Chapter 5 Section five

The guy from the security desk explained everything to me. A ticking suitcase that the baggage handler can ignore instead.The guy in security, he called the baggage handlers bag throwers.The new bombs don't tick for you to hear at all.But when it comes to luggage that vibrates, those luggage handlers, those who throw bags, they must notify the police. The reason I went to hang out with Taylor was because most airlines have a policy about shaking luggage. My flight back from Dulles and all my belongings are in that one bag.If you travel a lot, you learn to pack the same luggage every time you travel.Six white shirts.Two pairs of black trousers.The minimum necessities of life.

Travel alarm clock. Cordless electric shaver. toothbrush. Six sets of underwear. Six pairs of black socks. Turns out my suitcase vibrated on departure from Dulles, according to the guy in Security Affairs, so the police took it off the plane.Everything is in that bag.My contact lenses.A red tie with blue stripes.A blue tie with a red stripe.It's the wide colored tie, not the narrow one.There is also a plain red tie. All of these things used to hang in my bedroom at home. Home is an apartment on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise building, like a filing cabinet for a widow or a young office worker.Marketing brochures assured me that a foot of concrete floors, ceilings, and walls would separate me from my neighbors' stereos or blaring TVs.With this one foot of concrete and the air conditioning system, you can't even open the windows, so even if you have marble floors and dimmer switches, all these 1,700 feet of airtight space are the last time you did it. The smell of rice or going to the toilet.

That's right, the room is outfitted with countertops that look like chopping boards and low-voltage active spotlights. That one foot of concrete is still very important when your next-door neighbor has a dead battery in his hearing aid and has to turn the volume on the TV to blaring.Or when the gas explodes like a volcano and your living room decor, furniture and personal belongings explode into pieces, blasting through your sky-high French windows, blazing and falling from the sky, turning your apartment, and just your apartment, into When a charred cement hole in the facade of the building was formed.

And that's exactly what happened. Everything, including your set of hand-blown green glass dishes with tiny bubbles and blemishes and a few grains of grit to prove they were made by honest, simple, hard-working natives somewhere in the middle of nowhere Well, these plates were also swept out by the blast airflow.Imagine that floor-to-ceiling curtain being blown out and burning to pieces in the hot wind. From above the fifteenth floor of the city, the stuff burns, crashes, and smashes down on everyone's car. Me, while I was asleep flying west at Mach 0.83, or 455 mph, true airspeed, the FBI bomb squad was examining my suitcases on a vacated runway at the back of Dulles.Nine out of 10 times out of ten it's the shaver that's causing the vibrations, according to the security affairs guy.This time it's my cordless electric shaver.That tenth time was a vibrating plastic dildo.

That's what the Security Affairs guy told me.I had just gotten off the plane, had no suitcase, was about to take a taxi home, and was about to find my flannel shirt burned to pieces on the street. Think about it, said the Security Affairs guy, telling a passenger upon arrival that a plastic dildo had left her luggage on the East Coast.Sometimes even a man.Airline policy is never to imply ownership when encountering a plastic dildo.Use indefinite articles. A plastic dildo. Never talk about your dildo. Never said that dildo accidentally turned itself on. A dildo activated itself, creating an emergency that necessitated diverting your luggage.

It was raining when I woke up with a connecting flight at Stapleton Airport. It was raining when I woke up as the plane was about to land. The bullhorn told us to take this opportunity to check around our seats and not forget anything we had with us.Then the megaphone called my name.Can I meet with an airline representative waiting at the gate. I set my watch back three hours and it was still past midnight. There was the airline rep at the door, and the security affairs guy, and he said, ah, you're stuck at Dulles with your electric shaver making your bags have to be checked.The Security Affairs guy called the baggage handlers the bag throwers.And then call them blackmailers.Just to prove it wasn't the worst, the guy told me at least it wasn't a dildo.Then, maybe because I'm a guy and he's a guy, and it was one in the morning, and maybe to make me laugh, the guy said they call flight attendants space maids in the industry.Or an air mattress.The guy was wearing what looked like a pilot's uniform, a white shirt with two little epaulets and a blue tie.My luggage has been checked and is fine, he said it will be delivered the next day.

The guy asked me for my name, address and phone number, then he asked me what the difference was between a condom and a cockpit. "You can only fit one dick in a condom." I took a taxi home with my last ten dollars. The local police have asked many questions. My electric razor, which isn't a bomb at all, is still three time zones behind me. And something as powerful as a bomb, a gigantic bomb, has blown to pieces my ingenious Njurunda coffee table, which was originally made of a lime green "Yin" and an orange "Yang". round.Both yin and yang are now in pieces.

