Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  Note: This is not even the weirdest thing I’ve ever found at the store.

  The flashlight doesn’t work; it’s got two corroded batteries inside. The manatee is in as mint condition as a stuffed manatee can be. I throw him—it’s a boy, I’ve decided—over my shoulder. He hangs nearly to my waist.

  “Red, you’re not going to believe what was in those boxes from Huntsville!” I’m saying as I jog up front again. Then I notice he’s not alone. He’s talking to the new girl, the girl from the car. It’s been a couple hours since I saw her, but I don’t forget a face.

  Red doesn’t even do a double take at the stuffed animal on my shoulder. “Doris, I was just telling Nell here about you,” he says, and his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket. “Oh, it’s the wife—I gotta take this,” he says. “You two. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be back.” He puts his phone to his ear and walks away, leaving me and the new girl to size each other up.

  “Nice manatee,” she says. There’s no trace of Southern in her accent. She crosses her arms across her chest, and I’m not sure if she’s cold or standoffish. She’s in a pretty, floaty blue sundress, and the store’s kept at a chilly sixty-five degrees because Red is one of those guys who starts sweating when it hits seventy. I usually wear a hoodie and jeans with Converse sneakers and wool socks to work, and strip down to my underlayer of T-shirt and shorts when I go outside. I keep flip-flops in my car to wear for the drive home, but I may have to rethink that plan. A pair melted in my backseat last week.

  “So you met Red,” I say. “I’m Doris.” I raise my hand in the air, somewhere between a wave and a high five and a “halt!” Then I bring my hand back down and look at it. “Sorry. I just touched a bunch of questionably clean clothes.”

  She’s looking around at everything, perplexed. “What is this place? I thought it was a store that sells suitcases, but—”

  “We do sell suitcases,” I explain, “along with what’s been left inside them. Well, whatever’s good, anyway.”

  “You sell other people’s stuff?” she asks. “Is that even legal?”

  I get asked this question a lot. “After ninety days, lost luggage becomes the property of the airlines, and they sell it to us,” I explain. Her face is still a blank, so I continue with my spiel. “The semibrilliant idea for a store selling lost luggage was thought up by Alabamian Doyle Owens in 1970. He drove to Washington, DC, where he picked up a bunch of left-behind bags for three hundred dollars, brought them home, and sold the contents on card tables in his house. Soon he had enough cash to move the operation into an actual store. He named it Unclaimed Baggage. Over the years, a chain of them sprung up in Alabama. We’re a privately owned satellite of the flagship store, which is about an hour and a half east of here. Even though we’re a smaller store, we get a decent amount of inventory and shoppers coming from all over the country and even the world—and plenty of regulars, too.”

  “That stuffed animal was in a suitcase?”

  I reach up and pat its soft fur. “Yeah. First time for a manatee. We get a lot of teddy bears. One time I found one of those plastic baby dolls you practice resuscitation on. I screamed, and the whole store came running.”

  “That’s pretty hard-core,” she says. She grins, and I can’t help smiling back.

  “So, how can I help you?” My fingers are itching to start unpacking again.

  “I need a job,” she says. “Or at least, my mom says I need a job. I already went to Waffle House—”

  “Did they give you the Scattered, Smothered, and Covered Test?” Waffle House makes their hash browns about fifty-seven different ways. “Scattered, smothered, and covered” means they’re covered in onions and cheese. “Chunked” means they’ve got smoked ham on them. I’d applied there before I got the job at Unclaimed last summer, and in my interview I’d been asked to define each of the terms on the spot.

  “I failed the Scattered, Smothered, and Covered Test!” I tell Nell. “But you don’t want to work at Waffle House. You get all the truckers asking if you’re married and trying to grab your butt.”

  “I didn’t get that far,” says Nell. “As I was talking to the manager, a guy tried to grab my butt, and I smacked him.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “He looked pretty stunned.” She glances down at her knees and smiles ever so slightly. “I ran out of there. Then I tried the grocery store down the way, and they said they needed someone with experience.”

