Just A Canvas Bag

An hour and a half since lunch, then an hour and a half more and he'd be gone, slipping out of the office an hour early to catch his flight.  Ted's light last day before vacation was going according to plan. He updated a couple of spreadsheets, set a couple of meetings for week after next, alternated between staring at the webpage for the hotel he'd booked and staring at the page for the photography workshop he'd booked.  In Vegas.  He had his caveats, but that's where the workshop always was, so he had to bite the bullet or give up on ever attending.  

He was half way through the afternoon, half way through his muffin, and half way through his coffee - perfectly synchronized snacking.  His neighbor was happy to take in his mail and newspapers while he was out.  He'd checked in with his mom, and she was all set for the week and a half he'd be gone.  His sister would be checking in on her, and her neighbors always looked out for her.  She'd be fine.  Life would go on nice and quiet while he was away from everything for a week.  All the buttons were buttoned; all the "i's" were dotted; all the "t's" were crossed.  But there was one more thing, something that had slipped his normally very conscientious mind.  

He picked up the phone and dialed Roger, friend and gambler's anonymous sponsor, lo the past fifteen years.  This was the man who'd helped the most to keep his affairs in order, his hungers under control, his checkboxes checked, and his steps stepped off, all this time. He was also a partner in Meals on Wheels.  Not his partner - he was with another team - but he was flexible, and that's what Ted needed at the moment.

"Hey, Roger, it's Ted.  Listen, I need some backup on Meals on Wheels next week.  Terry's laid up with back problems and I'm going to be out of town at a workshop until Wednesday week after next.  Think you can cover my Tuesday route those two weeks, or arrange to get them covered?  No need to call back that's okay ... on second thought, give me a holler back either way, so I'll be sure it's covered.  Thanks - catch you later. "

The last loose end, he was pretty sure, had now been tied.  He went down the checklist again, and there were no empty boxes.  All was good.

Back to the workshop page, looking at the seminars.  He was continually re-arranging his priorities. Maybe he wanted the landscape photography track, which included an afternoon outing to the mountains outside one day and the desert another. That would be better than the studio and glamour photography tracks, which would've kept him inside the city, and closer to temptation.  Fifteen years of sobriety and he was still wary. Once an addict, always an addict was the rule, not the exception. 

Suddenly, right over the left edge of his monitor, there was movement - a running figure going left to right in the courtyard, jeans and a light blue t-shirt.  Just as Ted noticed the canvas bag in his hand, the man slowed and tossed it into the shrubbery, into a little gab between two bushes. He barely slowed, and was gone by the time things had fully registered with Ted.  Not ten seconds later, a cop ran past in the same direction, not slowing at all.

The view from his window was still and quiet again. Ted took a sip from his coffee and a nibble from his muffin and started processing what had just happened.  He waited.  No more visitors to the courtyard.  Ten minutes and nobody else came.

So there it sat - right there - not twenty feet from his window.  He was sure someone was going to be coming back for it, though he wasn't sure who.  There was the man who tossed it there and the cop who chased him through the courtyard.  Ted had to assume he was a criminal, after all, why would the cop be chasing him, otherwise? The criminal, the thief, had slowed just enough to skitter the bag across the walkway and into the low gap between the bushes.  It made a great nook.  It was just a little triangular gap, no more than ten inches high, and just as wide at the base, going straight back to the grey brick of the courtyard wall.  It was a happy coincidence that the light canvas bag blended in so well with the brick.  It might take forever for someone to notice it.  One of us bystanders that is, he thought.

Of course, it wouldn't take long for one of them to miss it.  The first man, the villain of our piece, surely had a very good idea of where he left it, and would most definitely be back for it, assuming he had the liberty to do so.  

The police officer, in contrast, might not know about the missing bag, depending on how his pursuit of the felon went.  If the man vanishes, so does any notion of what he might and might not ~ <buzz>

"Yes, Mrs. Allen?"

