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THE CAROUSEL
“I’VE DECIDED BAGGAGE carousels are a perfect metaphor for life,” Olly says from atop
the edge of a nonmoving one.
Neither of us has any checked luggage. All I’m carrying is a small backpack with
essentials—toothbrush, clean underwear, Lonely Earth Maui guidebook, and The Little
Prince. Of course I had to take it with me. I’m going to read it one more time to see how
the meaning’s changed.
“When did you decide this?” I ask.
“Just now.” He’s in a crackpot-theory mood, just waiting for me to ask him to elaborate.
“Want to give it some more thought before you regale me?” I ask.
He shakes his head and jumps down right in front of me. “I’d like to begin the regaling
now. Please.”
I gesture magnanimously for him to continue.
“You’re born. You get thrown onto this crazy contraption called life that just goes
around and around.”
“People are the luggage in this theory?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Sometimes you fall off prematurely. Sometimes you get so damaged by other pieces of
luggage falling on your head that you don’t really function anymore. Sometimes you get
lost or forgotten and go around forever and ever.”
“What about the ones that get picked up?”
“They go on to lead unextraordinary lives in a closet somewhere.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, unsure where to begin.
He takes this as agreement. “See? It’s flawless.” His eyes are laughing at me.
“Flawless,” I say, meaning him and not the theory. I thread my fingers through his and
look around. “Does it look like you remember?” Olly’s been here once before, on a family
vacation when he was ten.
“I don’t really remember much. I remember my dad saying it wouldn’t kill them to
spend a little money on first impressions.”
The terminal is dotted with greeters—Hawaiian women in long, flower-patterned
dresses holding welcome signs and strands of purple-and-white-orchid leis draped over
their forearms. The air does not smell like the ocean. It smells industrial, like jet fuel and
cleaning products. It’s a smell I could come to love because it would mean that I was
traveling. All around us the noise level rises and falls, punctuated by choruses of alohas