Baggage Claim by Patrick G. Roland, a green tea with honey

 I pinched the tiny green bow between my fingers. My favorite color. I wondered if favorite colors were inherited.

“Can you hold my dog?”

I turned and looked into blue, tear-glossed eyes—the kind that warned of a breakdown in progress. I looked back at the security line and took another step forward. She followed in sync. Her dark blue dress was wrinkled and stickered tightly to her body. The sound of static popped with each step. A softball of dark hair and tangled tendrils sat on the top of her head. My flight didn’t depart for three more hours. I assumed hers was about to pull away from the gate.

“Um, sorry.” I said, “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I took a larger step backward.

She quickly closed the gap with a long series of pops. “Just for a minute,” she said. “I can’t hold it any longer.”

She shoved the speckled Yorkie into my folded arms and zipped and crackled out of line, bobby pins falling from her hair, tapping the linoleum as she walked away. I tried to track her path toward the restroom or a check-in counter, but she disappeared into a flock of travelers blinking at their phones and swiveling their heads like pigeons unsure which way to fly. All of them appeared carefree. Not one of them had a dog. A burden.

I did.

I looked down at the Yorkie staring up at me with eager eyes, waiting for an answer. I touched its cold nose, rubbed its fluffy ear, felt its belly warm against my arm. I looked back for the dark blue dress, listened carefully for her static.

“Next!” a TSA agent shouted.

I scanned the line behind me for sideways glances, for a hidden camera crew with a bushel of mylar balloons to emerge from behind the potted palm trees, congratulating me for my strangerly kindness. When no eyes or balloons returned my frantic gaze, I turned back to the agent.

“Hey, you’re next!” said a stern voice behind me. I turned to see a middle-aged woman with bright red hair staring at me and down at the Yorkie.

I stepped up to the TSA agent. “This isn’t my dog,” I said.

“Take your baggage to the right,” the agent replied, flatly, “but you’ll need to hold it during the scan.”

I looked once more for the dark blue dress. Still no crackle. Not even a pop. Sweat trickled down my back. I squeezed the Yorkie’s belly slightly, feeling for a bulge or the outline of a handgun. Another agent waved me into the scanner. The Yorkie and I both closed our eyes, waiting for a siren or a stern voice.

“Sir, move ahead,” said a kind voice.

I scooped up my backpack from the security scanner and waited. And waited. The Yorkie licked my arm. It was calming. I took a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. The dog’s collar had no tags. Just a stranger. Like me. Thirty minutes passed. Then two hours. No dark blue dress. No crackle. Just passing feet and the occasional eye roll.

“Flight 94 now boarding at Gate 20,” a voice over the intercom announced.

I was leaving something behind too. Mine hadn’t barked or wagged its tail.
It had cried black mascara tears. Begged me to stay. Told me to stop being so selfish. To be happy with our new life, with our future. To stop searching for an easy way out.

But I wasn’t ready. I could barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. How could I allow something to trust me when all I ever do is run? Disappoint. That’s what I’d be to that child. More disappointment. They both deserved better.

I stood and started walking toward my gate. Yorkie in hand. I considered panicking. Setting it down and running away. But instead, I scratched behind the dog’s ears and realized I wasn’t angry or panicked. Not yet. Not even afraid. I felt a quiet I hadn’t in years. The kind of quiet I hoped Flight 94 and ten states of distance could create.

A woman approached me from behind and hissed, “Is that even your dog?” She had bright red hair that looked like little sparks against her white blouse.

“It’s—uh—I’m watching it for someone.” Why didn’t I just hand over the dog?

“Sure you are.” She crossed her arms and marched toward a counter lined with people who all looked upset about something.

My palms started sweating again. I should’ve called security hours ago. Walked away from the dog. But I held it tightly. Walked with a stranger’s baggage warming my arms. Thought of her lightened load. How easy it was for her to abandon something. I started to hate her. Hate me. The Yorkie never looked back. Always at me. Like it had known all along.

“Excuse me sir, is that your dog?” asked a police officer, his hand resting on the heel of something shiny and black on his belt.

I waited for the fear, the anger, the panic. I started to close my eyes, leaned over to drop the dog, leave it behind. Then I noticed the green bow drooping from behind its ear. “I, um, yes,” I responded.

“Man, she’s cute,” he said. “I used to have one just like her. Can I give her a pat?”

“Sure,” I responded, meeting his dark brown eyes.

He scratched the Yorkie’s head, behind the green bow. “Take good care of her,” he said with a grin. Then he tipped his hat and walked across the terminal in the other direction.

I still didn’t know if I’d be a good father. But I knew I couldn’t keep leaving the things that needed me. I cradled the Yorkie, rocked her gently, and turned away from the gate.

About the author

  

Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He enjoys exploring other people’s attics and basements, where most of his writing ideas are created and sometimes lost. He lives near Pittsburgh. 

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