What's in the box? What's in the box?

It stared back at us in that way that only inanimate objects can. It was a temptress and an intimidator at the same time. When the car would shake it would leap forward, as if taunting us. Threatening to spill to the floor and unleash its awful secret. Anonymous. Unclaimed. Dangerous. And tacky.

My roommate and I, Sarah, were taking the train to Lakeview to meet some friends at a bar. We entered an almost empty car at Western and settled into single seats. It was halfway through our conversation about the joys of alcohol and codependency when I noticed it.
“Hey Sarah, do you see that?”
“See what?”
Across from our single seats in another single was a small tote bag. It was striped, teal and magenta, and had a white corded drawstring. It seemed to be packed full, though of what I couldn’t tell. The train veered and the bag bounced a little, scooting it towards the edge of the seat.
“That bag.”
“That bag?”
“That bag over there.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Sarah stole a glance over to the seat and then directly back out at me. Her eyes widened, complementing my strange smile. Our silence was painful yet obvious. Sarah and I, along with countless other people residing in this fair city of Chicago, rely solely on public transportation. Sarah sold her car for convenience and I am legally not allowed to drive in the fifty states (although Kentucky might be questionable). At least twice every day, if not more, I am in transit. Red lines to brown lines to numbered buses. When they talked of cuts, I began emergency rerouting plans. Free transfers to green lines and back home on the blue line.

Without it, I can only imagine a post-apocalyptic metropolis where the downtown car-less go underground into the now abandoned transit tunnels, growing pale from lack of Vitamin D and coming out at night to attack those with cars, the Automated, in order to salvage the cars for hopes of building better trains for the future. They call themselves the Bidpedals. Those of us on the north side, take to the now abandoned elevated tracks, living in abandoned el cars and gain uncanny climbing and scaling abilities, allowing us to obtain food, kill intruders and locomote without ever touching the ground. We would name ourselves the Simnoids, combination simian and humanoid. Bleak indeed.
“It’s probably just a bag. Right? Like someone’s laundry bag?” Sarah asked.
“Right.”
In light of recent global events, I don’t know if Sarah was trying more to convince me or herself.
“It’s just a bag.”
The train stopped at the next stop and a group of about seven or eight boarded. As the volume grew, so did our anxiety.
“Isn’t this one of those things?” Sarah asked.
“One of those things?” I replied.
“One of those things we’re supposed to report.”
“Oh, I think so,” I replied and turned back around to face out.
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Then shouldn’t we report it?”
“Now?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned back out to face Sarah and see that her eyes had not narrowed at all and she certainly could discern that my nervous smile remained plastered.
“Well,” I said, “We are almost there. Maybe we should wait.”
“Yeah, maybe. But maybe if we wait…”
“I mean, I guess I would have to press the button. And they would stop the train. I mean everyone would be mad. I don’t want to be “that” guy.”

Amazing really, that even when faced with either a potential disaster or the chance to be a hero, I am more concerned with public opinion and saving face. What, iIf the train were about to explode or become inundated with viral spores at least I could maybe make two more friends before losing limbs or bleeding out of my eyes?

Luckily, Sarah agreed with me.
“No, we wouldn’t want to do that.”
We were silent for what seemed like ages. I don’t know what Sarah was thinking in those moments, but I’m sure it was something profound. Me, on the other was thinking about how drunk I could tonight and still be able to make it to work alright. I am tempted to call it a defense mechanism. A way to distract my thoughts from something potentially dangerous. Truthfully though, I think I am just an alcoholic.
Sarah’s headed twitched and she spoke:
“It’s just someone’s bag right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, “someone just left it there during rush hour or something.”
“Right, it’s just a bag.”
I knew what I needed to do.
“Do you want me to go check it out?”
“Yes. Just go poke it.”
The rational side of me kept telling myself, It’s nothing. It’s a bag. It’s trash. If it’s valuable you can keep it.