  “You dodged a bullet,” I say. “The assistant manager throws raw chickens at people who clock in late.”

  “So actually I dodged a chicken,” she says, and I laugh—the new girl is funny. She keeps going, checking off the no’s on her fingers. “According to your local newspaper, the bowling alley only hires people who are over eighteen. The water park, unsurprisingly, wants you to have lifeguarding experience and your CPR certification, and I don’t have either. I can’t work anywhere that serves booze ‘for consumption on premises’ because I’m sixteen. I can’t work at Baskin-Robbins because I’ll spend all my money on ice cream. I was driving by and I saw this place, so I came in. And Red said maybe you needed help?”

  Typical Red. He’ll hire anyone who knocks on his door begging for work.

  “Do you mind waiting here a second?” I gesture to the velvet couch that came to us after a cruise company went out of business. I hustle to the front of the store, where Red is off the phone and showing an old lady items from our “luxury fur collection.” I have told him again and again that we should get rid of these mangy pieces of mink and raccoon, which are not very PC and also make me so sad. He argues that since the animals are already dead, it would be far sadder to waste the furs.

  This old lady has hair that’s a little bit gray and a little bit blue, and she’s clutching a shaggy piece of something between her fingers and haggling like she’s on her very last dollar, even though her purse has a brand name on it and her fingers are covered in diamonds.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, giving her my most charming smile. She stares back at me, and I remember I’ve still got a manatee on my shoulder. “The latest in new fur looks!” I say. “May I speak to you for just a second, Red?”

  “Just one itty-bitty moment, ma’am,” he tells her. He follows me to a corner of the room where we huddle.

  “Do you want me to hire this girl?” I ask.

  “Do you think we should?” he whispers back. “It’s your call.”

  “Since when am I the head of personnel?” I say, and he smiles.

  “I was figuring you might want to take on a little more responsibility.”

  “Were you planning on telling me about this promotion?” I ask.

  “How about it?” he says. “Want to be my head of personnel for the stockroom this summer? I can bump up your hourly a buck. The back room is all yours. From my perspective, seems like you could probably use a little help? We have a giant order from Kansas City coming in next week. They’re sending a piano!”

  “Who loses a piano?” I ask.

  “The same sort of person who loses a brand-new set of golf clubs?” He and I glance over at the sports equipment. “I’m thinking we put it right out front, where people can take a load off and play a little, if the spirit so moves ’em.” Red grins. “That’ll give us some real atmosphere.”

  The old lady clears her throat. “Have you seen my sunglasses?” she asks. “I seem to have misplaced them.”

  I nudge Red.

  “Oh, ma’am, they’re right on top of your head,” he tells her. “I do that all the darn time!”

  “Oh my!” she says, touching the glasses. She giggles and goes right back to pawing through the raggedy remains of former living creatures. I turn to my boss.

  “OK, then,” I tell Red. “I’ll interview her. If she’s cool, I’ll offer her the job.”

  “Excellent,” he says.

  “And … thanks for the promotion, Red. You’re kind of the best, you know that?”

 
; He flushes the color of his hair. “Just tell the new girl I don’t take any guff, and she can be responsible for bringing in doughnuts for the next staff meeting. Have her start as soon as she can. We gotta move some more product to the front again. Business is booming!”

  As he returns to the old lady, who has now moved on to a set of puke-yellow Fiestaware, I could swear he very nearly jumps in the air and clicks his heels together.

  7

  Nell

  All of a sudden, Doris is in front of me again. “Come with me,” she says. “I want to show you something.” She takes my hand and pulls me to the back of the store, where there’s a door to another room.

  “Why don’t you have a look around?” she suggests, pushing the door open. “This is probably the way to get to know us fastest. Go ahead, wander!”

