No, I'm not talking about some idiotic remark from Andy Capp or The Lockhorns. I have this great bag that's functioned pretty much as my office for the last seven or eight years. It's been dragged through every nook and cranny of our building, every half-room, every trailer and every office I've been through. I leave it in back of my car almost all the time, and I depend on it absolutely.
It's full of Dr. Grip pens and pencils faithfully purchased through Teacher's Choice, and every thing is in its place. There are erasers, there's a legal pad, and best of all, there are three rings right there so I don't have to shlep around a Delaney Book. This saves Mayor Bloomberg thirty bucks right there, as NYC is way too smart to buy 99-cent binders from Staples.
But from a corner, it came. The remark. "You need a new bag, Meester."
Oh no. Could it be true? I asked a girl on the side of the room who looked objective.
"You have to get rid of that thing," she said. "It's old."
What could be worse in her eyes? Sure, it's got two compartments, with two zippers on each, and one zips only to the right, while the other zips only to the left. I guess I could get them fixed for thirty bucks at the luggage store that fixed it last time. But then I'll be without it for days.
Or I could go to Staples and look for a new one. But I'll miss that old bag if I do.
Should I listen to the kids and replace that dilapidated piece of junk? Or should I respect tradition and preserve this valuable antique?
Stories herein containing unnamed or invented characters are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.