"Mr. Sayer, this is Mrs. Allen at reception.  I have a Mr. Berman at my desk, and he's wondering if you have a few minutes."  She always introduced herself, like he wouldn't remember who was at reception, and whose name he had just said, only seconds before.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Allen, please tell Mr. Berman that I'm booked up the rest of the afternoon, and leaving early on vacation.  I'd be glad to meet with him on my return, if he'll call and schedule something."

"Thank you, Mr. Sayer."

"Mmmm-hmm." <click>

~ any notion at all of what he might and might not still have on his person.  Of course, if he's caught, they might come to a pretty quick conclusion about the bag and start retracing steps to nail down its whereabouts.  Would he get away? Be caught? Who would likely come back the soonest?  And how soon?

He wondered, sotto voce, how long that might take.  He heard sirens droning off into the distance.  Did they have a different tone while in pursuit, he wondered, different from how they sounded in transit with dangerous felons with or without their stolen goods?

It was a large-ish bag, sack really.  Like a canvas tote.  Like a good-sized money bag. There was a glint of light as the man tossed it. Like maybe off of a lock on a money bag.

If I had my workout bag with me, he thought.  If I had something that size, he mused, it would just swallow up that canvas bag.

It's right over there.  Not twenty feet away.

<ding> <ding>

Two inbound emails, back to back.  Everyone wants a last little piece of you when they know you're going to be gone for more than a day or two.  More so when you're going to be more than a week, some of it in remote areas, and you've made it known that you've no interest in checking messages in your absence, even if you could.

Everyone is always so wrapped up in their own little things.  We miss the big picture, he told himself often, if we don't stop and clear our heads.  That's what he was about to do.  Soon, everything will be brand new again.

He glanced at the emails.  Both had a slight urgency to them - "Hope I haven't missed you.  Do you have a minute to" something or other with someone or other.  No, not really. Kind of busy at the moment.  One had a popup requesting a read receipt be sent.  Do I want to send that?  His cursor hovered over yes, then chose no.  Not really, thank you.  In fact, he decided to just mark both of them as unread.  No need to give more people than necessary the impression he's around and open for business this afternoon.  He had other things to concern himself with this afternoon.  After all, he was leaving for vacation shortly - and had a loose end or two.

He'd already been coasting through most of the day, even before the fleet-footed visitors in the courtyard.  He'd rechecked his packing list - all there - item by item.  Everything I need, except a nice bag of loot, parked under a shrub in the courtyard.  He amused himself with that thought.

Not that he knew it was stuffed full of lush green bills, but come on, on the face of it, you don't get chased through neighborhoods for carrying your lunch around in a bag.  A canvas sack.  Like a money bag. Like a bank bag with a lock on it.

It seemed full, from where he sat - and hefty.  It must've just squeaked through the gap in the shrubs.  A sudden thought occurred to him.  It could get wet.  Sometimes they change the sprinkler schedules or test at random times.  He might have seen the groundskeepers' truck around the other side just before lunch. Are they waterproof, those bags?  Under normal conditions, it probably wouldn't matter in the least if they were waterproof.  Of course, strange things happen, don't they?  Resistant, maybe, he didn't know.

And there are used grocery sacks in the break room, he told himself.  One of those - a couple of those - would protect the bag from rain or sprinklers or whatever.

In fact, it occurred to him, he could bring it inside, in the grocery sacks, two or three layers of sacks, and keep it here in the office, safe until he left at three.  It was only an hour away now.  Thirty minutes and nobody had come back for the bag.  If he went and retrieved the bag, on the way home, he could take it straight to the cops.  The station was only four blocks away and only a block out of his way.  That would definitely save them a trip, without putting himself out too much.  It was only 86 degrees.  A quick stroll in the courtyard wouldn't hurt, and would break the monotony.  Maybe he'd stop and sit for a bit on the bench across from his window.

Plus, if he saw it, someone in the offices next to his might have seen, too.  That sneaky SOB Mike Adams could be plotting to steal it even as he sat here, amidst his own plans to rescue it.  The person who came back - the hardened criminal who might already be on his way back right then, wasn't going to be happy about that, and would take it out on whoever he came across. That would serve Adams just right.  He never thought about anybody but himself.  Pretty shocking really, He forgot sometimes how much he loathed that opportunistic bastard.

