In 1995, my sons were attending college in North Carolina and I was living in Wyoming. It was the summer before their senior year and I found a nice package deal that would allow us to attend baseball games at Yankee and Shea Stadium in New York and Fenway Park in Boston as well as a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. None of us had ever been to any of those venues. The package included all tickets, lodging, and transportation. All we had to do was get to New York City. They arranged their travel from Charlotte and I took care of the rest. A few days of father/son stuff.
Rick and Josh arrived in New York before I did and were waiting for me at my arrival gate at LaGuardia. You could actually do that prior to 9/11, walk right up to the gate. We hurried to baggage claim so we could start our New York adventure as soon as possible. After the normal delay, the bell rang, light glowed amber, and the conveyor belt began to roll. All the passengers from my flight began to circle the carousel, assuming their bags had actually accompanied them on the flight. Experienced travelers are always hopeful, tempered with doubt.
Bags appeared and began their slow journey down the conveyor and around the carousel. It was a packed flight, so there was a pretty good crowd. We had chosen a good position to acquire my bag and be on our way. Even though the baggage carousel appears to be creeping along, retrieving a bag is always done in a bit of a panic.
Suddenly, amidst the assortment of bags, appeared a tube of toothpaste and a sock. Everyone chuckled. Then there were some other articles of clothing and toiletries making the rounds. More laughs and even I made a comment about the poor person whose personal items were on display. The second time around, I made a devastating realization. I recognized one of my shirts. Had I been wealthy, I would have left the airport immediately and just purchased new everything. But had I been well-to-do, I probably would not be the owner of a suitcase that had been patched with assorted colors of duct tape. Though I had traveled extensively in my 20 years in the Air Force, Bataan Death March participants carried nicer luggage than I did. And now everyone on American Airlines Flight 2397 and their friends and family were aware of that fact.
I had no option other than to begin reclamation of my belongings. Eventually, my bag also appeared, gaping open and nearly empty. From the passage of the first items, both my sons had distanced themselves from me, pretending not to know me, so I was pretty much on my own as I scurried about on this sad salvage mission, like a contestant in some sort of white trash game show. When I had recovered most of my property (not too interested in reobtaining the toothbrush), I found that the latch was mortally wounded and the case would never close again. So, we left the airport with me holding the case in my arms like the dead soldier that it was.
The deluxe package billeted us in a four-star hotel in Manhattan, which added to my humiliation, as we were forced into the services of a bellhop. Taking one look at the state of my suitcase, the bellman correctly assumed tips were going to be meager. While for many New York tourists, bellhops and cab drivers are a source of drugs and prostitutes, I employed them to obtain some duct tape and twine, which In Midtown Manhattan are much harder to score.
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