The Tan Duffel

This was an assignment for a writing class that will be revised. I was to write about a travel obsession and decided to take a fun angle with the idea. I thought readers might enjoy it.

* * *

The package sat unattended, its position safe but its contents unstable.

I held check, my position secured.

Chatter around the perimeter suggested joyful celebration, as if a long-awaited goal was about to be attained. A rogue adversary approved forward activity.

I positioned myself for visual confirmation and verified my peripherals: a clear line on the target two feet away, entry and retreat uninhibited for a ten-foot radius.

I moved in.

“No, don’t do it!” A child’s voice, the worst calamity.

I drew back but kept my eyes on the package.

The tan duffel sat along the driveway, its black straps limp and disconnected across the concrete, its innards exposed through an open top. The zipper had been ignored, final details unimportant once the bag was filled.

I changed my approach, circled the yard for a clearer route.

"Kids, let’s go.” The adversary’s voice resonated with stress. “Why isn’t that bag in the car?”

I was caught! “Huh? Oh, hey, Michelle.”

My wife pointed at the duffel. “Throw that in the car and let’s go,” she said.

Every trip we take repeats this same issue. I pack the car and my wife and kids hand me bags that are wide open. I am no highly-trained inspections officer from the Transportation Safety Administration, but I know when a bag looks nice. A bag that is not closed is slovenly. As I lug the burdensome luggage through parking lots, I sense surveillance from open windows. Better dads and proper husbands stare and scoff. I can hear their remarks as drapes slide closed: Guy can’t even close his suitcase. Harumph, grumble, grumble. An overnight bag with a gaping hole across its top is a cavern of chaos waiting to break free should it be toppled.

Soon, we buzzed along the interstate en route to a friend’s wedding. The obsession rattled in my brain like Yahtzee dice wanting to escape their shake and roll cup. I wanted to scream, “Why won’t you just pack four items less so the bags will close?!” But I remained quiet. Operation Stop and Pee had already been set in motion.

I had given each kid a can of Pepsi. “Why not?” I had told them. “It’s a mini-vacation. Go for it!” Had they seen my devilish smile, they would have run. Dad’s up to something again, save us! Not this time. Not this trip. I waited.

An hour into the trip, the first sign of weakness echoed from the backseat of our red Chevy HHR. “Are we there yet?” my son asked. A trained parent recognizes the first response to pressure upon the bladder. He shifted in the seat, approaching the “I gotta go!” moment.

I looked in the mirror, fixed my eyes on Brian. His sandy-brown hair hovered over bored eyelids like a canopy over a canceled picnic. “Not yet, Buddy. Everything okay?” He sighed, uttered yes and leaned his chin on his fist. The thought of the duffel lingered as I gave a courtesy check around the car. “Girls, you okay?” Two sweet voices piped up that all was well, but my youngest, Bethany, added, “I guess.” Operation Stop and Pee had entered Phase Two – the Wait.

Somewhere in the hatchback, the tan duffel sat open. I was distracted with thoughts of exposed garments. There’s no shame in what we own; everyone has underwear, right? It’s the practicality of the matter. Why risk dropping things when the zipper is right there? “Just close the damn zipper!” I muttered.

“What, dad?” my smiling “tween”, Becca, asked from under headphones.

“Huh? What? Nothing. Just calculating the mile markers.” I lied to my kid. How far would I go? The open duffel loomed over my very soul. The obsessive thoughts grew.

In truth, my obsession is a rebellion against excessive behavior. We have too much stuff, and the last thing I want to show weary travelers is that I am raising kids to bundle their possessions like squirrels in winter. Travel is an extension of who you are, it defines you to the people you meet along the way. I can’t show the world my ugly side. I have people to meet, friends to make and good times to have.

My hand gripped the steering wheel. Sixty-seven minutes had passed since Brian asked if we were there. That kid was growing too fast! His bladder had become an impenetrable fortress. If a can of soda could hold in there for two hours, what would become of his college days? My mind wandered. I imagined him taking wide open suitcases and de-lidded boxes back and forth to college; envisioned parties where a beer bong hovered over my little boy like a Gothic ritual. I had to save him. The boy needed to...

“Dad, are we there yet now?”

There it was – Operation Stop and Pee, Final Phase.

“What’s up, Buddy?” I had watched The Bourne Identity. I know how to play these roles. “You okay?” My eyes barely left the road.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.

