I used to work at a restaurant on Lexington Ave and 53rd Street, and one night on my way home there was a wallet hanging out at the bottom of the subway station escalator. I picked it up before it slipped into the wrong hands, as I intended to return it. Two years prior I had my wallet stolen on Long Island, and I knew what a pain it was, so I wanted to help a fellow New Yorker out.
I rooted through the wallet to find some info on the owner. There was $60 in cash, a bunch of credit cards, and an ID of a man whose name I couldn’t pronounce. In the billfold there was an appointment card for a dentistry that was located near my apartment, so I called them the next day and asked if they could contact the owner.
The receptionist called me back an hour later asking if I could drop it off at their office for the man to pick up. So I walked the two blocks and gave it to the receptionist. Before I left she asked of I could leave my phone number, just in case there were any issues.
A few days went by and I forgot all about it. Then a week later my phone rang. It was the man who owned the wallet. He spoke in broken English, and he was crying saying “thank you, thank you!”, over and over again. He was happy to be reunited with his belongings and I was happy to be of service.