He stood and looked around his office, like he was forgetting something. Or missing something.  He checked to make sure those two emails were marked unread, then locked his screen.  Always a stickler about security, he was.

He was almost on autopilot now, coming out of his office, then around the corner to the left, into the break room, and into the first drawer, bottom left, of the cabinets, like he did it every day he was there.  He walked out with what he needed, bunched up in his fist - two bags, no three - there was one stuffed inside the other.  Probably a good idea anyway, he told himself.  Out into the hallway and to the left again, toward the glaring light of the doors leading to the side entrance via the courtyard.  Trying to will himself to be invisible.  Or casual.  He thought casual was a practical substitute for invisible, and really the most he could hope for, given the current state of optical physics.

He was just about to turn to the left a third time, into the short corridor that adjoined the west wall of the courtyard, when he saw the Ramon's Landscaping truck.  He almost missed it, but there was one shaft of light glinting off the passenger side rearview mirror that, just before he turned, knifed through the hallway blinds and pierced his right eye like an arrow.  A thought.  A diversion.  He needed to make sure Ramon didn't pop into the courtyard at the wrong moment and interfere with things.

Out the double doors to the sidewalk now, with Ramon down the walk, doing something with the far flower bed.  He seemed about done, ready to move on.  Ted glanced around.  His mind darted about, wondering.  What are my options, he asked.  A glance down at his shoes gave him a thought.  Two feet to the right, he spied a pop up sprinkler head at the edge between grass and sidewalk.  He stepped to it, and, trying to move only his lower leg, slammed it three times with the heel of his right shoe, all the while watching Ramon.  On the second kick, he felt it give.  On the third, it toppled in its socket like a broken tooth.  And then he tried to look very casual, like he'd just come out for a walk, just like that, just like people do to clear their heads for a moment.  Don't glance around, he told himself, don't look suspicious.  If anyone had seen you do that, you'd know by now, he explained.  Ramon certainly didn't.  He was still shifting dirt around in the flower bed, filling holes left by dead plants.

"Oh, hey, Ramon!"

Surely, he heard me.  I yelled loud enough to raise the dead.

"Ramon!  Over here!"

"Ramon!!"

Damn it!

He walked around the bend to the main sidewalk and then another ten feet.  He wanted to be casual about it, but deaf and dumb Ramon wasn't making it easy on him.  

"Ramon?"

"Ramon ..."

"Ramon!!"

Ted tried to reset his face as Ramon looked up and began to stand, but he was sure he still looked flustered.

"Yes?"

"Sorry, Ramon, I wasn't trying to be rude, but would you come see this?"

Or should I just tell him?  What do people usually do? Doesn't matter, he's coming, shuffling over like he was the one about to go on vacation."

"Iss there a prolem?"  Ramon, though reasonably articulate and well-spoken, had a fairly strong accent that always seemed to grate on Ted.  Primarily, it seemed to Ted that Ramon had no control over his b's.  You don't want to annoy the guy by correcting him, but the word, by God, was problem, not pro-lem.  The b would disappear from problem and show up in another word, like Nobember for November. Drove Ted crazy.

But Ted kept himself from getting distracted by that this time.  Straight to the point.

"Hey, sorry to bother you, buddy," laying it on a bit thick, "I just remembered that I saw this when I came in this morning, and wanted to show you - there's a sprinkler head broken here."

What was that on Ramon's face?  Puzzlement, surprise, doubt, suspicion?

"See, right here" and he nudged it with his foot.

"Huh - thas very strenge."  Ramon wiped the back of his neck with his bandana as he pondered, walking toward Ted to get a better look.

"Yeah, maybe a cart or something took it out."

"Took it out?"

"Y'know, broke it."

"Thas very strenge."

"We've established that.  I get it.  I just wanted to catch you so you could take a few minutes to replace it."

