The Suitcase

[TheMercenary]

A suitcase in the center of the freeway

Causing chaos without going anywhere

BY HOLLIS GILLESPIE

Published 08.15.07

The other day there was a suitcase sitting in the center of the freeway, and cars were swerving every which way to avoid hitting it, not that hitting it would have been so bad. In fact, I wish someone had. It was just a framed canvas bag that might have gotten caught in your car grill for a bit but not done much permanent damage or anything. Still, though, people were giving it a wide margin. Traffic careened around it, people were late for things, and days were rearranged. All because of a suitcase sitting there.

"Christ, will somebody move that thing?" I thought as I angled around it. I would have done it myself, but I had my child there to think about.

In fact it was her big day at performance camp at the Art Station in Stone Mountain, and when we finally arrived there it was amid a last-minute panic to rewrite the play's script, because another parent had complained about the play's content, in particular the part of the "vestal girls," which was the 7-year-old equivalent to the vestal virgins of Roman mythology. The rankled parent had complained the part indoctrinated the young girls who played it into "militant lesbianism."

Personally, I think a vestal virgin is a much better role model for a 7-year-old than the parade of infamous mini crack whores invading the media these days, not that I have anything against mini crack whores. I don't wanna judge. I know they must have mothers themselves, probably, and maybe those mothers burst with pride when their girls get out of a limo, for example, and angle those naked crotches so well for the photographers, or when their daughters' pupils are dilated so pretty in their mug shots. I just personally hope my girl grows up to aspire for more than a designer blouse to camouflage her prison tats and track marks, that's all. But who am I but a parent who was actually there to see her child perform in the play, as opposed to a parent who was not planning to show up but nonetheless fired off an e-mail that had everyone engaged in the turmoil of rewriting the script?

"The vestal virgins were actually priestesses," I suggested, operating from the memory of my own grade-school mythology classes, which, amazingly, did not steer me down the road to adolescent sodomy, eventual weapon-toting lesbianism, back-alley abortions, or death and the ultimate destruction of Earth. I did go through a bit of a pyromaniac phase, though, but maybe that's because matchbooks and cigarettes were kept in a candy bowl on our coffee table. I remember I was in a Christmas recital then, too, and my father missed every rehearsal, which was fine with me. I didn't want him embarrassing me by showing up all five-o'clock-shadowed and boozy-breathed, but when it came time for the actual performance he was there in the audience, pointing his lit cigarette at me with pride. I do remember that. I absolutely remember that.

"In fact," I continued, "the vestal virgins were the only female priests in Roman mythology. So let's change the name of the part." So this change, among others, was agreed upon. Also, the part of the chorus that included, "Do we get married? No!" was subtracted, because God forbid a 7-year-old girl grow up to be independent and empowered outside of wedlock.

No one thought twice before making the decision to rewrite the script. Any decision otherwise would have excluded the girl from participating, and in the face of decisions like this it's always better to be kind than to be right. That is why I'm so impressed with the camp staff. This is "drama" camp, after all, and I can hardly think of a better way to equip your child to embark on life's journey than to bestow her with the flexibility to navigate the dramatic and circumvent the obstinate.

The girl was elated and the play went underway, with the new lines all the more hilarious for being mangled in their delivery. Afterward the ovations were made, the cake was served, the pictures were taken, and the parents were proud. Nobody mentioned the missing parent who'd caused the ruckus at curtain time. It was over. It was forgotten.

Until the ride home, when I thought of the suitcase sitting in the center of the road again, and all the cars that were redirected around it as it sat undisturbed, and how people can be like that sometimes, sitting undisturbed in the middle of everything, admonishing the chaos around them while obtuse to being the cause of it. I used to be the kind of person who would get out and move it, but now I just go around because I have this kid here to think about.

So as I drove I considered that Christmas recital when I was 7, when my unemployed trailer-salesman father found the time to brush his teeth and tuck in his shirt long enough to sit in the audience and listen to me sing about the Virgin Mary and other militant lesbians. His proud face is what I was thinking about when we came across the suitcase again. It had been knocked to the side of the road, but other than that it was still sitting there, having gone nowhere.

Hollis Gillespie authored two top-selling memoirs and founded the Shocking Real-Life Writing Academy (www.shockingreallife.com).

http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/g...s=yes#comments

[xoxoxoBruce]

Excellent.

[Cyclefrance]

When I saw the name of this thread, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, and I must admit that the title brought immediately to mind my encounter with this particular item of travel gear about two weeks ago.

My son had vacated the 'studio' (in reality a converted garage - but studio sounds so much more inviting) at our place in March this year, leaving behind the usual chaos of youthful departure (take what you need - normally about 10% of what's there - and leave everything else). The opportunity finally to turn it back into the office it had intended to become over a year ago (when said son departed for a life in Australia - a very short life as it transpired – but that’s another story) seemed to acquire no urgency. That is, until three weeks ago.

Younger son had left his parental home after returning from a holiday with his then girlfriend in Hawaii (all right for some!). They left unattached but returned engaged (those island sunsets have a lot to answer for!), and had then negotiated the right to return home in August for an engagement party. That event happened over the past weekend. Our nephew from Spain was scheduled to come to stay sometime during his holidays and it didn’t take long on hearing the date that he decided to arrive so that he could attend the party.

Mrs CF hit on the idea of redecorating the ‘studio’ so that he could stay there. Now when Mrs CF says ‘redecorate’, what she really means is ‘totally gut and refurbish’. She hurriedly located a decorator who could fit the job in so that the place would be ready two days before our nephew arrived. The decorator needed a good week to do his bit, but, naturally, he wanted a clear room to work in.

Younger son was instructed to clear his stuff out of the garage. I should have realized when he said ‘all done’ after only an hour of activity that his idea of ’all done’ wasn’t the same as mine (or anyone else’s for that matter). Negotiating his return to finish the job, however, was a predictably lost cause. A whole weekend and two evenings later I had the room down to bare essentials – lots of black sacks, some odds and ends of re-usable furniture (shelves mainly), a set of tom-toms, endless assortments of computer cabling, old games consoles… and a suitcase that was lying inside the wardrobe.

The suitcase was quite heavy – I imagined it had a smaller case or two, Russian doll style, inside. Might as well check their condition – the outer case was in bad shape, so I wasn’t expecting much (so important to manage expectations). But, then, it revealed itself not to contain any other cases – far from it – it actually contained (and promptly regurgitated all over the 'studio' floor) the clothes my son had taken to Hawaii, nearly six months ago. And a fine assortment they were. Plenty of ‘Diesel’ wear, and ‘Abercrombie’ and ‘Nike’ and ‘Adidas’ and ‘Tommy Hilfiger’ and… well it went on and on. Not only that, there were some of these items still in plastic bags, unopened and sporting price tags in US Dollars (clearly purchases while on holiday).

Now my son is always pleading poverty, so to discover this e-bay treasure trove of prospective funds was quite two-fold surprising – on the one side pleasant, because he had access to a fairly prompt injection of cash, but on the other dismaying that these items had lain for so long incarcerated and oblivious to mankind, and in fact had almost been consigned to the local tip!

Emotions-tugging enough! - and there now remains but one problem. How do you convince a son who has left such items unattended for several months that he should now find the enthusiasm to turn such gems of the designer world into the cash he claims to need so desperately for his pocket?

Suitcases often contain and transport more than their obvious contents…

[xoxoxoBruce]

Did you spoil all your kids?

[Cyclefrance]

Doesn't every parent?