That cold January night, I was growing sick of my life in San Francisco. There I was, walking home at one in the morning after a tiring practice at the theater. With opening night only a week away, I was still learning my lines. I was having trouble dealing with my part-time job at the bank and my acting at night at the same time. As I walked, I thought seriously about giving up both acting and San Francisco. City life had become too much for me.
As I walked down empty streets under tall buildings, I felt very small and cold. I began running, both to keep warm and to keep away from any possible robbers. Very few people were still out except a few sad-looking homeless people under blankets.
About a block from my apartment, I heard a sound behind me. I turned quickly, half expecting to see someone with a knife or a gun. The street was empty. All I saw was a shining streetlight. Still, the noise had made me nervous, so I started to run faster. Not until I reached my apartment building and unlocked the door did I realize what the noise had been. It had been my wallet falling to the sidewalk.
Suddenly I wasn't cold or tired anymore. I ran out of the door and back to where I'd heard the noise. Although I searched the sidewalk anxiously for fifteen minutes, my wallet was nowhere to be found.
Just as I was about to give up the search, I heard the garbage truck pulled up to the sidewalk next to me. When a voice called from the inside, "Alisa Camacho?" I thought I was dreaming. How could this man know my name? The door opened, and out jumped a small red-haired man with an amused look in his eyes: "Is this what you're looking for?" he asked, holding up a small square shape.
It was nearly 3 a.m. by the time I got into bed. I wouldn't get much sleep that night, but I had gotten my wallet back. I also had gotten back some enjoyment of city life. I realized that the city couldn't be a bad place as long as people were willing to help each other.
