Bag Boy

Umf! Watch where you’re going dammit.

And of course, I drop the vase. It falls into the valley of space being pierced at light speed by my eyes, my hands incapable of stopping the inevitable as the Waterford crystal impacts and then disintegrates into a brilliant star, gone supernova at its inception.

She is going to kill me. They just called last boarding; I’m not going to have time to purchase another. In Dublin for a week and nothing to bring home to her. Oh shit. I shirk out into the human ocean current and away from the wide eyes of the store clerk. Double time mister if you’re going to be home tonight.

I make my way to my gate, breathing hard. Ah crap, a uniformed employee of the airline is about to close the door to the gangway. “Yo! Hold for me! I’m hurrying.” She obliges with a “tut-tut” and just manages to segue her nascent finger wag into a friendly wave, bon voyage.

Only two or three passengers are still working to stow their stuff and sit down, and I manage to make it to my window seat in aisle fifteen before the others are seated. I feel a small victory, imagine a fist pump, and then I remember the vase. She’s going to be fun for a few days. Seriously, hon, don’t buy me anything. I know you’re going to be busy. Use whatever down time you have to unwind. You need it. You deserve it.

Oh no, seriously, I am fine that you didn’t buy me anything. I did say not to, didn’t I? I meant it and I still mean it.

Did you see anything in the stores at all? No, no. I mean it. I’m glad you saved your money.

I’ll tell her the truth. No she’ll be angry at me for wasting money. She’ll see it from a different perspective. I’m a victim here. That guy… That guy. I’d forgotten all about him. It doesn’t matter. He caused me to lose the vase, but so what? What could I even do about it? Which way was he heading when he hit me? Did he hit me? Or did I hit him. Was it a him? It was. I remember his blue lapel for some reason. So he was in a suit then. Also, aftershave. How odd I’d remember that. Old Spice, I think.

Squealing kid in the seat behind me. Crap shoot: either entertaining (“Wow. What’s that mommy?” “That cloud looks like a huge pillow.”), or annoying (seat kicking, screaming, complaining – “What’s this food? It looks yucky!”, asking the time-honored question, “Are we there yet?”). If it’s the latter, I’ll be the one asking if we are there yet. So far though, all I hear is delight and anticipation. Good signs. Unless the kid is mainlining candy. It’s ok. I’m chilling.

So this guy slammed into me. I mean, I don’t think I hit him. And at the time, for just an infinitesimal moment before the demise of the vase, I recall thinking that it had been deliberate. And that he had shifted into high gear to get away from me. So, it had a purpose. It had a purpose? I can’t make out his face in my mind. Not yet anyway. You never know what might come back to you. Or is that true? I’m not sure. So I don’t know if it was someone I know. Someone who would want to slam into me, because, I suppose, I needed slamming into.

Still no face, but I’m sure it wasn’t someone I know. I can’t think of a single friend or family member who I’d be likely to see in a blue suit at the airport. In Dublin Ireland. Yeah, not likely.

OK. Then it didn’t happen just because I needed slamming into.

And it was deliberate.

I’ve seen scenes in movies where somebody bumps into someone else walking in the opposite direction, generally on a busy sidewalk. You know it was deliberate based on the story line and other cues, but why do they do it?

Oh shit. Pick pocket. Aren’t pick pockets little guys? This guy (still no face) was big. But he must have been after my wallet or something in my backpack. My backpack is on the floor at my feet. I obviously still have that, and a quick feel for my wallet confirms it’s in my pocket. So he must have stolen something from my backpack. What else could it be?

Jamming someone with a syringe. I know I’ve seen that in a movie. Some bad guy carrying a syringe “bumps into” a “stranger,” and delivers a poison into the stranger’s neck or back.

Yeah, but I’d be feeling something now I would think. And how likely is that anyway? I mean we all know pickpockets are real, but how often do we hear that someone was stabbed with a syringe in broad daylight?

Come on. What else?

He could have been giving me something. I mean other than a syringe full of bad stuff. He could have been planting a bomb on me. Not worried. I’m getting a bit out there with my theories now, so this is just silly conjecture.

Of course there sits my backpack and what have I done so far to check it? Nothing; I’ve just been sitting here thinking, when I should be searching my bag. I bend over and pull it up by a strap. Oh Jesus, open it already. No, I need to examine it first. Really? What are you all of a sudden? Sherlock Holmes? Nah, but really, I want to look at it. I have time. Remember?

