The Baggage Handler

by David Rawlings

  David stood back and scanned up and down the street. This door was his lone option without walking a half mile to the next corner to see what was around the back of this strange, deserted building. What type of operation were they running here?

  He rapped hard on the roller shutter, burning his knuckles on white-hot steel. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  The roller shutter buckled as David slammed his fist onto it. “Hello?” His voice strained with anger on a very short leash. He turned away, punched the airline’s number into his phone, and steeled himself as the call rang, ready to give both barrels to another customer service operator pretending to give him personal service while reading from a script.

  Then behind him he heard a rattle as the roller shutter jiggled and then clunked as his call continued to ring. He turned, and the shutter clunked again, and with the chinking of swinging chains and the groan of an aging motor, it started a slow rise. David cut the call.

  Brilliant white light came from below the shutter, and David shifted on his feet, his prepared outburst locked and loaded. The shutter rose further, and he stretched his neck, limbering up to deliver the serve someone deserved. He plastered a practiced scowl on his face, the scowl of the righteous wronged.

  But the scowl slipped when David saw a familiar face.

  10

  The taxi driver jerked his cab to a stop and threw a meaty, hairy arm across the passenger seat. He spat out the fare. “Twenty-two dollars, kid.”

  Twenty-two dollars? For a ten-minute ride?

  Michael gulped. “Um, are you sure? Coach said it would be twelve dollars.”

  The driver glanced around the inside of his cab before fixing an oily, dead-eye glare at Michael. “Whoever Coach is, he ain’t here, and I’m the one driving. Twenty-two dollars.”

  Michael stretched his wallet wide, hoping to find spare cash hidden in its leather folds for the first time ever. He sighed as he handed over too many bills. “How will I get back to the university?”

  “Not my problem, kid. Maybe this coach you keep talking about can send you the money.” The driver jerked his head toward the door.

  Fragments of defense rushed around Michael’s head—Give me a break; I’m new in this town—but they refused to come out.

  As the taxi drove away, Michael slipped his near-empty wallet back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. Maybe the people at this baggage place could help him get back to the university. He jumped as R2-D2 chirped in his hand. He looked at his phone with eager anticipation—maybe Coach had found a way for him to get back.

  His heart sank. Dad.

  Don’t forget to mention the videos I’ve uploaded, Mikey.

  Michael shook his head as he swiped away the message. He shielded his eyes as he stood in front of the building, a massive white, almost translucent, warehouse that, in the summer sun, shone like a beacon in an industrial part of the city. It was a construction zone of fences keeping people out of nothing, with empty fields strewn with rubble and discarded, twisted steel. The only sounds were the squawks of seabirds and trash flapping against the chain link. Michael looked to the left, and then the right. This building stretched a full block, but it had no windows or doors. A large blue-and-white sign broke the shining luminosity of this white box with a chunky arrow and a cheesy exclamation point, announcing that Baggage Services was just around the corner.

  Wheeling someone else’s suitcase behind him, Michael’s mind was a blur as his future—immediate and distant—melted before his eyes in the heat. Hardware beckoned once again.

  Michael rounded the corner. Again, the building stretched for a full block, and again, he saw no doors or windows. He kept walking, head down, spinning through solutions to his most immediate problem. He came up empty. How am I going to get back to the university? Michael stopped and looked over his shoulder. He’d come halfway down the street, and still there were no doors or windows on this side of the building. Had he missed something? Was the arrow pointing the other way? He sighed. He’d come too far to go back to the front of the building and try the other side.

  Michael turned to keep walking, and a door now appeared, not ten feet from him. He did a double take. Where did that door come from? Man, I must have been deep in my thoughts to miss that. On the door was a small blue-and-white sign: Baggage Services!

  Michael pushed open the door and wiped his feet on a fluffy white doormat. He walked into a reception area that was a blast of pristine white. The same blue-and-white sign stood proud on an almost-glowing white reception counter. A man in a navy-blue cap sat behind a desk, head down, buried in paperwork.

