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"Well, hel-lo, Donald Trump," is what pops out of Dan's mouth when he sees the stack of brown and gold luggage behind Casey in line.
Casey turns. "Excuse me?"
Already Dan can see it's not the time, but, as usual, he doesn't seem to be able to turn it off. "The luggage." He waves a hand at it. "Does it come with its own native bearer?"
"It's Louis Vuitton Malletier. " Casey pronounces every syllable of Ma-llet-ier separately, with that French accent he's so proud of. "They've been making luggage since 1854. It's classic."
"It's leather. Each piece has got to weigh thirty pounds."
Casey gives him, and his ensemble, a withering look. "Well, Dan, that is why we have checked luggage, drivers, and bellboys. For those of us with grown-up luggage."
Casey had had wheeled luggage when nobody but pilots and flight attendants had had wheeled luggage. Dan remembered teasing him about that, too—"Excuse me, sir, but do you think my friend Casey could visit the cockpit before takeoff? He's very excited about flying."
Casey had laughed at that.
Dan is still working on a comeback when the agent gestures Casey forward. He watches sourly as Casey shuffles forward with his load.
If Dan knew how to let something go, he'd probably have a lot easier life. But then, he wouldn't be much of a reporter. So, as they settle into their business-class seats and Casey signals the attendant for a Scotch, he continues.
"What happened to the wheelie?"
"I didn't bring the wheelie."
"I liked the wheelie."
"No, you didn't."
"I liked to make fun of it. That's almost the same thing."
"Can we stop talking about my luggage now?" Casey demands.
Dan waves his hands. "It's just…Louis Vuitton? Oh, I'm sorry, Louis Vuitton Malletier. It's so pretentious. Aren't you a little young for a midlife crisis?"
"I'm sorry, Danny," Casey says coldly, "that I'm a little too old for the too-cool-to-wear-clothes-without-holes-in-them look. Unlike some people."
Fortunately, the attendant arrives with the drink just at that moment.
"I'll have one, too," Dan says, automatically flashing her the anchor smile. It dies the instant she looks away.
Of course, Dan knows what's going on. Casey's trying to break the streak. The last year has been nothing but bad luck. For the show, for the ratings, and most especially for Casey's personal life. You can't blame him.
The problem is—and Dan can attest to this, because he once did a five-minute feature piece on the subject one February day when the most exciting game was the Knicks versus the Trailblazers—while athletes are famous for the little superstitions that keep streaks going, no one has any great tips for ending them. There's no equivalent of the wear-the-same-shirt, put-your-left-foot-on-the-dugout-step-first, don't-step-on-the-lines-on-the-court tricks to change your luck. Sure, things have been tried, but the science is in its infancy—just ask the Red Sox. They're in uncharted territory here.
He's just worried that Casey's going about it the wrong way. Personally, Dan would have tried a rabbit's foot first. Maybe a sage-burning or something—Natalie probably knows someone who knows someone who thinks she's a witch. Casey's been hitting the road with Dan and that wheelie for at least the past eight years. It's too drastic a change, even if they are sitting in business class now. The next step is dyeing his hair, moving to California, and becoming a talk show host.
Dan glances over at Casey, who's doing his best to pretend he's interested in Vanity Fair. "You'd make a terrible talk show host," he mumbles.
Casey doesn't look up. "What?"
"Nothing," Dan says hastily.
That flight is probably the longest time Dan's been silent while conscious since…well, at least since the last Thanksgiving dinner at his parents' house. Casey spends it ostentatiously absorbed in work. (Dan's relieved to see that at least he hasn't switched to Montblanc pens.) Dan considers starting to play the "Hi, I'm Dan Rydell" game with the people around him, but decides against it. Instead, he has a few more drinks and skips dinner.
When they hit LAX, Dan is incredibly tempted to keep walking past the baggage claim, get a cab, and get himself to the hotel. But he doesn't. Instead, he stands a little distance from Casey, his "too cool" bag positioned at his feet, and waits for the safari to come tumbling down the chute.
And waits. And waits.
He wants to make a remark. In fact, he wants to make about fourteen remarks. If ever a situation called for persiflage, this is it. Dan's an expert on persiflage. You can take his word for it.
But, here's the thing. When your teammate is on a streak, you support the streak. You might ride him about how he looks in two months' worth of beard, but you don't hand him a razor or hide his lucky glove. If Casey McCall wants to break his streak by remaking himself into a guy who drags around 500 pounds of luggage because it looks more adult than Dan's satchel, then Dan has to back him on that, too. Even if Casey ends up in California, on a talk show, when everyone knows that when Andy Richter goes, there won't be any hosts with sidekicks left.
And as they're standing there, Dan watches his shoulders get tighter, and he realizes that Casey is thinking that the luggage was a mistake, too, but that he's not going to be able to admit it for a while.
So he swallows and says, "Dude, your bags—"
And Casey turns on him, of course, but Dan doesn't get mad, he just steps away and handles it, lots of anchor smiles and paperwork, and comes back. Casey is standing in the middle of baggage claim, looking like a dazed refugee from a natural disaster.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," Casey says, and, to be honest, Dan doesn't know, either. If the streak is able to eat three thousand dollars of sturdy luggage whole, Dan isn't sure what's going to stop it. He has to admit, that's one impressive streak.
Well, at least they still have his stuff. "I've got you," he says. "Whatever you need, Casey. Whatever you need."
And he's mostly talking about mouthwash and shampoo and writing pads, but he feels Casey sag in towards him, just a little, and he's travelling light enough to carry that weight, too.