Baggage
Winner of a 48 hour Novella Contest. Prompt was Suitcase.
I opened my eyes. The morning sun was low enough to blind me through the train window. The train was crowded as it carried its regular number of passengers. I barely had enough room to move my arms. Around me sat other tired figures clad in their daily attire. Everybody was dressed in the untaught uniform of a grey suit with a slightly lighter shade of grey tie, and a darker thin grey coat to protect us from the harsh winds. Most were accompanied by a grey hat as we all sat on our suitcases. All identical suitcases.
I had the habit of waking within two minutes of the train arriving at my destination. It was my unique trait in this world: the person who consistently awoke before his stop. It wasn't much of a title to brag about, if I had anyone to brag with, but nonetheless it was a factor for my meager success in life.
The woman in front of me was staring at a photograph. I had to keep my legs shifted to the right to avoid contact. She sat motionless like a statue. I could almost recall her in the same posture when I got on the train earlier. Most people didn't show belongings unless they were selling them. Maybe she was intending to but I couldn't see the picture. As the train approached the destination she folded the photograph and slipped it inside her suitcase.
I stood up from my suitcase seat and dragged it with me to the doors along with several other passengers. The wind was cold and winter was beginning to show with an occasional lonely snowflake appearing from the smoky sky. The train quickly departed leaving a large trail of steam in its place.
The walk wasn't long. The wide roads were busy with hordes of grey suits dragging their companioned suitcase. Some stood on the side of the road with their open suitcases, yelling about stuff they had to sell. Most ignored their surroundings. So did I.
Mill's Corporation Building #21
The sign was labelled above the wide doors. It was a monolith of a building with dark windows reflecting other tall buildings, filling the landscape. The wide doors were always open, never closed.
The lineup to reception was predictably long. Some even took seats on their suitcases as they waited. I stared at the back of the head of the woman in front of me. Her hair was brown with a neat bun exposing her pale neck.
I reached reception. A plump old man with sweat dripping from his forehead was stooped behind the counter. I retrieved my punch card form my grey suit pocket and wordlessly handed it to the receptionist. With slow movements the large man inserted the card into the operation device. Busy machinery noises were heard and then three envelopes ejected from a separate machine. I grabbed the items and my punch card then made my way towards the elevators. I could tell what the contents of the envelopes were before I opened them. The first was yesterday's pay of $120 in cash. The second letter was a reminder of an overdue blood donation. I chucked that unopened slip into the garbage can next to the elevator, which seemed to exist only for such notices. The final letter displayed the section where a desk would be found and listed the day's tasks; always different but not remarkable enough to separate the days. I opened the third envelope as I entered the elevator.
They were always packed. The floor was covered with dirt and sludge, but no one seemed to notice. We were all used to it. A dozen of us stood shoulder to shoulder, all in grey suits as the gears grinded us upwards.
I finished reading the tasks by the time the elevator reached today's designated floor, 41.
Ding.
I stepped out with two others. The room was like every other floor in this building and every other Mill's Corporation building that I've worked in. One large endless room with low ceilings and the occasional pillar, filled with desks and grey suits sitting at them. I dragged my suitcase around until I found an unoccupied desk. As always, the desk was sticky from some unknown spill.
I opened my suitcase to retrieve my portable, work-issued Mill's typewriter #5.2. I plopped it on the table and also took out the sealed plastic container housing Gary the fish. I zipped up the suitcase and took my seat on it. I cracked the lid on Gary's container to allow some fresh air and fed paper into the typewriter. I looked again at the task list from today's letter.
Property of Mill's Corporation.
Worker Number 792859
Tasks: November 10 – 16 issue
Report: Opening of Mill's Corporation Building #82
Requirements: 15-20 pages (12 point, standard double spaced, Times New Roman font, pages numbered)
Due Date: 17:00 on November 9th 2105.
There really wasn't energy nor time to complain to myself about the absurdity of the task. I guess I was simply used to it.
I didn't know anything about the new Mill's Corporation Building #82, but I assumed it wasn't significantly different from the previous 81 buildings. There was a reason for my self-title of Bullshitter #16, one of my private jokes that would never see the light of day. It didn't take long for me to start typing the beginning lines. My fingers punched the keys and outlined the grand opening that would take place in a week with Mr. Mill himself opening the doors.
I had never seen Mr. Mill, and I assumed no else had either. I only knew him from the infamous bold font of his name plastered on the envelopes and buildings. Was he real? Was he even a person at all? I didn't care. Work didn't allow me to care.
