then in an increasingly frantic state of mind. I looked everywhere: In closets, through dirty laundry, on top of bookshelves, inside bookshelves, behind bookshelves, even in the kitchen and bathroom (I have no logical excuse for the odder parts of my search – logic doesn’t really come into it).

Finally, having lost all patience with my pesky housekeeper, and determined to get to the bottom of the matter, I stood there indignantly in the middle of my bedroom, my cell phone in hand, and dialed her number. As the phone was ringing, I watched in astonishment as my other hand darted out, opened up my sock drawer, reached all the way to the very back left corner, and pulled out my wallet, from the exact spot where (I now remembered) I had secreted it the day before.

I quickly hit the “hang up” button on the phone – thankfully before anybody had picked up on the other end – put the wallet in my pocket, and headed back out the door, a relieved but chastened man.

So it would seem that Gary is right.