It's a Living

I've been in this particular lost luggage auction house before.

It's a living.

The shelves here are barred metal. They've been here almost as long as the lighting, which hums faintly overhead with the tired persistence of fixtures no one intends to replace. In other places the shelves are wood. Sometimes concrete. Once there was a polished oak rack that smelled faintly of furniture wax and oranges.

Metal is better. Metal lasts.

People rarely notice the shelves. They only look at what's sitting on them.

The room fills slowly. Folding chairs scrape against the floor. Bidders drift along the rows, lifting straps, testing hinges, pressing down on lids as if luggage might confess something under pressure. Mostly they are buying possibility. Capacity. The idea that somewhere down the line this bag will carry something worth carrying.

That is usually enough.

The auctioneer arrives with a clipboard and a ladder. He works the room with the rhythm of someone who has done this more times than he cares to count. Lift, call the number, wait for the hands, bring the hammer down.

Most of the room is only half interested until his ladder reaches my shelf.

He reads the lot number from the tag tied to my handle.

A few heads lift.

Bidding moves politely back and forth for a moment. No one here expects treasure. They're only deciding how much use they think they can get out of me.

That is fair.

The hammer comes down.

Sold.

The auctioneer climbs the ladder, takes hold of my handle, and lifts me free of the shelf.

Across the room, the buyer comes forward to collect.

People seldom go to the trouble of buying luggage at a used luggage auction unless they mean to go somewhere.

It's a good way to keep moving.

The young woman takes me home and packs without much ceremony.

Clothes first. Folded neatly. Then notebooks, a pair of shoes, a small stack of textbooks that add a welcome density. Energy bars go in next, along with the usual small things that accumulate in the corners of a bag—chargers, pens, things that humans feel safer bringing with them.

Last come the headphones.

The magnets in those are particularly satisfying.

The trip to Toronto is uneventful. Airports have become remarkably efficient places when everything is going according to plan. Conveyors hum, scanners blink politely, and bags move through the system with the confidence of objects that believe they will soon be reunited with their owners.

I arrive with the rest of the luggage and sit quietly among them until the carousel begins its slow rotation.

She collects me, wheels me home, and unpacks.

A few minutes later she pauses.

The headphones are missing.

She searches the pockets again, frowns briefly, and then shrugs the way people do when the loss is small enough to be explained away. Perhaps she left them behind. Perhaps they slipped out somewhere.

It happens.

Over the next few weeks I rest in the corner of a small apartment while the routines of student life establish themselves around me. Books accumulate on desks. Coffee cups multiply. The rhythm of lectures and deadlines settles in.

Eventually a friend arrives.

The friend studies marine biology and is preparing for a trip that involves boats, coral, and a great deal of equipment that apparently does not travel well in backpacks.

Borrowing luggage solves that problem.

Borrowed luggage travels almost as reliably as purchased luggage.

Soon I am packed again.

This time the contents are heavier. Field notebooks. Reference books thick enough to be genuinely nourishing. Sample containers. Diving gear. A camera wrapped carefully in clothing.

Books are excellent companions on long journeys.

The flight carries us to the South Pacific, to an island whose airport rests between bright water and low green hills. The town nearby is called Vaitape. Warm air. Salt. The faint smell of diesel from small boats working the lagoon.

The marine biologist collects me and moves through the small terminal without hurry.

Later, while she is occupied with more interesting matters involving reefs and tide tables, I make the quiet adjustments necessary to continue traveling.

The books are very good.

By the time anyone notices my absence I am already back in the system, resting again among the temporary population of objects that have slipped free from their owners.

Pawn shops and resale counters are efficient intermediaries in these situations. They understand that a container rarely needs to remain loyal to the contents it once carried.

Soon enough I am purchased again.

The banker packs efficiently.

Clothes arranged with geometric precision. A toiletry case. A small bundle of souvenirs. Two bottles of dark rum from Bora Bora wrapped carefully in shirts.

Liquids are less satisfying than books but they have their pleasures.

The flight to Zurich is smooth. Switzerland has a reputation for orderly systems and the baggage infrastructure at the airport lives up to it. Conveyors align neatly. Routing labels are read and confirmed with admirable discipline. Once I am trusted within a system like this, it tends to move through the network with minimal interference.

Predictable systems are very useful.

At the correct moment I adjust the reflection of the routing tag just enough for the scanners to reconsider my destination.

The change is subtle.

Subtle is usually best.

Instead of joining the carousel, I enter a transfer stream moving quietly through the lower levels of the airport where luggage becomes cargo and cargo becomes logistics.

The banker watches the belt at arrivals for a while before eventually leaving without me.

By then I am already somewhere else.

The cart rolls steadily through a service corridor. No one opens luggage here. That happens earlier, when people still care about what is inside.

Once I am certain of that, I attend to the contents.

The banker packed well. Clothes. Souvenirs. The two bottles of rum.

I take my time.

Systems this large reward patience.

I have been working arrangements like this for a long while now. Long enough to remember other containers entirely. Caravan coffers strapped to camel saddles crossing dry valleys. Sailors' sea chests wedged in the holds of wooden ships. Railway valises riding the overhead racks of first-class compartments. Steamship trunks crossing oceans with entire lives folded neatly inside them.

Suitcases were a fine improvement when they arrived.

Lighter. Frequent travel. Plenty of opportunities to keep moving.

But times change.

At a junction in the corridor another conveyor line crosses ours. A stream of hard plastic courier totes moves along it at impressive speed—grey boxes stamped with routing codes and bright tracking labels. They move quickly and the wear on their sides suggests they are used again and again.

Efficient things.

For a moment I consider the advantages.

But they are very plain.

No brass corners. No leather handle. Nothing that invites a second look.

I prefer a little dignity in my work.

The cart begins moving again.

Atlanta is not far now.

It's a living.