My fingers danced on the typewriter. Time was ticking and distractions were lethal. This was a marathon. Ideas had to be formed faster than I could type. Mistakes were unacceptable. On a usual day I would brainstorm topics and take time with wording and flow but today's deadline did not allow for such diligence.
Time passed quickly. Suits came and went from the adjacent desks without my noticing the change.
A hand patted my back, almost causing me to mistype halfway through a page.
"Hey Henry, funny to bump into you again."
I looked up. It was Wallace. A thin man with a thick black moustache. His hair was neater than everyone else's but his face had an unhealthy sick look to it. For some unknown reason his suit appeared to be a slightly brighter shade of grey compared to the rest of us.
"Hi," I replied. I liked Wallace. Although I continuously worked at different locations, I never took notice of who sat adjacent. I just viewed everyone as a grey suit. But for some reason Wallace ended up working next to me for the past half year. It was nice to talk to someone other than Gary the fish.
"I see they have you writing about the new building. You eat lunch yet?" Wallace opened his suitcase and retrieved a sandwich. There were a dozen other similar packages in his suitcase.
"How'd you know?" I asked as he handed me the meal.
"I talked to five other sitters who are writing the same thing as you."
Wallace seemed to have broken the work system. I never asked about it, but it appeared that he picked up a dozen sandwiches from the cafeteria, then spent half an hour chatting with people and giving the snack in exchange for something in return. I was perfectly fine with the deal. A friend for half an hour a day was well worth the trade. I didn't think he even worked at all as I never saw anything job related in his suitcase. He just chatted with people. I suspected it wouldn't last for Wallace and one day Mill's security would step in.
"How many pages have they done so far?" I asked.
"They're just like you, working stupidly hard. I don't know how you do it, Henry. You know no one actually reads what you write. You're all spare cogs that were added to a machine that doesn't do anything."
I listened to Wallace but I didn't really hear what he was saying. "Oh well," I replied.
"You're gonna become one of those Category A's, aren't you?"
Category A: the grey suits that minimized all aspect of living. They don't carry suitcases, they just hold their work item in their left hand and their punch card in their right. They got four hours of sleep a day and work the rest, accumulating the extra money for retirement. Category A's were rarely seen, they were like ghosts, quickly brushing through the crowds.
I was a Category B. The standard suitcase and 6 hours of sleep. If it weren't for Gary the fish I would've easily been a Category A. But I wasn't ready to give him up.
Wallace interrupted my thoughts. "Well it looks like you're busy today so I'll leave you to work, Henry. Oh, before I forget. You got something for me?"
I opened my suitcase and handed Wallace the reports I wrote for him. That was how Wallace survived. He would probably trade the reports for ink ribbon and trade the ribbons for a comb for his neat hair.
"Cheers. Good luck on your work," Wallace said as he walked back to the elevators, dragging his suitcase with him.
The sandwich was tasteless and my hands ached as I continued to type the article that probably no one would read.
The sun was on its approach back to the horizon as I slid the report into the drop box by the elevators. The wall spat out a new envelope as I retrieved my punch card.
I opened the notice as I rode the elevator down.
Property of Mill's Corporation.
Worker Number 792859
Proceed to Mill's Corporation Building #11 – Floor 29
Arrive at 6:00 November 10th 2105
It was time to rent a room for the night. I took the train to Sleeping Residence #41, just across from where I would work tomorrow. Another concrete monolith. Inside was a dimly lit lobby.
I read the sign and handed a thin old man behind the counter my punch card and $89.
"Six hours," I quickly said.
The thin old man took the items and slowly entered the twenty digit code into his operating machine. It made a creaking sound and a key dropped out of the machine.
"Floor 58, pod 562," the man shakily informed me as he handed over the key.
In the lobby I bought a nutrition pill from a vending machine. It was cranberry flavored. I didn't notice.
After a slow elevator ride I arrived on the 58th floor. The room was large and lit a golden colour from the occasional chandelier. The entire room was gridlocked with tiny $89 for 6 hour "bedrooms", efficiently stacked with three pods per column that reached to the low ceiling. Essentially, the room was a catacomb with private chamber to sleep in.
I approached pod 562 and unlocked the thin sliding door. I opened my suitcase and changed into my sleeping clothes. I placed Gary the fish by the headboard in the "coffin" bed and slid my suitcase into the compartment underneath the mattress. I squeezed into the pod and reclined on the bed. Gary swam by my head. I closed the door leaving me in complete darkness.