  It’s almost overwhelming, but I obey, heading partway down one of the aisles, which contains rows and rows of shelves. At one end is a full skeleton; at the other, a set of armor. Sitting on the shelf in front of me is a bust of that Beatle with the funny name—Ringo!—which I know because, there, at the bottom of the bust, it says RINGO. There’s a full set of Harry Potter, and when I open up one of the books, I see it’s been signed by J. K. Rowling. I keep walking. There’s a pile of rainbow-colored wigs; I resist the urge to plop one on my own head. On the next shelf, there are more socks than I’ve ever seen in one place in my whole life, rolled into balls of two, separated by color. Old albums by a guy named Lightnin’ Hopkins. About a million T-shirts, some with tags still on—a lot are the kind they sell at the airport: “I NY,” “Follow Me to Tennessee,” “Virginia Is for Lovers.” Everything is sorted neatly, though what the ordering principle is, I couldn’t say. The entire effect is like a costume store combined with a Walmart combined with your creepy-but-maybe-cool aunt’s attic.

  I pause next to a beat-up Magic 8 Ball, one of those black plastic toys that looks like it belongs on a pool table. It’s got an 8 in a white circle on one side, and on the other, a little window where a variety of answers pop up for whatever questions you pose. It’s a totally hokey thing, but Nisha’s older sister, Jasmine, had one in her room, and we’d ask it whether we’d pass certain tests, or if we’d ever be famous, or if the boys we liked would notice us. Signs point to yes, it would say, or, frustratingly, Don’t count on it. I reach up to the shelf and pull this one down, holding the cool plastic in both hands for a second. Does Ashton really love me? is what I think. When I turn it over, the answer sends a surge of happiness through me: You may rely on it.

  I stare at it hazily for a minute, thinking about how I’d always dreamed of having a boyfriend, and then I did. I hold the toy close to my face, and on a whim, I press my lips against it. I hear a light cough and turn around to see Doris. Great. Way to impress strangers, Nell.

  “Oh, the 8 Ball!” she says, not even acknowledging that I was just caught making out with it. “I’ve asked it so many dumb questions. Will I get into Brown? Will my parents let me go if I do? Will I ever be kissed? By someone not horrible?” She sticks out her tongue and makes a face. “The answer to that one: Very doubtful. Every single time! I think it’s trying to tell me something.” She laughs. “What did you ask?”

  “Um.” I think fast. “Just, well, if I would get this job.”

  “What did it say?”

  “You may rely on it?” I look at her hopefully.

  “You’re in luck. It’s my living wish to make Magic 8 Ball predictions come true. Presuming you haven’t been convicted of a crime?”

  “Pretty much the worst thing I’ve done was cheat on a seventh-grade history test about the different types of Greek columns,” I admit. “I still feel bad about that. It was like trying out a new look, and then realizing Goth is just never, ever going to be your style.”

  She gazes at me for a second too long, and I wonder if I’ve said too much.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with Goth,” I add.

  “Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “Those are the types of Greek columns. That must have been a really short test!”

  I start laughing.

  “I got called Doric for half a year of middle school, so I know the columns up and down or left and right or whatever. But I agree with you, I can’t pull off a Goth look, either.”

  “So … are you going to ask me some more questions?” For the first time since I arrived in Alabama, I dare to hope for the best.

  “I’ve never interviewed anyone before,” she confesses. “I just Googled ‘best practices for hiring new employees’ on my phone while you were checking out the merchandise. So now you’re going to have to be patient as I put you through a real-life interview. Ready?”

  I nod, and she ushers me to the big table in the stockroom. “This is where we have our staff meetings,” she tells me. I pull out a metal folding chair and sit on it, facing the manatee in the middle of the table. It’s cold back here, and I rub my arms for warmth.

  “Here, put this on,” says Doris, passing over a navy blue sweatshirt with AUBURN written across the front in big orange letters. “It’s clean! As long as you’re not a Crimson Tide fan, that is.”

  “Huh?” I say, slipping on the sweatshirt. “Is that some kind of … period reference?”