OK, the zippers are all zipped fully closed. The flap thing in the front is still buckled up. Of course either one could theoretically have been opened and closed again with me none the wiser. Theoretically. In the nanosecond it took the bump and disengagement to occur. So is there anything planted on the outside? Not there, there, there, or there. Nu huh. I couldn’t rule out some sort of residue or another, but we’re still chill here, right? We’re not really worrying about this. Not worrying, worrying. But no, it looks clean.

I’m not one of those people who go straight for the gold. If there are other things to do, I do them and save the good stuff for last. So I open and close one pocket at a time, ignoring the main compartment for the moment. Just loose change in this one. The next is empty. A crumpled napkin and crumbs in that pocket. A map and my little black book in the long pocket up front. My passport in the pocket next to it. Nothing falling out of my passport as I rifle through it. Likewise with the map and notebook. I check my hip pocket and come up with my baggage claim receipt, so nothing is missing that I can think of. Was there a receipt for the vase? Where was that? Does it matter? I check my wallet. Not there. Who would steal a receipt? Was it in the vase? No, I had a bag (in which the vase belonged, but I took it out to look at it for a moment, and then bam!), and the receipt was in the bag. Which is… where?

For the first time I am really stumped. I cannot remember anything at all about the bag except that I had just taken the vase from it. After that? I have no idea. Do you think he took it? Did he think he was stealing a Waterford vase? I mean it cost about three hundred American, but that’s kind of on the low end for fencing. If he was stealing the vase, boy did he get a surprise when the bag ended up empty?

Time to open the backpack up. Pull up this here, and let’s see. What is this bag doing in here? Oh, it’s the Waterford bag. That solves that mystery. The bag is in the pack. So how do I not remember putting the bag in the backpack? That would have taken an extra few seconds. I would have remembered doing it, wouldn’t I? Let’s just pull it out and see if, I don’t know, just to see whatever. What’s this? The bag is heavy. It’s got something bulky and dense in it. Oh come on! How could the vase possibly be in the bag? I mean I saw it smash into a thousand little shards. And I did not buy a backup just in case! What is going on?

OK, I am opening the bag. And a paper-wrapped rectangular object is there. Not a vase. But also very much not something I put there. So it was placed there by Mr. Bump. That much is certain. So now I am back into the nefarious-things-really-do-happen zone and I’m nervous as hell. A bomb? Oh Jesus. Not a bomb please. I mean, I am on an airplane. How many hundreds of times have I been instructed not to accept anything from a stranger when flying? Not that I’m blaming myself, except that I should have seen it! Some asshole wants to blow up this plane and I’m his bag boy. Oh fuck. Calm down. Breathe. Seriously. Breathe!

If I call over the attendant and give her the bag, the crew, and any law enforcement on this plane, are going to detain me. I will be held accountable for this even if they can stop the bomb. My life is going to be ruined. This is the end for me, either I’m about to die or I’m going to prison for a long time.

Who were you, you damn asshole? You have ruined my life!

I push the call button. Ding! I am shaking. This is the hardest thing I have ever done. Please please hurry! Please don’t come, please ignore me. Please hurry!

“Sir? How can I help you?” I turn and see her smile. She’s pretty. That’s absurd. Who cares?

“Ma’am, I have something in my bag that I didn’t pack and I have just discovered it and I need you to please take it and…dispose of it…or something.” I reach out to her with the bomb in my hand. Her smile has disappeared. The passenger between us is trying to disappear.

She holds her hands up palm forward as if to ward off the bomb. “I’m sorry. I really am. I have no idea how to deal with this. I am so so sorry.” We both pretty much say the same thing together. This isn’t working. Nobody is going to be able to undo whatever the bad guys have done here. It’s either going to blow or it’s not and there’s nothing we can do about it.

So I tear open the wrapper. Dammit, I am going to see what this bomb looks like if it’s going to kill me. The flight attendant lets out a squelched scream just as I tear the paper back. And see money. Not a bomb. Money. Her eyes grow like saucers and my seat-mate turns and gawks, dispensing with couth.

Feeling like I am the center of attention – attention I’d rather not have – I sheepishly tear off the remainder of the paper wrapping. There are two wads of cash, all twenties as far as I could tell, each wrapped in an oversized cigar band, and each labeled $10,000 U.S.

Whomever you are, my benefactor, I can’t imagine your intention was to give this money to me. Why would you? For that matter, if you were going to give someone twenty thousand dollars, why would you do it like this? Am I on camera helping you win some sort of bizarre bet? I have no idea. What’s next?

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Hey honey, how does two weeks in Ireland sound?