Going, Going and Really Getting Nowhere

Prompt: Write a story about someone who must fit their entire life in a single suitcase.

Going, Going, and Really Getting Nowhere

I entered the lobby of the hotel to hear the melody of John Denver’s song, Leaving on a Jet Plane. I improvised the lyrics with my words “My bag is packed and I’m ready to go; leaving on a jet plane with certainly no place to go. There’s no one to wake, so no goodbyes. It is dark as can be in the predawn morn. My taxi driver obnoxiously blows the car horn. I am so depressed I look like the walking dead.”

Why was I leaving? I approached the vehicle with trepidation. Deep within I had the feeling I needed to stay to confront my fears and my anxieties. My life had become an utter mess filling me up with dreaded regret. I was not one to regret anything in my life including what I did for a living. The driver opened the trunk and, hesitantly I placed my bag inside. My bag was light weight considering it presently held everything I owned. The things in my suitcase were the vestiges of my life.   My wardrobe was simple and definitely not fashionable. Everything was ‘dark.’ It seemed fitting since my mood often seems sullen and morose, especially now as I tell my story. I have a few dark socks, dark trousers, long-sleeved dark shirts, a light jacket, a dark sweater, a belt, dark dress shoes, a few undergarments, a small grooming kit, a journal, and a small photo album. I added a leaflet on the gospel of John given to me from an overzealous, proselytizing desk clerk at the transient hotel. Not sure why I bothered to keep it, but on my lonely nights I thought it might come in handy as reading material. 

Finishing out my possessions, I had the clothes on my back. I tried to dress in layers to help suppress any odors that would emanate from my body if I am unable to shower for days at a time, plus to keep warm if I had nowhere to sleep at night. This early morning, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt under a dark sweatshirt, dark pants held up by black suspenders, and dark socks. On top of this, I wore a dark heavy winter coat. Before I left my room, I double checked that my coat and pants pockets held my valuables; passport, money clip, license, credit card, and a wallet with a few coupons.   Although the passport, license and credit card indicated a name, they did not reveal who I really was. My true identity had disappeared a long time ago. Everything about me was now contained in my suitcase and on my person. They were indicators of my dark, sinister, and dreadful past.

My thoughts were interrupted by the driver asking me, “Where to?” I paused and then said “Take me to the airport.” I was so conflicted as to whether I wanted to stay in this town or to board a plane for another destination. But I really had no choice but to go.

I was a fugitive from both the law and forces outside of it.  I lived my life focusing on stealth. I lived in the shadows moving among them to conceal my profession as a professional human exterminator, or in the vernacular, a “hit man.” One day, however I got sloppy and overconfident. I paid the ultimate price of losing my freedom. Given my associations now with the Federal government, I no longer carry concealed weapons or am permitted to carry a cell phone. I am no longer the hunter in the forest. I am now the hunted. Assuredly, I would be in double trouble if I defected from the employ of the Feds.

The Feds insisted I had to move again. I was at their mercy because resistance meant decades of confinement in a federal prison. Doing hard time was not my idea of luxurious living. Given the Feds austere budget, I never traveled in the lap of luxury, but I was still outside the walls of a penitentiary. I was given a pittance of a living and housing allowance. I knew at my next destination I would be met by a federal agent who for the seventh time would change out my identity cards. My life was a hodgepodge of transient hotels, rental cabins, and discrete hideaways.

I had no friends or living relatives. As a child my parents moved from town to town. We seemed to be constantly going. When we would get somewhere it was like we had gone nowhere because all the towns looked alike. When I had turned twelve they decided to let me live my own life, or so I wanted to believe. I was abandoned without warning; they left me $500 in cash to fend for myself.  I never heard from them again so I assume they must be dead. Living in the streets molded me into a crook, a liar, a conniver, and eventually a freelance murderer, or as I like to characterize myself, an assassin. I vowed that my anonymity and personal protection would not be compromised by extraneous people. If I had to be on the lam, I was the perfect candidate.  Nevertheless, the Feds kept a watchful eye on all my endeavors!

As I mentioned all I owned was contained in my suitcase. My prized possessions were the journal and photo album. They were also highly regarded by the Feds. The journal in my suitcase contains the names, addresses and phone numbers of my clients that require my extermination services.  Several pages into the journal my targets are listed, or as I used to say my cash cows. My photo album contains pictures of the cash cows who had met their demise perpetrated by yours truly. They served as proof for my clients. I would set up connections to meet my clients with the Feds who monitored the meeting with electronic surveillance. One by one the unsuspecting client incriminates himself about planning the hit. Cash trades hands and then the Feds move in for the non-lethal “kill.” Thus far, the Feds have managed to lasso six prospective murderers from the six cities I was tasked to make connections.  I never got any of the transacted cash. 

