COLUMN: Memory lapse leads to humorous event

Allow me to share a story of backpacks, bagels and memory lapse.

Last semester, when Einstein Bros. Bagels first moved into town, I felt as if I’d discovered the answer to life’s every problem. I’d reached bagel nirvana. Fueled by the turkey BAT on asiago, I’d even managed to get a bit ahead on homework. With a jaunty lift in my step, I left Einstein’s for my apartment to spend my evening of freedom in the most enlightened way possible: catching up on my pile of laundry.

As God as my witness this is what happened: I went to my room, plopped my backpack on the floor, gathered some dirty clothes and walked out of the apartment toward the laundry room. The thought even occurred to me to lock the door, but I was only going to be gone a minute so what’s the worst that could happen?

Talk about famous last words.

Laundry in the washer, I came back to get my iPad out of my backpack and discovered a problem. My backpack wasn’t there. After searching every inch of the apartment twice, I discovered it wasn’t anywhere. No backpack, no iPad, no 5-subject notebook with every scribble of notes from the entire semester.

A few minutes of hysterical crying later, it occurred to me to call the University Police Department to file a report. Since I was pretty new to being robbed, I half expected a lecture on the virtues of door locks. Instead I was calmly told an officer would come by after he finished with another call.

The officer and I stood in my room surveying the scene as he took notes. Granted, it didn’t make much sense to either of us. I mean, my room is furthest from the door. My computer and some cash were there in plain sight, untouched on my desk. Why the backpack? What kind of sick jerks had invaded my unguarded fortress?

After the necessary paper work was done, the officer assured me UPD would be on the lookout. He even took the serial number of my iPad so IT services could see when, if and where it connected to university Wi-Fi. He was the picture of sympathy and respect. He almost made me feel like less of a moron.

When the last of my roommates came back from studying with friends in the MUC, she heard the tragic tale. She called our friends, who went to the desk to ask if a backpack had been turned in. One had been  and it matched mine’s description.

After I picked up my backpack—with all of its contents inside—I asked the desk attendant if he knew where it had been found.

“We found it at Einstein’s,” he said.

There are several lessons to be drawn from this story, but the biggest is to always lock your doors. That way when you come home under a bagel-induced euphoria, you’ll deduce sooner that you forgot your backpack at dinner.