It’s high time my wife and I bought some new luggage. Apparently our existing suitcase looks a tad nondescript. Though I can’t be sure the bag’s commonplace appearance caused the misrouting to Cleveland on Saturday, I have no doubt its pedestrian form led to this morning’s error. The piece of luggage I pulled from the Atlanta airport’s carousel after our flight home closely resembled our own, so much so that I didn’t discover my mistake until we unpacked. But as soon as Sophia opened the suitcase, our blunder became obvious. We both knew neither of us had stowed a Bible, a Crucifix or two sets of priestly vestments.
Upon closer inspection we located the identification tag for the bag’s rightful owner: Father Flanagan. I dialed the listed telephone number, explained the situation to the church receptionist and was connected to a man identifying himself as one of the church’s deacons. Much to my surprise, after I told the deacon about my inadvertent acquisition of Father Flanagan’s suitcase, he informed me that Father Flanagan had accidentally collected our luggage. The deacon promised to send someone over to switch out the bags later this afternoon.
After talking to the deacon, I realized I’d forgotten to ask whether anyone had opened our suitcase. For Father Flanagan’s sake, I certainly hoped no one but him decided to unpack, considering the three last-minute items I recall tossing on top before zipping the bag shut:
1. The “man thong” I’d purchased for my friend Ned as a gag birthday gift;
2. The bottle of erectile dysfunction pills which I’d nearly left behind in the guest bathroom at my brother’s house;
3. The photos given to Sophia by her sister-in-law depicting my wife’s nephews and their friends at a recent birthday party – specifically: shirtless, dripping, pre-pubescent boys at a pool party.