Sleep came quickly.
At 5:20 my eyes opened to the internal alarm clock that had been engraved into my brain. There wasn't time to lie around. I opened the door.
Other people were emerging from their "rooms" as well. Looking tired and worn, just like me. We moved through our mindless routines. Some no longer bothered to change or shower, they just continued to wear their wrinkled suit straight from bed to the rest of their day. I had enough energy to trudge to a showering cubicle and shave with the chained public razor.
I replaced my dirty sweats and t-shirt with my dirty grey suit, neatly folded my sleeping clothes back into my suitcase along with Gary the fish. I began to close my suitcase, except it didn't zip up. A piece of string jammed the zipper. I tugged harder and impatiently. It snapped. A piece of metal zipper flew through the air and disappeared amongst the debris on the floor.
Suitcase Replacements #22 was on the sixth floor. It was small like a dry cleaner's store. A man stood behind the counter. I dragged my suitcase cautiously, trying to keep the contents from falling out. I did not want to lose Gary.
"The zipper on my case is broken." I showed the incident.
"Ok." He was younger than me, with a weasel face. "Put it in the shaft, we'll have it replaced. Punch card please."
I handed the punch card and he began writing out the number in a ledger.
"Where do I put my stuff? Do I get a new case now?" I questioned.
"Just leave it in the suitcase, we'll replace it. You'll get your new one in an hour."
"An hour? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Not my problem"
"This must be a mistake. You're telling me everyone stands around for an hour waiting for a replacement? I got work to do."
"Listen man, don't question. I've been working here for 9 hours, that's how it works. Now the sooner you pop that suitcase in, the sooner you'll get a new one."
I didn't really have an option. I opened the shaft, carefully slid in my suitcase, and closed the door. The man gave me a receipt stub that looked easily replicable if one had paper, pen, and a steady hand. I took it anyways.
I felt a sense of panic as I took my first dozen steps away with no suitcase. I looked back at the shop but there wasn't anything to see. I regained my composure and made my way to the elevator.
I didn't feel like paying to sleep for another hour so I took the elevator to the roof. It took a long time to travel up 80 floors. People got on and got off. All similar looking suits, not one noteworthy from the next.
The elevator reached the top floor.
Ding
I opened the doors and stepped out. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on a roof. There was never any reason. The air was foggy and I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me. There was grass on the ground, something I hadn't seen for years. I cautiously walked towards the edge of the building through the mist. I reached a wooden bench so I decided to quit exploring and just take a seat. It was almost as if I was sitting in a windowless closet due to the air quality. It felt strange. It was silent at least.
A crow flew down and perched by my feet. It was large and sickly looking. We made eye contact for a bit. I wondered if one day crows would start carrying little miniature suitcases with them. It squawked and flew back into the dreary sky.
Time passed.
A drizzle began but it was light enough to not matter. I heard the elevator door open off in the distance. Footsteps approached. I watched until a figure emerged from the haze. It was a woman dressed in the conventional attire. Her face oddly long and thin. She looked surprised to be not alone on the roof.
She examined me. Then softly spoke. "Where's your suitcase?"
"Suitcase? I dropped it off at the –"
"You threw it off?" she interrupted. "Are you like me? Maybe I'm not so alone after all."
She paused, allowing me to reply but I had nothing to say. She spoke before the silence became long. "I came up here with the intention of throwing myself off, but when those elevator doors opened, and I saw you without your suitcase… well I guess it'd be more poetic to throw my other life off." She looked down at her suitcase. "Did you have intentions of jumping or was it the idea to toss your suitcase all along?"
I decided it was better not to say that I was waiting for a new suitcase downstairs so I just quickly replied with, "Yep."
"I've never smelled such freedom before. Hell, I don't think I've ever felt so free even to hear my own voice leave my lips. Always stuck in the sludge among the Greys, my individuality completely invisible to the universe. I'm only convinced I'm still me by this excuse of a soul in this suitcase. You know they control us with these suitcases? They give us the saddest of limitations to express our personality hidden to only ourselves when we occasionally open these cases between the spare scraps of time from the chains of work. You get what I mean, right?"
I had no idea what she meant. I nodded my head and gave another quick yep.
She looked at me and blushed. "I don't think I've ever talked to anyone like this… or at all in the past year."
I thought of Wallace. Maybe I would be like her if I didn't know Wallace.