  “Football,” she says, shaking her head. “You really are new here, aren’t you? So, Nell…” she begins. “What’s your last name?” She’s got the clipboard in front of her with some official-looking paperwork in it, and as I talk, she writes.

  “Wachowski,” I say, and then spell it out, because no one ever gets it right the first time.

  “If hired, can you produce proof that you are sixteen years old or over?”

  “Yes. I’m sixteen and three-quarters. My birthday is in October.”

  “I’m sixteen, too, but my birthday’s in April.” She looks at her paper again. “If hired, can you produce proof that you have a legal right to work in the US?”

  “Yep. I was born here. I’ve never even left America, to my great sadness.”

  “Me either. Can you perform essential job functions like lifting boxes, moving heavy objects, and carrying out the duties of the work here, as you are aware?”

  “I think so!” I flex an arm. “I was on the field hockey team at my old school.”

  “Do you currently use illegal drugs?”

  “No way. Not ever.”

  “Wise,” says Doris. “Are you generally available for shifts between the hours of nine and five, or ten and six, Monday through Friday and some Saturdays?”

  “I’m basically free for the rest of my life right now,” I say. “At least until school starts. We just moved here, and I have no friends.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. Just one. I’m doubly impressed. “You and the 8 Ball looked pretty close.”

  Oh, here it is. “I was … um … imagining…”

  “Are you one of those boy-crazy girls? Or … I watched this YouTube video about people who eat metal—is it like that? They can’t help themselves—”

  “No! I was thinking about my boyfriend,” I say. “I really miss him.”

  “Does he look like a Magic 8 Ball?”

  Because this seems like maybe the only way to prove I’m not lying about my “Canadian boyfriend” or utterly unhinged, I show her the screensaver on my phone. It’s a picture of Ashton. He’s waving at me, a toothy grin on his face. I feel a pang, remembering taking that picture just a few weeks ago. How is it that a phone can make a person seem both so close and so incredibly far away?

  “Ohhhhhh,” she says. And for some reason I get the impression that she thinks he’s dead. That my beloved boyfriend died tragically, and we moved to get away from the pain, and I’m carrying him around in my heart and my phone because I can’t bear to let go. Is that a tiny tear welling up in the corner of her eye?

  “He’s alive!” I shout, and she jumps a little in her seat.

  “That’s comforting,” she
says, “because he appears to be calling you right now.”

  I look at my phone and there’s another picture of his face, along with ASHTON and the heart-eyes emoji, which is how I programmed his name in my phone because, well, I’m that sort of cheeseball.

  “Oh, I thought … um,” I say, wondering why I did assume she thought he was dead in the first place. What’s wrong with me? But she gestures at me to take the call, so I do. “Hi,” I say, and his voice comes through so loudly I’m pretty sure Doris can hear it: “Hey, Pony!” It’s his nickname for me. Practically all of freshman year I wore my hair in a ponytail, and that’s when he says he first noticed me, even though we only started dating sophomore year. I get up and walk back through the aisles of inventory, gesturing to Doris that I’ll be just a second. She nods and writes something on her forms.

  “Hey, Ash! I can’t really talk now,” I say. “I’m at a job interview.” That’s when I realize that probably the worst thing in the world to do at a job interview is take a phone call from your boyfriend. Even if he lives six hundred miles away and you’re not sure you’re ever going to see him again, or that he’s even still your boyfriend.

  “You’re getting a job?” he asks. “Does that mean you’ll be too busy to hang out with me if I come visit?”

  Aware of Doris in the other room, I drop my voice to a whisper. “Ashton, I gotta go. I’ll call you later?”

  “Wait!” he says. “I need to show you something. Hang on!” There’s silence on the line, and I look at the shelves in front of me. The Magic 8 Ball is right there. Is this where we’d left it, or is it following me? Holding my cell phone between my shoulder and my ear, I pick up the toy and shake it. I silently ask, Is this job going to work out? and slowly turn it over.