Chapter 1: Departure

“Expired,” read the LCD reader on the credit card slot on the luggage-cart dispensing-machine at Newark International Airport — and my heart raced. I had just spent $6 to rent a lousy, ankle-bruising cart, and now my credit card was no good? In twelve years together, flying to a dozen countries, Kate and I had never checked a single bag. But here we were, with all of the belongings we deemed necessary to get by for a couple of years, crammed into three large suitcases, a carry-on wheelie-bag, and two glorified, over-sized gym bags. Now, with our bodies only recently patched together by our chiropractor/physical therapist in a triage of adjustments, transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulations (look it up), exercises, and a vibrating machine that looks like it could drill through sheet-rock, we were ready for our journey to Madrid. Problem was, we only had four arms and four legs between us.

Lug, drag, kick, shuffle . . . . lug, drag, kick, shuffle . . . . We had no idea if skycaps still operated curbside. I hadn’t checked curbside with a skycap, since I was a privileged child traveling with my parents; it was a time when I wore a dress and my brothers wore jackets and ties to fly.

The metal cart clanked off the rack. I took a second look at the LCD reader, which I now saw read, “time expired.” I took a deep breath. The LCD cleared. Deciding to tempt fate, I inserted the card again. This time, I was quick to do a deep-knee bend and yank the cart off the rack.

Now, I could do a side-by-side sway, amble, smile. . . . sway, amble, smile . . . toward my wife. Balancing two carts, arms outstretched wider than the pecs machine at the gym that my doctor told me not ever to use again. My smile faded when I saw Kate pointing over her right shoulder: equidistant from where the taxi had dropped us off, but in the other direction down the walkway, was a skycap station. We could have just dragged the bags there, and checked our luggage.

©2020 Kay Diaz