  Michael stood, waiting for recognition.

  There was none.

  He rocked back on his heels, thinking movement might force this man to look up, to acknowledge him. But he saw only a slight bobbing of the Baggage Services cap.

  Michael broke the silence with an ever-so-slight clearing of his throat, the lowest noise he could make to interrupt but not offend. The cap’s peak shot up, and the young man in navy-blue overalls from the airport broke into a broad grin. He stood and tipped his cap as his curly, black hair sprung free across his forehead. “Welcome to Baggage Services. I’m the Baggage Handler. Would you like help with your baggage?”

  Michael allowed himself a smile. At least this was a familiar face. Maybe he could help.

  11

  As Michael followed the Baggage Handler down a sheer white corridor studded with white doors, the artist in him shuddered. He was all for white space, but this place was ridiculous. White door after white door, each with just a simple black handle. No signs, no indication of what lay inside, and the long corridor seemed to disappear into a black dot on a shimmering white horizon.

  The Baggage Handler jolted to a stop in front of one door, jangled a heavy wad of gold keys from his pocket, and isolated one. He ushered Michael into a waiting room that assaulted his designer’s senses after the simplicity of so much white. It was as if a paint shop had exploded, with every color on the spectrum screaming at him for attention in a rainbow cacophony.

  A beaten-up, fraying sofa in red-and-brown checks almost apologized as it offered a seat to Michael. On it sat mismatched cushions that threw another three clashes of color into the mix: blue, black, and orange. An old-school TV, all chunky and thick and black, sat atop a stained and dented pine cabinet.

  Next to a full-length mirror in a bright-yellow plastic frame stood a sturdy, proud, mustard-yellow fridge whirring and chugging, a throwback to another time and another nod to a different corner of the color palette. On the wall next to it was a clock with an extraordinarily large face and neon-blue hands like Edward Scissorhands’s, carving up the day.

  Michael shuddered.

  The Baggage Handler checked his clipboard. “There appears to have been some identical baggage on your flight. I apologize for any inconvenience. I’m the only one here at the moment, so please make yourself at home. And help yourself.” He gestured toward the fridge and headed for the door, whistling a tune that, to Michael, was familiar and yet somehow elusive.

  He looked around at the mess of color and the eclectic mix of furnishings, each drawn from its own time and place and thrown together with all the others in hope. “I know I flew with a low-cost airline, but wow!”

  The Baggage Handler stopped in his tracks. “I like color. Surely the more of it you have, the better?”

  Michael bit his lip. “I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just that I love art and . . .”

  The Baggage Handler folded his arms and tapped the clipboard against his chest. “You’re an artist? Good for you!”

  The hint of a smile crept across Michael’s face.

  “Do you think you’re any good?”

  Michael’s smile faltered. “My art teacher thinks so.”

  The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on him with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “That wasn’t my question. I asked if you think you’re any good.”

  The
answer to this question lurked just below the surface, but Michael was so used to holding it down. “I . . . I . . . I guess so.”

  “So why would a young guy like you come to our city? Are you here to see our art gallery?”

  “I was hoping to get there somehow later today. I’m visiting Clarendon University to see about a scholarship.”

  The Baggage Handler’s face lit up. “That’s amazing! You must be some kind of artist.”

  The truth won out. “No. It’s a track scholarship.”

  The Baggage Handler’s brow furrowed as the light in his face dimmed. “But you’re an artist.”

  The artist within Michael scrambled to break out and bask in the recognition it craved. “Yeah, I know, but my father has set up this trip to talk about a track scholarship—” He shook it off. “Anyway, I won’t have a scholarship of any kind unless I can sort this out and get back to the university. How long will this take?”

  “Not long.” The Baggage Handler hugged the clipboard to his chest. “It depends on you.”

  Michael cocked his head. What did that mean?