"Wellllll ..."

I'm definitely getting annoyed now, he thought, why can't he just cooperate?  "Isn't that the kind of thing we pay you for?  Work??"

"Sure, I mean, tho, it's jus ..."

"... "strenge," yeah, I got that.  As long as you fix it, I don't give a fuck how "strenge" it is, okay!?"

That's a mistake, he chided himself.  People might not remember the whys and wheres of you asking for something.  They sure as hell remember every detail of you being a dick with them about it. But, he concluded, what am I going to do?

Ramon cocked his head.  Strange.  This whole thing was strange, but he decided to keep those words to himself.  It seemed that hotshot Ted here didn't want anything to do with strange of any flavor. He'd walked that very walk this morning, and couldn't recall anything out of place.  Still, things happen.

Ramon shrugged and turned back toward his truck.  Ted watched long enough to make sure he was going for parts and not just driving off.  Then again, driving off would work the same - keeping him out of the courtyard for five minutes was all Ted really wanted.  He shrugged and turned back toward the building.  Toward the hall and the courtyard, and the shrubs.  He now had everything he needed - three bags and ... well, however long it takes to change a damn sprinkler head.

Back into the building, then off to the right, back toward the courtyard, bags crushed and stuffed deep into his trouser pocket, crackling a little with each stride.

All systems go for mission, commander. Ted had committed himself now.

Down the hall and around two corners, he was at the courtyard doors before anyone noticed.  He slipped through one half of the double doors with nary a squeak from the hinges, then tracked vaguely in the direction of the bag.  The money.  The parcel.  After checking out two bushes he intended to never need the names of, he stopped and bent in front of the bush with the gap - and the bag.  Hmm ... what an intriguing thing there was, down in the dirt.  He bent to look and stirred up some soil with his fingertips.  At the same time, he withdrew the bags from his pocket, spread and nested them quickly, then dropped to one knee.  Grass stain, he cautioned himself, but his knee actually landed on the dry soil.  A bit of luck.  His right arm snaked in and grabbed canvas, dragging it back into the open maw of the plastic bags.  The inner bag folded in on itself, and he congratulated himself on the foresight of grabbing three.  All part of the master plan.

A little plastic-y rustle and all was done and bundled.  Not like a football, don't carry it like a football, he kept reminding himself as he strode back to the courtyard entrance, though it was difficult not to carry the bundle that way.  Protectively.  Ready to breach an opposing line.

Just by the handles, he admonished.  Like it's just groceries and nothing else.  It wasn't enormous or incredibly heavy, but he dreaded the handles on just two bags giving way.  He congratulated himself again on grabbing that third bag.  He played out snippets of scenarios in his head -   What's this you ask?  Oh, just gym clothes.  Might work out tonight.  Vacation?  Right, yeah - actually leaving for that shortly.  Should be gone already.  Was gone, stopped back by for ... these.  Stuff I forgot to pack, maybe, but then wouldn't it be at home?  Or at least, have no reason to leave the car, which I'll be using to go home and pick up the stuff I did pack?  Snacks for the trip - yeah - decided not to leave them in the hot car, y'know?

He was halfway down the hall before he settled on the most plausible bullshit he could think of.  He was pleased enough at his success to smirk.  He was tense enough that the smirk was born and lived its short life as a grimace.

He almost crashed into Lauren from HR as she stepped out of her office.  He managed to keep "the football", but dropped the smirk.

"Oh, hey, Ted, I thought you ..."

"I'm just passing through, not really here at all. In fact, I think that's my phone.  See you in two weeks, Lauren!"

Real smooth.  Great, epic calm.  You got balls of cheese there, Ted, he muttered to himself.  But still congratulated himself on not dropping "the football."  Like the briefcase of nuclear codes that followed the president everywhere.  Didn't take long for him to attach that name to it.  As he swerved to avoid Lauren, he protected it with his other hand.  Don't take my baby, lady.