My Haparanda sofa set, covered in an orange-yellow cover, was designed by Erica Pecali and is now a pile of rubbish. I am not alone in becoming a slave to the nesting instinct.I know people who used to sit on the toilet and read porn magazines, and now they are looking at the "IKEA" furniture catalog on the toilet. We both have the same Johanneshov armchair with the same Strinne green stripe pattern.Mine flaming fell from the fifteenth floor into a fountain. We all have Rislampa/Har paper lanterns made of wire and eco-friendly raw white paper.Mine crumbled into confetti. And all the equipment in the bathroom.

Alle dinner set.Made of stainless steel.Both are dishwasher safe. Big Vild clock made of galvanized steel, oh I gotta have it. The Klipsk shelving combination, oh, that's right. Hemlig's hat box.Yes. It's all of the above littered and burning in the street outside the building where I live. Mommala quilt set.Designed by Thomas Harira, also available in the following colours: lavender. magenta. cobalt blue. Ebony. Black jade color. Pale yellowish brown or dark light purple. I've spent my entire life buying all this gear. My few easy care Kalix lounge tables in dapple paint.

My Steg table set. You buy furniture.You tell yourself this is going to be the last sofa I'll ever need in my life.Buy this couch and you'll be happy no matter what goes wrong for a year or two, at least in the couch business.Then choose the right plate.Then there's the perfect bed.curtain.carpet. And then you're stuck in your sweet little nest, and the things you had, now they have you. until I got home from the airport. The porter stepped out of the shadows and said there had been an accident.The police have come and asked a lot of questions. Police believe it may have been gas.Maybe the small fire that was always burning on the gas stove went out, or a gas tap was left off, causing the gas to leak, and then the gas gradually rose to the ceiling, and then the gas gradually filled every room of the apartment, from the ceiling to the floor.The apartment was seventeen hundred square feet and had high ceilings, and the gas must have been leaking day after day until it filled every room completely.Once all the rooms are filled with gas all the way down to the floor, the compressor at the bottom of the fridge just kicks in.

boom. The towering floor-to-ceiling windows flew out with aluminum alloy window frames, followed by sofas, lamps, plates, and bed sheets and quilt covers, as well as high school yearbooks, various diplomas, and telephones.Everything exploded from the fifteenth floor with a bang like a solar flare. Oh, not my refrigerator.I have collected shelves full of mustards of all kinds, some stone ground, some English pub style.There were fourteen different flavors of fat-free salad dressings in the fridge, and seven different caper buds. I know, I know, a room full of condiments and no real food. The porter blew his nose, and something fell into his handkerchief, like a strike caught by a catcher. You could go up to the fifteenth floor, said the porter, but no one can enter that unit.This is an order from the police.The police kept asking if I had a broken girlfriend who would want to do this, or if I had a feud with someone who had access to the explosives. "It's not worth going there either," said the porter. "The rest is just a concrete shelf." Police have not ruled out the possibility of arson.Nobody smelled gas.The porter shrugged one eyebrow.This guy spends all his time flirting with the day maids and nurses who work for the big units on the top floor, and this guy just sits on a few chairs in the foyer and waits for them to get off work and give them a ride .I have lived here for three years, and every night when I go home to open the door and let myself in, I have to remove the big and small bags in front of the door, but he has been sitting there watching his "Ellery Quay". Cause Magazine. The porter raised one eyebrow and murmured how some people would go to such lengths to put a candle, a long, long lit candle, in a vat of gasoline.People with financial difficulties do it.Guys who want to come out of the bottom. I asked to use the hall phone. “There are a lot of young people who want to impress the world and become shopaholics,” said the concierge. I dialed Taylor's number. The phone rang in the house Taylor had rented on Paper Street. Oh Taylor, help me. The phone is ringing. The porter leaned over my shoulder and said, "There are a lot of young people who don't know what they really want." Oh Taylor, save me. The phone is ringing. "Young people, they feel like they want the whole world." Save me from swedish furniture. Save me from over-smart art. The phone rings and Taylor finally answers. "If you don't know what you want," said the concierge, "you end up with a whole lot of stuff you don't want." May I never be whole. May I never be satisfied. May I never be perfect. Save me, Taylor, save me from trying to be perfect and whole. Taylor and I agreed to meet at a bar. The concierge asked me for a number where the police could reach me.It's still raining.My Audi is still in the parking lot, but a Dakapo halogen headlight has pierced the windshield. Tyler and I, we met and drank a lot of beer, and Tyler said, no problem, I can move in with him, but I have to do him a favor. The next day my suitcase would arrive with the bare minimum, six shirts, six underwear. In that bar where nobody's looking at you, nobody's paying attention to you, I asked Tyler what he wanted from me. Taylor said, "I want you to hit me hard."