  “Here, sign this.” The Baggage Handler thrust the clipboard under Michael’s nose. He took the pen and, with great care, signed the form.

  “Thanks. Back in a minute.” The Baggage Handler took the suitcase from Michael and closed the door behind him.

  Michael was alone in the strange kaleidoscope of a room. He fell back on the sofa, and it groaned as if it would collapse. He tried for a full minute to get comfortable, but it was impossible. The cushions would have disappointed Goldilocks and all three of her bears: one was too hard, one was too soft, but none of them was just right.

  Michael’s growling stomach led him to the fridge, which gave a mechanical sigh as it revealed a tray of fresh sandwiches on a shelf. Michael shoved one into his mouth. His stomach was grateful for the reprieve. His taste buds were delighted.

  His mouth now stuffed, Michael looked at the inspirational posters on the wall. The first one—a representation of Martin Luther King Jr. as seen through Andy Warhol’s eyes—offended his inner designer critic. He read the caption aloud: “‘We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.’” Michael nodded. Great quote; pity about the clichéd artwork.

  He moved across to the second poster, a rock climber hanging one-handed from a snow-covered cliff ledge. Only you know if you’re up to the challenge.

  The third poster brought a laugh. An unimpressed bulldog was caught midblink as he looked like he’d swallowed a wasp. You are you. Embrace it.

  If only.

  Michael went back to the fridge to grab another sandwich and left two out of courtesy. He looked at the chunky TV; he hadn’t seen one that solid since his grandfather’s sitting room, from a time when TVs were furniture. He sank into the sofa and watched the hands of the clock count off minutes he didn’t have. Minutes that would see him miss the scholarship. Minutes that would see him working in a hardware store inside a week. A cold fear washed over him as he sat forward, his head in his hands. He checked his phone. No messages from the coach, but then he saw why—no reception.

  The specter of his dad’s disappointment again hung over him. He dreaded the conversation he would need to have at home, a barrage of “I told you so’s” peppered with the usual spiel about disappointment in him.

  A conversation whose script he already knew.

  One in which he had no lines.

  12

  Gillian whistled as she stood in the doorway of the waiting room. “Wow, this is slick for a low-cost airline. I wish my family room looked like this.”

  Along one wall a sleek brown leather couch slung low next to a tall lamp with a dark-green-and-gold-leaf shade. A large mahogany coffee table commanded the room, and on it sat a huge glass bowl overflowing with fresh fruit. Next to it was a crystal decanter of red wine along with two long-stemmed balloon glasses.

  A large flat-screen television covered one wall. The voices coming from it were but a murmur, but it had to be a soap opera, with the earnest glances, overreactions, and perfect teeth.

  The Baggage Handler followed her, wheeling his baggage cart. On it was the suitcase Gillian had brought back. “Why do you wish your family room looked like this? It’s empty.”

  The leather sofa gave an extravagant sigh as Gillian sank into it. “Empty? This place is perfect. My place is a mess compared to this.”

  “Mmm.” The Baggage Handler nodded as he studied her.

  Two huge posters adorned one wall. A tiny, forlorn puppy eyed a bone outside the kennel he moped in. Huge letters gave him an idea of how to fix his problem: Stop wishing. Start doing. The poster next to it showed a stunning sunflower in a field of green at dawn, dewdrops dotting its face like morning tears. Gillian read the caption aloud: “‘All flowers are beautiful in their own way, and that’s like women too. Miranda Kerr.’”

  There was no denying the sunflower was beautiful, standing at attention and dressed in elegant bright yellow, its tearstained face dried by the morning sun.

  “That’s a lovely thought.” Gillian gestured at the poster.

  “I agree. We like to carry the right messages in our business.” He studied Gillian again. “Do you believe it?”

  Gillian didn’t know how to answer that question. Next to the sunflower stood a full-length mirror, also framed in rich mahogany. Why would an airline waiting room have a mirror like that? She caught a glimpse of herself on the sofa and whipped her head away, a knee-jerk reflex. She didn’t need to be reminded of her flaws. They were tattooed on her soul.