There was something pliable in there, to be sure.  There was also something hard.  In there.  In the bag.  In his hands.  Almost to the office.  Almost safe.  He visualized himself walking through and shutting his door firmly without slamming, dropping the bag on his desk chair and closing his blinds.  The blinds that got him his treasure were not going to lose it for him as well.  No fucking circle of life bullshit now.

His heart pounded.  He could only think in sentences of four words or less. He spoke - to himself - in single words, highlights of his own staccato monologue.

Through the door, close the door, put it down, close the blinds, just like he pictured it.

He dropped the bag and stepped back, like it was radioactive and he still had children to father.  I t wasn't really real until he had fingerprints on the bag, and now it was.

He imagined a thousand things that might be the pliable part of the treasure - stacks of money, bricks of coke, secret documents, more money, bags of pot, a severed head ...    No telling, but hopefully not the last one.  They all had their own complications, but ... no.  Thanks, but definitely not the severed head.

It was time to go!  Whatever actual time it was, his clock was suddenly pointed to quitting time.  He couldn't rifle through the bag here.  He had to be somewhere safe, someplace inside his comfort zone.  He had to go to ground, and ground was his apartment.  It had to be his exclusive turf, and that clearly ruled out his office.

What he also needed was some place he could freak out in, if that's what the situation called for.   He had no idea if his button-down life was about to come unbuttoned.  He didn't even know if that was going to be a very good thing or a very bad thing.

Thirty feet out from his car, he popped the trunk with his remote, and barely broke stride, tossing the bag - bags - in and slamming the trun shut again.  He was in his seat and buckled before the trunk lid stopped rattling, it seemed.  It's all cool, he thought, nobody in the lot, just get your ass outta here.  Book it home.  Book it, Dano.  Zip it Ted, he told himself. You always ramble when you're tense.

He drove cautiously through the lot, then when his front tires were on pavement, gunned it, fishtailing to the left down the street.  He checked himself - forty-five in a residential area is going to get him bound up before he even made it home. He usually meandered down side streets to and from the office to avoid rush hour traffic, but now he took the main drag.  No midafternoon traffic and the shortest point between two lines?  What??  Man, I'm shaken, he thought, shortest path between two points, dude.  Get a grip.

Was it sliding around in the trunk?  What was that sound back there?  Maybe his toolbag.  Maybe his old sneakers.  Maybe the bag.  Maybe it was all spilling out, leaving an uncontainable mess.  That's what I need, cocaine all over the trunk.  There are so goddamn many drug dogs around these days, I doesn't need planting a big red beacon on the trunk of the car.

He wobble-whipped into the next parking lot entrance, bracketed by a McDonalds and a Long John Silver, with a Super Target all the way at the back of the lot.  Lacking a drive-thru, but sporting a windbreak of shrubs, the LJS offered the best cover, so he spun around behind that.

Not wanting to seem panicked, he sat for a moment.  Even when he climbed out, he paused and leaned on the back driver's side door, arms folded to keep from twitching.  One-mississippi, two-mississippi, three-mississippi... there were twenty five Mississippis strung out in a row by the time he gave up and popped the trunk.

Rummage around a bit, he told himself.  No snatch and grab.  So, he straightened the trunk, rearranging all the things that weren't out of place to begin with.  He grabbed a fistful of grocery bag handles, hefted the bundle twice, then stepped to the passenger side and dropped it in the seat.  Walked back, shut the trunk, looked around, continued his arc back to the driver's side and got in.

From there, he rolled into the McDonalds drive-thru, suddenly craving a strawberry shake.  The second car back, he tapped his foot in tune with his pulse, which he could feel in one temple.  The lead car moved forward, and with the space open, he lost his craving and barreled forward, back into his singularity.

The bag.  Fuck the shake.  It's all about the bag, he intoned slowly.  It's ... all ... about ... the bag, Ted.  Focus.  Focus.  Two miles to go, bro.  Two miles to go, bro.  Go bro, go bro.  Zip it.

