Published Fiction

For the Fellows Down at Mortie's

Sharon Tabor Warren

"Tick-tick-tick." The sound from the battered old suitcase was faint but distinguishable. Jonah heard well when it suited him.

He pushed his broom around the incoming luggage carousel, thought about his two days off that would start tonight. He anticipated the time but dreaded listening to Maggie's constant yammering. Sixty-one was too old to listen to bitching, most aimed at him. He'd turn his hearing aid down, the television up. Half her griping was about his not listening. She never understood that he chose not to hear.

The worn brown bag, scuffed from hard use and plastered with stickers, was unclaimed. Jonah'd never flown, but he dreamed about faraway places. He knew he'd be so happy to be somewhere else; that on arrival in some distant airport he'd let everyone else claim their bags and then he'd grab his own. But this old suitcase had been abandoned. It'd been two hours since the last flight off-loaded. And there was the ticking....

Jonah knew the drill and called Airport Security. The patrolling officer, Big Sam, slower than cold sorghum and dumber than a load of bricks, showed up after twenty minutes. Sam heard the ticking too. "Better stay clear, Jonah, I gotta call the reg'lar law."

"What the hell, I ain't movin'," Jonah said. "I ain't never had so much excitement. If I blow up it'll be more fun'n I've had in my whole life, and it'll really piss off old Maggie."

Two City Police arrived, stood near long enough to confirm the ticking was not imagination or the thudding of the two old boys' hearts and moved back to the sidewalk. One crawled in the black and white to radio, while the other fast-walked the sidewalk. He puffed like a banty rooster to keep away gawkers he hoped would come. Of course everyone had long since departed for late night drinks or warm beds--maybe both.

"Hang, dang me." Jonah tried a whistle between his dentures. "Mebbe it's a bomb, sent by a terr'ist, mebbe it was s'posed to go off during the flight, like that one over Wannabee, Scotland, or wherever. This'll be worth a few beers from the guys down at Mortie's. Can't wait to tell 'em."

The wail of Bomb Squad sirens could be heard on the distant freeway when Jonah saw a woman, spinning like a whirlwind, push past the marching cop. She ignored him when he yelled at her to stop, and pushed through the electronic doors before they opened. She stared at Big Sam, head tilted and hands on hips, from her scant five feet.

"Whatcha starin' at, buddy? What's goin' on around here? Whippersnapper cop didn't want to let me in, doesn't look old enough to be out past curfew. All I want is my bag."

She trounced over to the carousel, pajama bottoms dragging the floor around her dirty Nikes, gray hair spiked in all directions.

"Damned bunch of idiots. Tipped that SkyCap fifty-cents. You'd'a thought he could've found all my bags. He told the cabbie to take me to a motel. Eighty bucks for a single bed. Told 'em I only wanted to sleep there, not buy the damned place. And then I missed my bag right away. Have to have my Big Ben to wake me; never leave home without it."

She grabbed her worn suitcase and banged out the door. No one broke the silence.

Jonah pushed his broom and thought maybe he wouldn't tell the boys down at Mortie's after all.

Contact Sharon.