The Last Day

My great-great grandpapa once said that when everything is crashing around you, everything becomes a suitcase or a briefcase. The one container that is truly yours and will always be with you. He had lived during the Great Depression, so I always took that saying with a grain of salt. Surely it meant something different back then, when few had a little and everyone else had nothing. He was full of profound sayings like that.

The cardboard box was waiting on my desk. I began to pack up all the pieces of my life.

Of course, I also had a briefcase. Basic. Brown leather. Cost about thirty bucks. I was not impractical. Who doesn’t have a trusty briefcase? It always lived under my desk—either in the office or at home.

First in was my trusty stapler of five years and a cup of pens and pencils. They were mostly blues and blacks, with the occasional red. “A good worker has good tools.” I took that saying literally. Next, I cleaned the smudge off the rim of my mug, then added that as well. It was white, except for red lettering that said, “World’s Best Employee.” I received it a few months ago after staying almost all night to close a deal.

Next, the small potted plant. “A green place is a happy place.” I had bought it because I wanted something more alive where I was spending all of my time. Janice loved it. The first time she spotted it, she said it brought color to her world of grey. I bought another soon after, but that one died. Janice had a real green thumb. Somehow, she managed to keep an entire topiary of plants alive, while I struggled with one.

I opened my desk drawer and reached for the pair of ties I kept neatly folded. They were both different shades of blue, ever since Janice mentioned that particular color brought out my eyes. “A man should dress for what he wants.” Another saying from my great-great grandpapa. Janice had said the same thing to me once outside of a quarterly meeting. She had pulled me in close and straightened my tie.

“If you want something,” she said between kisses, “ask for it.”

I did. I had wanted to see the look on her face when I could tell her. By noon, I had been called into HR. Thirty minutes later, I was told to clean out my desk.

I dropped my laptop into my briefcase and clicked it shut. I looked at my desk one more time to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Only a few more items remained. A little pink Post-it with Janice’s handwriting read: I believe in you!!! A company badge from a conference. “Loyalty is the most costly thing a man can offer,” he would say. I scooped it up as well. That weekend I shook so many hands I developed temporary tendonitis and was introduced to so many people my mouth went dry. That was also the weekend I received the award. It was a crystal chunk about a foot tall. Janice had said she was so proud, and that it was a reminder of what was important. I tucked it under my arm like a football. It was about as heavy as I remembered, like a frozen turkey or a couple of bricks. I used to joke that it must be ingrained with souls or something, because it always felt much heavier than it looked—and it looked very heavy. Janice had said I was being absurd.

The desk calendar was tacked on my small pin-up board. It was a cheap promotional sixteen-month coffee themed planner I had gotten free with my morning espresso. It was full of my obligations, written in carefully slanted ink. “A man should have clean handwriting,” my great-great grandpapa would say. My eyes ran over the month quickly. Client Dinner. Conference Calls 1-3. Performance Review. Calls Due. In the margins was tight messy scrawl, almost impossible to read. Don’t forget the game. Pick up the milk. One of them had smudged into a blue blur. I couldn’t really make out more than one word. It could have been ‘come’ or ‘home.’ After a moment, I slid it in the box as well. It didn’t take up much space.

Finally, I grabbed the framed photograph. It had a small crack on the side from when I had first placed it years ago. I had underestimated the spacing, and it fell to the ground the first time I stood up. Janice would always stare at it whenever she visited my cubicle. She would then pick it up as if studying it in detail, with a frown. “A man should be reminded of what is important,” she’d say, and lean in for another kiss. My great-great grandpapa would say, “A man should remember what he is living for.” It was the last thing to go in the box.

I passed Janice’s desk on the way out. Her papers were still scattered across the table, and her orchids shimmered after a recent watering. Everything was exactly as she always kept it. Even the little snowflakes she would cut out of failed printed papers were taped to the desk edge. She used to say it made her feel like she was outside. I stared at the reflective dark screen and at my own face, before turning away.

The walk to the elevator was quiet and empty. The elevator ride and the walk to my car were all a slow blur. The drive home was long and tedious. When I finally opened the front door, the woman in the photo looked up from chopping up celery for lunch. I was tackled by the boy in the photo. My son began excitedly telling me I might be able to make it to his soccer game since I was early.

My great-great grandpapa had been right all along. A man should know what is important. What is their everything. Everything can become a suitcase. I had just realized it too late.