I needed a unique suitcase, one that no one could imitate or mistake for their own. One that would stand out so I could grab and go. Everyone’s luggage looks the same these days. Someone is always grabbing my stuff off the carousel, pawing at it with their filthy germ ridden hands. Then I got to spend twenty minutes sanitizing the damn thing, so I went to a thrift store. I don’t normally like buying second- hand stuff, but if you want a unique piece of luggage, then that’s the place to go. It’s like traveling back in time, but not for the good stuff. It’s not your antique, sought-after vintage novelties. No, it’s that part of the universe, that vortex where all the stupid, hair-brained marketing schemes, whether it be cheap clothes, engraved wallets, or dusty old glassware accumulate and waste away. It’s that place where kids can learn about console televisions, cd players, and rotary dial telephones. A museum of cheap gawdy horseshit products and old technology. And a perfect place to find a suitcase from the distant past that no other respectable business person would be caught dead hauling around in an airport.
I found my suitcase buried under a number of other suitcases and an old gym bag. I saw it and knew it was what I needed. It was a huge leather brown suitcase. Embroidered on it was a scene with ducks, some flying, some waddling, around a pond infested with cat tails, sun setting awkwardly to the side of the scene, and below it in electric pink lettering the phrase, “Duck Love.” Even the cashier laughed at it when I plopped up on the counter. Of course, it didn’t have any casters to easily roll along. I’d have to put those on myself.
“Wow, is this a kid’s suitcase? It’s huge,” the cashier inquired. “I guess that’s why everyone was so skinny back then.”
I got it back home and gave it a good cleaning. It wasn’t fancy. There were no extra little compartments for toiletries. Just one big space with some dry rotted straps inside. It smelled like mildew and cat shit. It was simple and smelly, but completely functional. The most important aspect- the zipper- that quintessential piece of hardware that held everything together worked perfectly fine. I cleaned it inside and out with bleach. In the corner I seen a piece of masking tape. Penciled on the surface, barely legible, was the name, “William the Third.” I pulled it off and threw it on my dresser.
The suitcase served me well. There was no mistaking it from another suitcase. There was always only one Duck Love suitcase on that carousel. I would wait with anticipation as it made its entrance through the plastic strapped doorway, revealing its glorious self to the world. Duck Love never failed to evoke laughter and ridicule, but in some small way, I could sense jealousy. Yeah, people laughed, but I got in and out in no time. Sometimes though it felt like my suitcase was purposely unloaded last, like I was being punished for owning such a monstrosity. On one such occasion I possibly met Duck Love’s previous owner.
I always come home from a business trip on Saturday. Most people like to fly back on Friday, but not me. It’s less crowded. I hate the crowds and plus I don’t mind the solitude of an empty airport. I like to catch up on some reading. There’s no one at home waiting for me anyhow. This isn’t some sob story; I’m just telling it like it is. I’m a loner and I don’t mind it.
“Welcome to Music City.”
That pre-recorded announcement always gave me a warm cozy feeling. It was an audible sign that I had made it back home with no trouble. I waited at the carousel. The luggage started training through the moving conveyor. People were scrambling for their belongings, touching everything but their own stuff. The crowd was thinning down fast. It looked like it was going to be one of those days when Duck Love was going to be the last suitcase unloaded. It was infuriating. I was ready to get home. I was the last person standing around that carousel. The conveyor stopped. Nothing else on the belt.
I walked away furious, heading towards the airline’s “sorry we lost your luggage but we don’t give a damn” department. I looked back in one last desperate move to spot my suitcase. There it was sitting on the carousel, slightly inside the door. I saw a hand shove it the rest of the way through. It fell onto the floor.
Out of the shadows, near the bathrooms, a man ran and grabbed my bag.
“Hey, that’s my bag! Stop! Hey!”
I hauled ass and got after him. I didn’t have any trouble catching up to him and as soon as I did, I shoved him in the back. He fell forward, tripping, slinging the suitcase to the side, and smashing his face on the floor. I grabbed my suitcase.
“What the hell man?”
“That’s my suitcase and what’s inside is mine. She’s mine,” the man answered. He was a short skinny man, wearing a suit and a fedora atop his head. The brim on his fedora had been pushed inward and his nose was bleeding.
A security guard made her way over, “What’s going on?”
The man turned and ran away.
“He tried to steal my luggage. I didn’t mean to push him so hard though.”
“Well, no harm no foul. Wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt over a bag like that,” she smiled as she walked away.
I got home and threw the suitcase on the bed. I turned on the television to see what had happened in town since I was gone. Nothing spectacular. I unzipped the suitcase but instead of my clothes there was a woman’s severed head and arm. I flung the flap back over the top of the suitcase and tried to make my way to the bathroom.
I didn’t make it. My stomach lurched and I vomited all over the carpet.
I called the police. Some policeman came to the door along with a detective.
“I’m Detective Daniels. Where’s the bag?” curt and to the point.
“Over here.” I led them into the bedroom.
Detective Daniels walked over to the suitcase and move the flap aside. There was nothing in there but my clothes.
“Ok. Where’s the head?” He didn’t look too happy. All that was in there was the clothes I had packed for the trip.
“I don’t know. It was in there. I promise.” Another older detective walked into the room.
“Hey Bill, what do we got?” He saw the bag and stopped, silent for a moment. “Where did you get that bag?”
“What’s up Dave?”
“That bag… it has to be it. I’ve never seen another bag like it. Not in my whole life. That was the bag of Mr. William Carlisle the Third, a serial killer from the 60’s we apprehended and sentenced to death. He was executed in December of 1973. I know because I witnessed his execution. That bag went missing from the evidence room a few years after that. Where in the hell did you get it?”
“I bought it at a thrift store.”
“We’ll need that and we’ll be in touch in case we have any more questions.”
“Sure, take it. Believe me, I don’t want it.”
Over the next few weeks, I answered a few more of their questions. I gathered that they couldn’t figure out who had taken the suitcase and sold or donated it to the thrift store. I doubt they ever will find out the truth. I’ve confined myself to buying new suitcases and going through the trouble of making it unique with stickers and what not.
Several months later as I was driving through the security gate of my apartment complex, late at night, I saw a figure standing directly across from my apartment building under the street lamp. It looked like a man wearing a suit and a fedora, smoking a cigarette. Next to him on the ground was a suitcase. I parked my car and walked up the staircase to the landing. The man was looking in the opposite direction, not directly at my apartment building.
“William Carlisle,” I yelled.
He turned and looked in my direction.
“The Third. William Carlisle the Third,” he responded. He flicked his cigarette into the grass, picked up his suitcase, and walked away.