Somehow, Casey doesn't know how, it's Lisa who gets out of their marriage with all their luggage – leaving him, he thinks bitterly, with just the baggage. He's at a loss to know what she thinks she wants with his suit carrier, but, frankly, that sort of detail is the last thing on his mind. She wants it, she can have it, the hell with her. He'll get something new, something classier. After all, what could be a better symbol for moving on than a new suitcase?
One trip to Louis Vuitton and give or take a thousand dollars later, new cases are what he has: garment bag, wheeled suitcase, holdall, even a new toiletry bag, all in buttery-smooth, fresh-smelling leather, luxurious and capacious. He could, he reflects as he looks around his temporary apartment and the few possessions remaining to him, fit his entire life into those bags. And that, he supposes, is symbolic too.
A few weeks afterward, as he stands in line at the United desk waiting to check in, he can't help casting his eye over the cases and feeling a sense of satisfaction. They give him class, he reflects: they show the world that he's not just anyone, not just any old knocked-down, second-hand divorcé, not just unwanted, discarded goods. He's Casey McCall, and he is both a mover and a shaker. And no more can he help flicking his eyes over to where Dan's standing, leaning against a pillar, ticket in hand and a battered canvas carry-on bag, his only luggage, slung over one shoulder. Dan's dressed for travel in ancient jeans, worn clear away at the knee, in Hi-Tops and a faded Pearl Jam teeshirt; his hair's unbrushed, and he has a day-old growth of stubble. He looks like a student, a hippy, a gypsy, like almost anything but what he is – a highly-paid professional broadcaster on his way to cover a prestigious sporting event. Dan needs (Casey muses) to grow up; join the real world.
Too many hours later and the width of a continent away, Casey waits, worn and hungry, cramped and dehydrated and irritable, and watches the baggage carousel spin, and spin, and spin. And spin. The first time Dan touches his arm, he shakes him off without looking at him. And the second. And the third. The fourth and final time, when Dan, tentatively, says, "Dude. Your bags – " he whirls around and turns on him.
"I know my bags aren't here, Danny, I'm not stupid, I can see they're not here, and just exactly what do you want me to do about it?!"
Dan steps away, hands held up in defence. He says, quietly, "I'll find someone." And he does, while Casey still waits, still watching the carousel, spinning, spinning. There's debate, argument, discussion, many forms to be filled in; Dan takes care of all that, too. And then he slings his bag – that tattered, ratty thing that nobody would even want to steal, even if it'd ever left his hands – back over his shoulder, takes Casey by the elbow, and steers him away.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," Casey hears himself saying, his voice sounding dull and hopeless in his own ears, and he realises he doesn't mean just now – now is easy, they'll get a taxi, locate their hotel, book themselves in, then they'll go out and find a shopping mall, he'll replace whatever he can't live without and then claim the fuck out of his insurance; he means now, and for the rest of his life. Dan's fingers tighten on his arm.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "I've got you. Whatever you need, Casey. Whatever you need."
And Casey is so damn tired that, if only for the moment, he at least pretends to believe him.