Corduroy and Calico

During the summer I spent working at the EPA, I carried a purse that I had made out of corduroy.  It was mossy green with a burgundy calico strap.  On the front I had affixed a tree; it was almost smurf-like in its perfection.  The trunk was a solid brown, and the cloud-shaped puff of leaves a more jewel-toned green than the corduroy of the purse itself, but the same calico pattern as the strap, with small asterisk designs throughout.  I had spent a great deal of time on it, and I loved it.

This purse had gone with me everywhere, across state lines, to concerts, through entire relationships.  It even went on the interview that got me the EPA job.  But there was one threshold it could not pass--the rubber belted metal detector.

I had boarded the metro in New Carrolton, made my way to D.C., travelled all the way up the staggering height of the escalator--not a very difficult feat, as any escalator passenger will tell you--and made it to my destination.  Twice.  Maybe three times.  I know it was not my first day, but I also know that it wasn’t far from it.  I entered the building, said hello to the hot, dread-locked security guard who was overly friendly towards me--he once bought me a bouquet of roses being sold by a homeless man just outside of the building, who I was also friendly with--and put my bag on the conveyor belt.  

It was one of those moments of painful clarity.  Something changed about my vision--I zoomed in on the purse as it slowly made its way towards the little rubber curtains; I will never understand the purpose of those curtains.  And then my vision widened.  Not enough to be able to look away, but just enough to provide a perspective.  

Every single other bag on that conveyor belt was black.  And leather.  Supple leather.  There might have been one or two brown ones, but they, too, were supple and leather.  My bag was a corduroy and calico wart on the face of the U.S. government security system.  I was utterly embarrassed.

I went to the Prince Frederick Wal-Mart that night and bought a plastic-and-shiny-plastic black handbag.  

That purse is long gone as well, just as long gone as the corduroy and calico bag with the tree on the flap.  I slowly worked my way up to low-end designer handbags that I can’t even afford, that drive my husband insane.  But never once have I wondered ‘Why?’