Now I was headed for my seventh connection in upper New England.  I had heard scuttlebutt rumors that my clients were getting uneasy when they heard about the busts made by the Feds. Rumors were in the air that I might be on the bounty list. I would be on someone else’s list as a cash cow target.  So I was incredibly dubious about all this moving around. Going, going, and really not getting anywhere.  I no longer have the shadows to protect me. I have to operate in the daylight hours with no cover.  

I arrived at the Augusta airport in the early morning hours. After retrieving my suitcase, my instructions were to meet with the Federal agent at a food kiosk outside of TSA security.  The agent was dressed in brightly colored, flamboyant winter wear. He was definitely not the inconspicuous type, which made me wonder why he was so different from other agents I had encountered. He looked like he was from another planet. With a big, cherubic smile he handed me a key to a motel room which was not far from the airport. Also, he politely said that my next assignment would not be from my journal list. Instead, he gave me a photo of my next client with an address on the back along with a hefty amount of cash for expenses. It was a picture of a woman. The agent said I had two weeks to set up the takedown meeting. Later I put the picture in my photo album which contained pictures of my deceased cash cows and clients who have been incarcerated by my traitorous schemes. Soon I thought she would be another face added to my collection.

I immediately decided to make my acquaintance with this woman. I dressed in my last set of pants, shirts, and socks at the motel before setting out. I took my journal and album with me as I headed to the rental agency. The compact car was the only vehicle available, making it a dicey, unpredictable journey northbound on the interstate in the middle of winter. 

She was residing in a cottage about two hours away from my motel at the Whisperwood Lodge and Cottages. I had no phone or number to reach her. Before setting out on I-95, I looked at her photo again. Her name was Belle. She had the appearance typical of a wholesome, midwestern farmer’s daughter with a sweet face, flowing brown hair, a glowing smile and green eyes that seemed to pierce deep into one’s soul. I would not be swayed by her breathtaking beauty. As such, nothing, not even good looks, could unnerve me because I did not believe I even had a soul. If I did, it disappeared after my first cash cow hit when I was a kid on the streets.

I arrived late afternoon at the waterfront cottage where she was staying. I was at a loss for words as I briskly knocked on her door. The door partially opened. Belle cautiously poked her head through the space. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said without hesitation. Impulsively, she grabbed my coat and pulled me inside. We sat at a small table in the kitchen area.  Belle proceeded to tell me, “I am your next and final client. My purpose is to share who your next target will be.” She reached inside a pocket in her dress handing me a photo. I gasped and then laughed cynically at her. “This is obviously a joke,” as I continued to stare at the photo.  “How is it that I am my own target? Or are you the trigger person for this dastardly deed? Who is putting you up to this charade?” Belle responded, “I am not the trigger person. I am here to warn you of your impending demise. I cannot stop what may happen to your life in the days ahead, but I can give you hope to a promising, joyous future.”

I said, “Certainly you must know something more about this? How will it play out?  I thought the Feds were on my side?” Belle countered by saying, “There is a much Higher Authority than any federal or governmental agency at work here. Listen to what I have to say to you now. There are supernatural powers and forces at work. Demons and angels are at war fighting for your soul. Your time is short to understand the One who paid the price for salvation for those who believe.” I was dumbfounded by what she was saying. I looked into her eyes asking her, “Who are you? Who is your boss?” For the first time in a very long time, I became unnerved and started to sweat profusely. I was unraveling rapidly.

Belle said, “I am a servant of the Most High God, the Alpha and the Omega. Believe in Him for the salvation of your soul. Learn what He has done for you. The leaflet from the desk clerk in your last city describes His life’s story ending in His death and resurrection from the dead.”

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. I said, “So what are you? Are you an angel? Why are you and God wasting your time on me?  I have rejected God all my life! Why would He want my soul now? I have lied, cheated, and murdered my way through life! I worship money as my god!  Dead people make me rich!”

Belle said, “God sees a fading glimmer of hope inside your heart. You are still one of His children and He desires you to come to Him before your time is finished on earth. He has now afforded you one more opportunity to repent and accept His grace. Seek Him and give your heart to Him while you have breath.”

As soon as she spoke those words, Belle disappeared right in front of me. Was I dreaming this?  Hardly not because I became very nauseous and vomited on myself.  I managed to clean myself up quickly. Still, I panicked. I had left the leaflet back in my motel room two hours away. Who was Belle referring to in this leaflet from John? 

I was running out of time. The clock ticked louder and the target on my back was growing bigger. I had to find out more before my darkness loomed forever.  Could this God save me despite my wretchedness?  Could I actually be going somewhere after all?

When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12, NIV)

-END-

Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst.  But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his immense patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life. (1 Timothy 1: 15-16, NIV)

In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus.  Therefore, do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires.  Do not offer any part of yourself to sin as an instrument of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness.  For sin shall no longer be your master, because you are not under the law, but under grace. (Romans 6: 11-15, NIV)

NIV=New International Version

Author:  Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com (prompts)