  The young man stepped forward. “I’ve got some paperwork for you, and then we can sort out your baggage.” He stopped short. “Are you okay?”

  Gillian folded her arms. “I guess so. Why?”

  “It’s just that you look upset.” Gillian shifted over on the sofa as the Baggage Handler sat down next to her. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but the look on your face just now was one of incredible sadness.”

  Gillian shook her head. “It’s no different to how I look every day.”

  The Baggage Handler cocked his head and fixed a gaze on her with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “It’s just that I meet lots of people, and I try to help where I can. Can I do anything for you?”

  Gillian warmed with his sad concern. This young man had peeked beneath the curtain she put up to keep out the world. “Apart from getting my suitcase, no, but I appreciate you asking.”

  “No problem. You let me know if you need any help.” The Baggage Handler checked his clipboard. “Oh, I see. There appears to have been some identical baggage on your flight. I apologize for any inconvenience. If you’ll sign this form, we can help.”

  Gillian reached for the clipboard. “Great. My sister is out front waiting, and I’ve been here for five minutes already.” She skimmed the form. “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  “‘I promise to deal with my baggage before I leave this facility.’ What an odd form.”

  “It’s just something we need to cover for people to deal with their baggage.”

  “Deal with?”

  The Baggage Handler offered a broad smile to go with his cheeky wink. “Yes, deal with.”

  “What an odd choice of words. Don’t you usually collect your baggage?”

  “Yes, people usually collect their baggage, but they’d be better off if they dealt with it. ‘Deal with’ is exactly what we mean.”

  There was a beat, a pause in the universe, as that statement settled onto Gillian. It lodged there like an imprint on a sofa. “Well, if you say so. They are just words.”

  The Baggage Handler shook his head, and his voice took on a passionate edge. “Words have far more power than that.” He smiled and pointed to the bottom of the form. “Just there, please.”

  Gillian signed her name. “Okay, it seems straightforward.”

  “Thanks very much.” The Baggage Handler took back the clipboard and pointed to
the suitcase. “Yours looks like this one, but it doesn’t have the red embossed leather baggage tags on it.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” The memory of Becky grabbing a black suitcase and charging past, leaving her behind on her own trip replayed in her mind. Her shoulders slumped. “My sister grabbed it from the carousel. I wish I’d grabbed my suitcase myself.”

  The Baggage Handler cocked his head. “Stop wishing. Start doing.”

  Gillian jolted upright. “Excuse me?”

  He gestured to the puppy poster on the wall. “Up there. It sounds like good advice.”

  Gillian looked sideways at this strange young man as she connected the dots. “You were at the airport, weren’t you? In the baggage claim area with a cart?”

  The Baggage Handler tipped his cap. “Of course. I was helping people with their baggage.”

  “You work here as well?”

  “I go wherever I’m needed.” His cell phone buzzed. “I’ll just get your baggage, and then I can help you. Anyway, be back in a minute. Help yourself.”

  He wheeled the cart out the door, leaving Gillian sitting alone in a perfect waiting room with the perfect fruit bowl on a rich mahogany coffee table and a perfect life playing out on the soap opera on the TV on the wall.

  She cast one eye at the puppy poster and sank back into the sofa. This time more than the sofa sighed.

  13

  Each second echoed around David’s head as it ticked away. This Baggage Handler guy had asked him to wait, but that moment was forever ago.

  Ninety minutes until the new presentation time. Where was this guy? David drummed his fingers on the sofa, the cracked leather catching his skin. He didn’t care if this guy was on his own. The airline had messed up his baggage, and they were well on the way to losing him his job as well.

  David placed his feet on the black coffee table that sat in the center of the room, stained with coffee mug rings and coated in a thick layer of dust. He stretched back on the jet-black sofa, shiny in parts but cracking along the seams, letting go of its stuffing as if it couldn’t contain it anymore.