"What did you have in your suitcase?" She asked me then interrupted my lack of answer with, "No don't say. It doesn't matter anymore does it? You are who you are now, no longer defined by a 0.7 meter cube of volume."
She stopped and looked out into the distant haze of pollution. "I'm going to do it now."
She walked past me to the edge. I had to leave my seat and follow her in order to see through the fog. She took her time standing looking over the low wall. There wasn't much to see with the thick grey air. The woman retracted the handle of her suitcase and lifted it over the low ridge. I could see the brief hesitation, then she pushed it over sending it out of sight into the murky abyss.
I thought of the people below on the street. Did it land on someone? I thought of what was inside her suitcase. What were the items that defined her? Hopefully it wasn't a pet.
She interrupted my thoughts with a celebratory scream. She actually sounded happy. I watched in curiosity and concern. I didn't like being near her. I wondered if I could walk away, just slowly retreat in the fog towards the elevator.
She looked at me. "Are you staying up here or going down?"
I tried to think of what she wasn't going to do. "Going down."
"Great, let's go," she sounded happy. I was frightened by her energy.
Eighty floors to the bottom. It was just us two for the first ten floors. She was lost in her thoughts, which left the room in silence. Before now, I had never felt relief when someone else entered an elevator.
Floor 47. The elevator was full. She stood beside me and grabbed my hand. My body tensed. Her hand was warm and soft. I tried to stay as still as possible.
Floor 46. The doors opened. A large portion of the suits in the elevator were leaving. It was my chance. I slipped my hand out of hers and quickly exited with the crowd just before the doors shut. I didn't look back to see her face.
Just like that she was gone. Just as quickly as I met her, I disappeared from her.
I walked to the washroom to regain composure. I stared into the mirror. My face had a cold sweat. I reached for my suitcase for my soap to wash my hands but realized it wasn't there. I needed my suitcase.
As I began to exit two black suits entered the washroom.
"Where's your suitcase?" The tall black suit on the left asked. The one on the right opened his own suitcase retrieving a baton.
"Suitcase? I dropped it off at the –"
"Speak quickly now." The left interrupted.
I began my sentence again. "I dropped it off at the Suitcase Replacement shop."
They exchanged stares. "Show us your punch card."
I took out my punch card from my suit pocket and complied. The man on the right retrieved a notebook and copied my number, closed the notebook and handed back the punch card.
They walked past me and continued on their destination towards the urinals.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
The elevator ride to the sixth floor felt rapid. A different person stood at Suitcase Replacements #22, a short woman with thick arms.
I handed her my receipt and spoke. "Pickup."
She examined the piece of paper slowly and wrote something out. Taking the list, she retreated through the door behind her without saying a word. I waited for several minutes. The woman returned with a shiny new suitcase that otherwise looked the same as the previous.
The zipper smoothly opened as I examined the contents. Typewriter, personal files, spare set of clothes, Gary the fish, silver fork, toiletries. All was in order. I zipped my new suitcase closed and rolled out.
A crowd was gathered in the street. Black suits were securing the area. The smashed suitcase looked like a scene from a murder. Splattered oranges littered the ground along with a destroyed violin. I guessed the woman's identity was an orange-loving violinist. I watched for a moment but decided it would be better to leave, especially with all the black suits around. Besides, I had already wasted an hour waiting for a new suitcase. I had catching up to do at work.
Minuets passed riding the elevators. Hours passed working. Days passed. As I closed my eyes I would wonder about the woman on the roof. Where was she now, I wondered. Did she get a new suitcase?
I opened my eyes. A week must have passed. I was on the train. My hidden talent of waking up two minutes before my stop was still working efficiently. It was unusually empty today. Only a dozen suits were in the passenger car. So few people that I even spotted a Category A standing by the train door. A skeleton hidden underneath the grey coat, the left hand holding pencil and a small notebook. That was it, no suitcase.
As the doors opened, the Category A quickly exited. I stood from my suitcase which by now had lost its new shininess. The walk was short to Mill's Corporation Building #49. The line was slow to reception as I stood behind a smelly suit, fat neck folded over a soiled collar. I picked up the expected envelopes, chucked the overdue blood donation into the trash and read the tasks in the elevator.
Property of Mill's Corporation.
Worker Number 792859
Tasks: November 17 - 23 Issue
Report: Inquiry into Suitcase Destruction Movement
Note: Interview Transcript attached
Requirements: 2-6 pages (12 point, standard double spaced, Times New Roman font, pages numbered)
Due Date: 17:00 on November 16th 2105.
