Page 4 of Two Kinds of Stranger

Elly crouched down, instinctively, and began to gather the man’s items, placing them back into the case. She felt sick and useless as she snatched his Calvin Klein underwear from the dirty platform, folded them and stuffed them into the open case. This was all so inappropriate that she felt her cheeks burning with the shame of it.

She was out of breath. Her neck flushed red. Her nervous system flooded with the adrenalin that comes with total, immolating embarrassment.

The man reached the platform and as he tried to bend down to help her retrieve his personal items he overbalanced and fell, twisting to save his broken leg and landing on his ass.

‘Oh. My. God, are you alright? I’m so sorry! Jesus, what have I done?’

‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault,’ said the man.

They were both on the ground: Elly on her knees, the man on his ass. People walked past them, their knees, high heels, jeans and boots marching either side of them.

Elly and the man made eye contact and they both laughed, nervously. It broke the tension and Elly let out a relieved guffaw of laughter.

‘Let me help you up,’ she said, getting to her feet. The man got his good foot beneath him, took Elly’s hand for balance, a crutch in the other, and soon was upright. She gave him his other crutch, and wiped sweat from her forehead. Everything was back in the case now. Not neatly, but it was there. Elly dropped to a crouch, closed over the lid of the case and then felt around the edge, looking for the zipper. She found it.

The zipper was already fully closed.

On closer examination, she discovered the fabric part of the case on one side had come away from the seam attaching it to the hard shell. The case would not stay closed.

She lifted it, one hand underneath, the other hand on top, and said, ‘You don’t have, like, a band or something to hold this together?’

The man shook his head, said, ‘This has not been my week. I’ll have to go repack, leave some stuff at my apartment and take my backpack. I’ve just got time to do that and make it to the airport for my flight home.’

She put the case on the floor, rubbed her head.

‘I feel terrible, I’m so. . .’

‘It’s not your fault. Honestly, I appreciate you trying to help. I can’t manage the stairs yet. I shattered my ankle at soccer practice and I’m still getting used to these damn things,’ he said, holding up one crutch.

Elly felt sick looking at the busted suitcase.

‘How are you going to get this case back to your apartment?’

He stared at it, said, ‘Maybe if I jam it under my arm? That should keep it closed. Could you help me lift it under there?’

Elly sighed, checked her watch. She didn’t have any appointments for hours. This was supposed to be preparation time.

‘How far is your apartment?’ she asked.

‘Just a few blocks over.’

Elly picked up the case, held it closed in her arms, said, ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’

‘No, I couldn’t ask you to—’

‘It’s the least I can do. If I don’t help you, then I’ll just feel awful all day,’ she said.

By the time the man had made his way back up the steps, he was out of breath.

‘Thank you, I actually don’t know how I would make it back without you. I’m Logan,’ he said.

‘Elly,’ she said, and made sure to slow her pace, matching Logan’s unsteady, halted movements with the crutches.

They made it out of the station onto 42ndStreet and Logan moved to the crosswalk.

The case wasn’t heavy, even with the contents inside, but it was awkward to hold and walk with the damn thing. She held it tucked underneath her left arm, her fingers just reaching the bottom side. She gripped it tightly and held it closed so it wouldn’t open far enough for his underwear, or anything else, to fall out. As they crossed the street, her left arm began to tire and she switched, awkwardly, almost spilling the case again in the middle of the crosswalk.

‘Jesus, there’s no way you could’ve gotten this thing back to your apartment by yourself,’ said Elly.