Back to the singularity.  Point A to Point B.  Right now, you're just the courier, and the bag is ... the bag.  He checked his peripherals, noting his blind spots, moving to the left to steal a jump on the car crawling in front.  Swung back into the right lane, slipping under the just-turned yellow light and gliding through the intersection.  Making good time, managing the lanes.  Let the amateurs crawl along, I've got somewhere to be - and something to check out once I get there.

His heart shuddered - cop on the opposite side about two blocks down, lights flashing all over the white wall of the dry cleaners he was next to.  He rolled past cop and the driver he'd pulled over, who was standing frustrated and twitching on the curb by his rear bumper while the cop ran his ID.  Poor bastard, he smirked to himself.  He glanced at his canvas passenger and patted it.  Good baby, daddy's taking you home.  Next intersection coming up, BMW moving one lane closer to him.  Don't cut me off, bro, he warned.  Suddenly, everyone was bro.  He had a bag of unidentified contraband in his possession for ten minutes and suddenly, he's street.  The guy swerved a little closer, and Ted tapped the horn.  Back off, man - keep to your own lane!  He threw the finger at him just as the guy looked up. He slowed.  He'll be the big man.  The other guy looked forward and slowed, too.  Bastard.  Ted slowed more.  The guy slowed even more, not even looking at him any longer.  Alright, you fucker, I'm taking it, Ted resolved.

He goosed the gas, the BMW dropping behind to the right, a big opening now in front of him.  Plenty of room to move over.  He started to drag the wheel to the right and

<BANG!>

He hears the bang and feels it as the car goes tumbling over.  Side air bags shoving him to the right, front air bag blowing talc into his face at about a thousand feet a second.  Through the sunroof he sees the headlights of cars and realizes he'd blown into an intersection while playing games with the BMW. That's why the BMW was slowing.  Tumbling, bouncing, face and chest slamming over and over against the steering wheel.

It all stops for a split second, and then goes in reverse.  Big impact and bounding back to the left, spinning wildly now, upside down.  All he knows is hold on and for fucks sake don't puke, but he's too shocked to puke.  Maybe when he has some leisure time.

Things stop and his eyes begin registering non-motion again.  They stop scrolling side to side and just wobble in place.

He's on his side.  No, the whole car is on its side, his window just a layer of twinking particles against the asphalt.  His head is lying in a puddle of oil or something.  Something viscous and sticky.  He knows a good dry cleaner, but can't think of its name.  The bag is now on its side, shed of all its outer plastic wear.  Canvas, light tan.  It has a little lock at the mouth, but a space of four inches where it wasn't zipped fully.  He wants to reach out for it, but his hand won't go that far.  He's no longer talking to himself, even in his head.  He just sees.  Pure zen-like perception.  A gift.  People work for years to gain this level of perception and he has it in a moment.  A certain elation, sense of completion, sense of finality.

He knows the sirens in the background are for him, but on one level - or more - it doesn't really register.  It's all good now.  Except for the fucking bag.  Like it's taunting him.  You can't reach me, can you?  He tries again and still can't reach.  Still can't move at all, evidently.  

Oh, and the throbbing head.  That wasn't there before or maybe it had always been there.  It certainly felt like it.  His head throbbing?  He guesses so.  Who else's head would it be?  Maybe the sirens will get here before it gets dark.  Things are hazy.  Smoke from the valley maybe.  What time is sunset these days?  He doesn't know.  What time is it now?  He doesn't know.  Is this unusual, being sore and on my side?  He doesn't know. He just knows he doesn't really like this.

He's tired.  Really tired and all he wants is a nap and then he'll wake up and sort it out.  He was so tired now, he could sleep even with the sirens screaming.

"Damn sirens.  I should move to a quiet neighborhood." Somebody said that.  In his head.  Some words were coming back, anyway.

"I'm just so fucking tired.  First a nap, then moving, maybe to the valley.  Where they have the trees and ... that other word."

"Nap, then the other stuff ..."

Or, maybe just the nap, and then nothing.

Turns out the EMTs didn't need the sirens on the way back.  You can't always make it in time.