How official, I thought as I checked the attached interview transcript. I reached an empty desk, sat on my case, and quickly read the attached page. Then I read it a second time much slower.
Key words stood out:
"Karen Somerville: First individual on record charged with discarding suitcase in violent fashion.
Several lines down:
Interviewer: "Why did you throw the suitcase off the building?"
Karen Somerville: "There was a man, he told me to do it. He said he did it."
Interviewer: "Who was the man?"
Karen Somerville: "I don't know. He looked like me and everyone else."
Interviewer: "Where can we find this man?"
Karen Somerville. It wasn't the name I pictured for an orange-loving violinist. Though that was the least of my concerns. It was the transcript of the interrogation from a black suit that bothered me.
Questions bombarded my mind. Why'd they care about a person throwing a suitcase? Why'd they care about me? Were they looking for me?
A hand patted my back, breaking my thoughts.
"Hey Henry, funny to bump into you again."
It was Wallace. He showed his customary toothy smile.
"Henry, where's you typewriter? It's been two hours since you should have started work."
Two hours, I thought. I looked at my watch and indeed two hours had passed.
"What work you got today?" Wallace looked at the open file on my desk. "Ah the falling suitcase issue. Crazy stuff eh? I was chatting to another person and she said she saw one this morning?"
"This morning?" I manage to question.
"Yeah they're becoming more frequent ever since the first one last week. Some kind of new trend." Wallace looked straight into my eyes. His voice suddenly shifted from cheerful to serious. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about who started this trend? I'm sure you read the transcript. Someone told Somerville to do it."
Sweat began to form on my hairline. Wallace saw it. I couldn't do anything but stare back.
"No," I manage to reply after a long silence.
"Hm. Well looks like I should leave you to it then. Seems you got a lot of work to do if you haven't even started yet." Wallace's voice was back to its recognizable social cheerfulness. "Oh and sorry I forgot to bring a sandwich." Wallace dragged his suitcase away towards the elevator, looking back at me before turning the corner.
I wiped the sweat from my brow. My hands were shaking. The typewriter would steady them.
I placed Gary the fish and my typewriter on the table and fed paper into the machine. My nerves calmed with the familiar keyboard at my finger tips and Gary the fish's tranquil presence.
I wondered about what the difference was between a Category A and someone like Karen Somerville. Both left their suitcases behind but for completely different reasons. A Category A would discard a suitcase because they had declined individuality, while Karen talked about gaining her identity from no longer dragging the burden, or at least that's what I thought Karen said.
I tried to focus on writing the report but my thoughts were a mess. My mind kept asking myself questions like, where do all the belongings go when a person becomes a Category A?
Repeatedly I typed out introduction paragraphs for the article but quickly abandoned the attempt and began anew. Sheet after sheet with zero progress. A steady pile of crumpled pages began to form in the trash bin next to the desk.
I couldn't write anything. I stared at the blank sheet. Nothing would satisfy the page. I looked at Gary the fish. Gary swam peacefully in tiny circles. He seemed content living in a tiny plastic container that was mostly on a desk or in a dark suitcase.
There was still six hours until the deadline but I knew I wasn't going to make it. My body did not have the will to write anything. I wondered if it even mattered. No one read the reports anyway. The whole process of work was pointless. I worked all my life scraping by to have enough money to be able to work the next day. All for what? There was no such thing as retirement. All illusions. Nothing mattered.
I looked at Gary the fish once more. You matter, Gary.
I stood up from my suitcase and picked up the container housing Gary the fish in my left hand. I began to take three nervous steps away from my suitcase. Then six more steps away with slightly more control. Another dozen steps. I looked back at the case, then I looked down at Gary in my left hand. I stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed I took a final look at the abandoned suitcase.
There was only one other person inside the elevator. They looked quizzically at my lack of suitcase.
I smiled at them.
About the Author
Evan is an illusion. He is actually about 21 bees that form a swarm in the approximate shape of an engineering student. Together, the bees are capable of remarkable tasks, such as writing short dystopian stories and occasional slices of life, as well as reaching the top shelf of cabinets without a stepping stool. His creativity is sparked by the writing clubs he’s in, and then his creativity is drained by writing fake newsletters and fake blogs for the University. When the bees aren’t procrastinating on writing, they are [insert hobbies here-too bad you don’t have any hobbies, Evan].
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