I once read somewhere, maybe in The Art of the Deal, that Trump never carries a briefcase. Fine and well for him but I sometimes do. I have to have a convenient place for cigars, a laptop, brass knuckles and pens I appropriate from hotels.
Over the years I have been through a number of models. I had this terrible habit of using them as file cabinets, stuffing them with papers I would never read and tossing them around until they were destroyed. I try to be a little more careful these days and I try to avoid paper.
Anyway, until last week I ran with an old (16 years) Dell laptop case. It was worn, tattered and the zipper was coming apart. Still it worked for me. That is, until the handle fell off. Many defects may be tolerated. A broken carry handle is not among them. Thus began my search for a replacement.
Earlier this year I lamented my inability to find a decent man’s suitcase. I still haven’t found one and I ponder if they even exist at this point. At least three end of the year travels await and I’m still using the old, frayed Land’s End bag. And you thought the election was problematic.
I worried that perhaps the briefcase market would be equally bleak.
One warm morning I ventured to one of the big box office retailers. Midway through the store I stumbled upon a collection of modern satchels, attaches and book bags. All of them seemed designed for women, children, metros, weaklings, and colorblind rave-goers.
They were, all of them, huge. I need to carry a small computer, not hike the AT, end to end. They had a variety of wheels and straps. I’m not moving furniture. They were in colors and patterns better suited for signaling other intelligent life in the galaxy. I just need to tote a Chromebook to the cigar bar. One even expanded vertically into a standing desk. It had a desk lamp and a washing machine built in. Another featured Barbie riding a pony while waving a BLM banner at a pride parade scene.
My growing snarls, tremors, and the crushing of a steel shelf support brought the attention of a clerk. He nervously pointed out that they had a men’s selection.
And, there, far in the back of the store, back by the storage room door, away from the lights, and out of hearing of the Muzak, I found this:
No wheels. No straps. No colors or themes. Simple, classy, utilitarian. Something your grandfather might have sported. And cheaper than its flashy cousins.
And there you have it. Justice, economy and common sense in the modern world.