The American Tourister

by Giuseppe Grassi

Skillful hands caress the red propylene. The zipper is pulled, and the suitcase opened with the care of someone who discovers a treasure. Plastic molds are places in the empty space, just to simulate a stack of shirts and a set of ties.

The clerk closes the suitcase and, like a dog sitter, shows the docility with which the luggage follows him. But the costumers thank him and leave the store without purchases.

Outside the store, I can enjoy the reverse engineering by which the clerk unpacks the suitcase and put it back in its selling place. Few moments later, and two more customers are ready to buy: the same suitcase, from the same clerk, who mimics the same charming movements.

But again, once the presentation is over, they thank him with a nod and leave empty-handed.

The clerk returns to the starting line. So, other couples other rounds same results, but then something happens. This couple, I’m almost sure, is the same of the first ones I saw. Have they reconsidered?

After the presentation, they thank and do not buy. The clerk doesn't flinch and starts again with the next couple that I recognize as well. On the reflection of the showcase my astonishment becomes evident: I’m watching the same couples take turns in a pointless carousel.

I step back, slowly, stumbling over a rail that cuts through the asphalt. Rails that draw a semicircle starting and returning to the store. I barely move away before two silhouettes crush me. They are two of the well-known customers who, following the rails, enter the store while others leave just to get back in line.

The jerky movement begins to slow down until it stops. All pairs remain silent and still, when, near a brick wall, I see a black box with a lever that looks like a detonator.

A peal announces the exit of a stocky man from a bar. Shutting his flannel coat, he sucks in a cigarette and, looking at me, approaches the detonator. Putting his hands on the lever, he spits out a cloud of smoke. A look at the shop, and instinctively I try to protect myself with my arms.

The man smiles, but instead of pressing he begins to rotate, reloading the spring of the mechanism. Then, he goes back to the bar, and when the ringing of the doorbell resounds in the alley, the mechanical ballet resumes.

At this point, I always feel my strength failing… a lack of strength that leads me to an awakening.

My suitcase is there, on the luggage belt, moving through the crowded room. It's not red, but it’s red the shirt I use to travel. Together they try to remind me who I am. Not a seller. Not a buyer. Not an extra in a dream that vanishes as soon as I decide to wake up. I am a "thing".

But if the movies of my childhood have taught me anything, it's that "things", especially “the stranger things,” carry more life than those who think to sell or use them. Especially when these people are sleeping awake, and you can keep dreaming, even with your eyes open.

Story written for the November ’21 “Furious Fiction” Contest by the Australian Writers’ Center.

                                                                                                                                                             (Revisited July 7, ‘22)