How to pack a suitcase

Fiction

i am the consummate traveller. i go to dark places, seedy undergrounds, the ends of the earth that mothers warn their timid children about. without a shiver or a bucked knee, i march forth, confidently, through shadows. i have looked the devil in the eye and found him unable to hold my gaze. willingly and repeatedly, i find myself in the hard places; places that make lesser men quiver, and make stronger men — well. you understand. there are no men stronger than he who rides with death.

as such, i am often confronted with the herculean task of condensing all my worldly belongings, my trophies of hard-fought battles and emblems of victory, my life-giving essentials and my joy-making indulgences, into a portable travel case.

suitcase-packing is a lost art, eaten and spit out by the modern world, like letter writing or smoking on airplanes. the catatonic traveller, unable to distinguish between necessity and clutter, can simply purchase a new suitcase, large as a fridge, allowing him to take all his wildest dreams down to Butlins. i see this as giving up. in my needlessly humble opinion, the suitcase befits the traveller. i am beyond clarification.

as any grocery shopper or constructioneer knows, the heaviest items go in first. once the foundations have been laid strong, the lighter dalliances can be strewn across the case; shavers, chargers, underwear, reproductive inhibitors, books. once all this, and more, has been settled, one may find the closing of the case difficult; this is to be expected and is a sign of good health. if you are fat enough, you may find sitting on the case effectively brings the zippers close enough together to be shut, in which instance i point at you and laugh scornfully, asking then to inspect your bag for high-calorie snacks because i am not just fearless but funny too.

if, like me, you see the body as a temple, we resort to more dynamic approaches. a few ill-thought recommendations need to be deconstructed before we settle on a solution; i now go through them in turn.

i. the leap

you may be inclined to leverage your bodyweight into more force than it’s worth by jumping and landing on your suitcase, bringing the zippers momentarily closer, pivoting in mid-air or upon landing to be able to draw them shut while the force of the impact is maintained. while naturally the first port of call, and effective if done first try, this method yields considerable injury to the leaper and risks permanent damage to the shell of the suitcase, which is often a plasticky composite (mine is near-pure adamantine, capable of withstanding gunshots, bomb-explosions (even from within), and is waterproof, but yours won’t be). attempt once, but know when to cut your losses and move on.

ii. the partner

if you happen to be packing in company, enlist the help of a friend or partner in bringing your shared bodyweight together to force the zippers close. undoubtedly, this is the safest and most resourceful method, but there are two major unlikelihoods that prevent this from being my final recommendation.

first, if you are reading this guide, then you are thinking about travelling to the aforementioned dark places. thinking, i say, because unlike me you haven’t the balls to set off on such an expedition. keep wandering around town, fatty! i may be getting my targets confused. once you have faced death all human countenance becomes Life.

in any case, if you are even thinking about travelling to the dark places, merely aware of their existence, then the modern facade of companionship is probably not for you. in which case, you may have trouble soliciting a partner to assist you in this method. fear not, better is coming.

the second unlikelihood is more grave. let us assume that you have found a comrade, a friend, willing to tackle this problem with you — but, let us also assume that the suitcase is only 1 person wide. what are we to do? how might we tesselate our bodyweight to even produce the force required for this method to be effective? trying to share the suitcase seems impractical, because with one leg each dangling off, our combined force adds up to that of one whole individual, negating our efforts. sitting atop one another seems like the obvious solution, but this one is just unacceptable. i won’t elaborate. you can’t make me. i can’t hear you.

this method, as we have seen, is irrecoverable.

iii. the one-handed pushup

you say: ‘but, but, b-b-but I can’t do a one-handed pushup’. I say, ‘then you are reading the wrong travel guide, worm’. I do not point you to better-suited resources. I do not invite competition.

we have arrived at my personal method and unwavering recommendation. when faced with this lid-closing conundrum, i like to plant my feet about a body’s length away from the suitcase, rest one hand on the Persian rug underfoot, and the other on the shell of the suitcase. a beat passes. another. suddenly, i press hard, the horseshoe tricep flares like an engine roaring into life, and the suitcase, perhaps impressed, perhaps shocked into submission, but in both cases defeated, has no choice but to bring those zips parallel, for my closing convenience.

this method works best with a partner present, not for any physical assistance, but for the dual benefit that having this method observed comes with; a closing of the suitcase, always the primary goal, but the birth of a new disciple, a loyal fan, a wowed spectator also.

if you can’t generate the power from one arm, through muscular force or sheer willpower, to bring the zippers together, then i can’t help you. perhaps you can travel with your suitcase open, holding it from the outside seam, like a waiter delivering cold glasses of wine on a tray. and men, lesser and stronger men alike, will look at you and say, he hasn’t the triceps to shut that darned thing, and you will know they are right. that’s what makes it hurt.