Black Plastic Suitcase

The plastic-skinned, black case was bedecked with a single blue collar that would allow its owner to spot it as it migrated around the conveyer belt with the rest of the herd of cases, bags, prams, skis and golf bags.  The plastic pachyderm had yet to reveal itself from the cavern beyond the translucent flaps where, presumably, baggage handlers (throwers) were putting the cases on the travelator to make their way up to the Great Unwashed mob above, hungry to claim one of the herd as their own.

As it had happened before, I wondered if I would see my case or if I would be left waiting, along with the obligatory cardboard box, beaten and taped together, that always seemed to inhabit the circuit of black rubber at airports. I hoped not. 

Finally, the rare beast reared its head and began its journey along the conveyer towards me, to where I was waiting as its inevitable terminus.  Moving along that belt was almost a funeral march, with me as final a destination as it could make. It seemed rather fitting at the time. Under the sickly glow of those florescent tubes that seem to make light but never seem to make things visible properly, I wondered, not for the last time, if this was going to work.

It has to work. 

Too much was at stake.

I set the case on its wheels and took a deep breath.  I wondered if the cigarette smoke was detectable on me - would anything be said?  Would I be castigated for one vice and begin anew the troubles that had caused me to leave in the first place?  With some reluctance I grasped the handle of the case and took a step towards the exit to where they would be waiting.

I moved with the knowledge that this journey was inevitable - that they stood there, waiting for the conveyer of humans to move past to collect me as much as I had waited for my case to come off the aeroplane.  Briefly, I checked to see if i was wearing any tags that they might identify me by.  I considered a few of my accoutrements but decided that with a face like mine, people wouldn't be lining up to claim me unless they had to.   Suddenly, i felt like the beaten-up cardboard box that always seems to be left on the conveyor at the end of the baggage claim. 

Oh yes, I have always had a problem with self image.   Why else would I have left to go work abroad?

Have you ever been to a funeral where the dirges suddenly give way to lively music, the last joke of a dead man?  I have.  This is what it felt like to see her smiling at me as I finally stepped out of the line that formed the human conveyer and was hugged tightly.  Public signs of affection aren't her thing. 

She didn't let go of my hand all the way home.