The Bag

The Bag











         You are always confronted by dos and don’ts in airports today.  Most of us go past them without a second thought.  Sometimes what you don’t give a second thought to can be a turning point in your life.

         

I was sitting in the airport at my gate.  I had my laptop out, trying to play with a prompt I thought of.  It seemed simple to write about a fish.  Then I started asking myself questions, as all good writers do.  Questions I couldn’t decide the answers to.  Perfectionism can be the death of many a good story.

         

I was in Chicago O’Hare on my way to Philadelphia to a Writer’s Conference.  I was going to do a workshop on how to approach prompts.  Now those very techniques were giving me a tension headache.

         

I looked up from my laptop, trying to clear my blurring vision.  I sat looking away from the windows more towards the main aisle of the airport.  Seeing the sheer size of planes made me wonder how they ever got off the ground.  That always led to morbid thoughts of running out of runway or not being able to stay off the ground once we got up. 

         

There was a newspaper sitting on a chair not far from me.  It caught my attention, as I had not had the luxury of quietly reading one since I left my house in Newport a week ago.  I felt seriously out of touch.  I was about to retrieve it when I noticed the bag on the floor next to the chair.  It was a strange bag, a bright purple with big white daisies and pink tissue paper sticking out from between white handles.  Someone must be coming back.  It wouldn’t be right to take the newspaper.  I’d ask if I could glance at it when they returned.  My eyes went back to my laptop.

         

The words “The Fish” glared at me, taunting me.  What kind of fish?  Where did it come from? What is in that bag?  Where did it come from?  I pictured a purple fish with big white daisies and pink fins.  A writer’s curiosity can be a dangerous thing.

         

I glanced up again.  No one sat by the bag.  The newspaper remained on the chair.

         

Other people sat behind me, waiting for the same flight.  An elderly couple checked to see if they had all their medications in their carry-on.  A woman with a diaper bag and a stroller cooed at the baby it held.  A young boy in a wheelchair played a video game.  Two scout leaders tried to settle down about twelve girl scouts.  Various others sat or paced who were unremarkable, not any more distinguishable than other patrons in a restaurant.  I could have been anywhere.  I was in the airport though, staring at an unattended bag and a newspaper.

         

It seemed simple enough.  The instructions say to report any packages left unattended.  I looked around.  No one was at the desk.  There was no security around. 

         

My mind is a terrible thing.  It tends to play out scenes that ruin my peaceful existence.  I saw SWAT teams and bomb squads; all of us waiting for the flight being detained as we were searched and our identifications checked and rechecked, all the flights being postponed, other flights coming in being diverted to other airports.  I then missing the Writer’s Conference in Philadelphia and my agent then yelling at me as I returned to New York for getting involved in the first place.

         

What would the harm be in just taking a closer look?  I closed my laptop and set it on the chair next to me.  I looked around again.  Two stewardesses were getting the desk prepared by the door to my gate.  We would be boarding soon.  Telling them would more than likely delay the flight.  I checked my watch.  We should have boarded fifteen minutes ago.  Damn fish made me lose track of time.

         

I couldn’t forget the bag.  It gnawed at my mind.  Still no one had claimed it or the newspaper.  That newspaper had tempted me before.  What would be the harm in taking it?  I could glance in the bag.  Probably just some forgotten airport souvenirs. 

         

I got up, surprised at the numbness of my legs.  Fifteen minutes.  Damn fish.  I walked shakily to the chair and picked up the newspaper.  I glanced down in the bag.  There was just a large white box inside.  Before anyone could notice me, I rushed back to my seat like a thief with a stolen wallet. 

         

“Flight 424 to Philadelphia now boarding at Gate 59…”  The instructions droned on.  I tucked the folded newspaper under my arm and put my laptop in its case.  I searched out my ticket.  The announcement had brought my mind back to the moment.  Whoever was waiting for me in Philadelphia was probably annoyed about the delay. 

         

As I entered the plane I had to squeeze past the girl scouts to get to my seat.  I put my one bag in the overhead compartment and took my seat on the aisle.  As I slid my laptop case under the seat in front of me the newspaper fell into the aisle.  I picked it up and that’s when I saw it.

         

The newspaper was a copy of The New York Times dated September 12, 2001.  In bold hand in bright red marker across the front page it read:



“We should have gone with the Chicago Plan!”







Word count: 920