But as I made my way over to the bag the morbid side of me took over.

If its anthrax will I die immediately? How does one die from anthrax? I really should watch the news more often. Weren’t they saying there were some trademarks to look for if you come upon a mysterious package. What are they? I should start reading the paper.
I sat down in the seat next to bag and began reaching my hand out towards it.

What if its something dead. Oh my god. What if someone killed their cat and threw it in a bag and left it on the el. How awful, how disgusting, and how could I do that without Sarah noticing?
As my hand touched the top of the bag and I curled my fingers around the drawstring my morbidity increased ten-fold.

What if…what if it’s a baby. Oh my god. It’s a baby. Someone left there baby on the train. God I hate babies. Why is everyone having children?

I opened the top of the bag and something black and brown poked its way out. I looked over to Sarah.
“What is it?” she implored.
It’s a paw. It’s a limb. It’s a baby.
“I think,” I started.
It’s a bomb. It’s anthrax. What does anthrax look like? I really have to start watching the news.
“A pair of flip-flops.”
“What?”
“It’s a pair of flip-flops. Um…some baby clothes. A bottle of baby formula. Some books. And some other stuff.”
“Oh.”
“At least I think it’s baby formula.”
I looked to Sarah with a “what now?” face.
She called up to the front of the car.
“Is this anyone’s bag. Does this bag belong to anyone. This bag. It’s a bag. Is it yours?”
“What bag?” A surly man replied.
“This bag,” I said, as I lifted it up to show him.
“No, it’s not. It’s not yours?”
“No,” Sarah said.
“No!” I yelled. “Not out bag. This isn’t ours. Not our bag.” If there was a secret bomb at the bottom of this bag, I wanted to make sure that I could be absolved of guilt.
“Then whose is it?”
The three of us looked at each other with mild concern. The surly gentleman soon lost interest and Sarah and I turned back to each other.
“I suppose we could take it down to the CTA worker when we get off.” I offered.
“Ooh, like a lost-and-found.”
“Yeah.”
We arrived at out destination and I trudged slowly down the stairs towards the exit. Dread weighed me down and I wasn’t sure why.

I’ve seen what’s in the bag. It isn’t ticking. Some woman foolishly left it on the train while trying to juggle her child and her purse. Silly woman. She should have left the child. Why am I so concerned?

We reached the little cubicle where the CTA worker resides.
“Excuse me sir. We found this bag on the train. I think some woman must have left it. Do you have like a lost and found?”
He didn’t say a word. He just stared at the bag. Then at our faces. Then back to the bag. Waiting, I guess, to see if it moved or if noxious fumes would start tumbling out.
“It’s mostly just baby clothes and some other stuff.”
He eyes darted at me.
I couldn’t tell if his look was saying:
You stupid kids. What are you doing picking up an unmarked bag and walking around with it on public transportation?
Or
Oh my god. What are you handing me. This is what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? You look so unassuming. That’s how they get you. Terrorists.
Or
What do these dumb-ass kids care if some stupid woman left her bag on the train. What are they, boy scouts? Mormons? I have better things to do with my time, like not giving people directions or closing down every ticket station but one.
I couldn’t be sure what the look said, but I am sure it was one of the three. Maybe all of them.
After staring at the bag for some time, he slowly reached out for it.
“Thanks.” He said quickly and Sarah and I were on our way.
When I exited the CTA station my stomach unclenched.
Yes. I’m alive. It was nothing. It was just a stupid bag. I don’t have to start watching the news now. Bonus.
I felt stupid mostly. Of course it wasn’t a bomb, it wasn’t a biological weapon. I had just let months upon months of color-coded terror alerts and security dogs with sniffing dogs and TV press junkets (okay so I do sometimes watch the news) cloud my mind with perhaps the strongest weapon of all. Paranoia.
On the train ride back home that night, the same worker was still stationed there. He nodded as we passed, without recognition. His night, like mine, continued on without skipping a beat.