I glanced at Michelle, smiled, shrugged. “Guess we gotta stop,” I told her.

“Uh-huh,” she agreed, lost in a magazine.

Four miles on, a sign read: “Rest Stop – Right Lane.” I pressed the gas just enough to creep over the speed limit. I hit the exit ramp hard and threw a spiral of cinders into the air.

My wife flinched.

She folded the magazine and tucked it away. “Girls, either of you have to...?”

I heard nothing else. The moment crawled with perfect execution. I edged the car into a spot, popped the locks, and my family sprung forward. Nikes and knock-offs hit the pavement the same way they burst through the door on the first day of summer.

I stood, stretched, took a look around the parking lot.

“Why’d you park so far from the entrance?” Michelle asked.

“They have energy to burn. With an hour left, the walk will do them good.” I leaned on the roof, content. I thought only of the satisfactory plu-chunk of the tailgate as it popped open.

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

“Don’t need to. I went before we left, haven’t touched my Pepsi.” She gazed into the car and saw the unopened can. “Not thirsty,” I said. “I think I’ll just stretch, walk the legs out.”

She shook her head and walked toward the store. Things had all fallen into place masterfully.
The automatic doors slid shut behind Michelle, and I zapped the button on the keychain. The tailgate lifted like an offering. I scanned the lot again for recognizance surveillance. The coast was clear. A man in a fedora puffed away at a cigarette by the entrance, but he didn’t notice. He was someone else’s decoy.

I stepped toward the gate and fished out the open bag. There it sat – wedged under roller skates and someone’s fluffy pillow. I reached for the bag, gave a good tug. The weight above added pressure and it did not budge. “Damnit,” I uttered. I have fast pee-ers for kids, they wouldn’t be gone long. I gave a hefty pull, full reverse throttle, and the bag leapt toward me, bringing a skate with it. The plastic bomb clomped onto my toes and I let out a yell that would stop the mailman. “Son of a” something I cursed. I threw the skate back in and set to work.

I rested the bag against the bumper – no time to place it on the ground. The opening was wide, a gap. The duffel carried clothes I hadn’t seen the kids wear in months. A piece of aqua green swimsuit with a fake palm tree lapped out of one end and a blue shirt hung precariously over the other. I stuffed the contents in and pulled the zipper, hard. It moved a smidge, four teeth gripped at best. I pressed down on the bag, crushing all cotton and any hidden bottles within. If need be, I would pay for laundry services at the hotel. What’s a little shampoo in an open bag, right? Nothing popped inside, but nothing gave way either. I grabbed the duffel from both sides, squeezed the zipper’s unhinged sides as close together as possible. The little connecting nubs cut into my hands but I withstood the pain. With my right hand I again tugged at the zipper; it edged forward a bit closer and then slid away as I let slip my grip. Sweat galloped from my brow. I looked up – no family in sight. I tried again, punched the middle, pulled the zipper, and pressed a knee against the side. I gained an inch, maybe two.

Then I heard it! Bethany’s friendly chatter. She’s a loud kid, like her dad. I canvassed the scene – they were on their way. I tried the zipper again, made no further movement forward. Thirty seconds until I would be caught. Michelle would lob accusations of paranoia and ridiculous worries at me. I tried again, no progress. My right hand burned; little half-circles were indented into the flesh from the zipper tag. My left hand cramped. No time. I yanked the thick cotton shirt from the bag, stashed it between a backpack and another pillow, slid the duffel closed and jammed it into place just as Brian reached the car.

I slapped shut the tailgate, rubbed my hands and smiled. “Everyone go potty?”

“Dad,” Becca warned, “We don’t go potty anymore, we’re big now. It’s just a bathroom.”

“Right, let’s go then.”

Michelle sensed my deception. “What were you doing?”

“Huh? What? Nothing.” All these lies!

“Dan,” she used my name, the sign of serious business. “Why were you in the back?”

“I thought I heard a game beeping.”

“Did you turn it off?”

“Turns out it was the guy next to us – one of those squawk radios. What did your dad call them?”

“A Cee-Bee.” She did not look convinced.

“Yeah, that’s it. Funny, they sound like a computer game. Let’s roll.”

It takes a mastermind to think of everything. I had my tracks covered from every angle. Operation Stop and Pee had been successful. On we rode, a family safe, bags properly secured, children prepared for a solid future. Espionage – it’s not just for Special Agents anymore!