THE BAG MAN

by Rob Lopresti

Look over there. No, not yet. Okay, now. See that guy? See what he’s carrying?

Yeah, a plastic bag, the kind with a sealing top. But he doesn’t have his lunch in it. It’s a magazine. Why is he carrying a magazine around in a sealable plastic bag? Maybe he’s a crime scene technician and the bag is evidence.

Well, sorry to disappoint you but the man is me and the bag is evidence of nothing except egotism and impeciniosity. Inpecuniarity? Cheapitude.

You see, the magazine has one of my stories in it and naturally I feel that the vessel for such a masterpiece needs to be preserved for the ages. Hence the bag. But I also want to read the other stories. Hence me carrying it around.

That’s probably enough hences for one column.

Doesn’t the magazine send me contributor copies? Yes, they send a certain number. However, I also have a certain number of relatives.

Of course, I can buy extra copies, and do, but not so many that I can treat them casually.

On the other hand when I don’t have a story in the issue of that magazine, as does happen occasionally, I treat the publication in the most casual way imaginable, rolling it up and stuffing it into my pocket. When I’ve finished the magazine, if the cover hadn’t been sheared off by this hard use, I used to drop it off in the lunch room of the building where I work, but they sat there forever (not surprising, since the same people worked there every day.) So lately I began dropping them off at the public library, where they have a bin for freebie magazines. They are always gone when I come back, so hopefully someone is learning about the joys of mystery magazines.

Ironically, of course, they don’t get to see the issues with my stories in them. Poor souls.

In the long run, we are all dead

That subtitle came out less cheerful than I intended. Sorry.

The point I wanted to make was this. In my office closet I have a plastic case containing, each in their own plastic bags, copies of all the magazines and books in which my stories have appeared. The case is almost full, which is rather satisfying, but worrisome as well. Soon I may need to start a new case, and the closet is already full of other, not to put too fine a point on it, junk.

It does make me wonder what will happen to the various publications when I go to the Big Library. (Borges predicted that heaven would be a sort of library.)

I am currently writing a short story in which my mystery writer character, Shanks, is invited to donate his papers to his alma mater. Here he is, in the very rough draft, discussing it with his wife.

To his surprise, Cora had thought it was a fine idea. “If the college wants to cart some of your papers out of here, that’s some junk I won’t have to deal with when you’re gone.”

“Maybe I could arrange for them to cart me off, as well.”

“Now, that would be a full-service institution.”

Tsk, task, Cora. Play nice.

I think what brought this subject to mind was that we passed an estate sale today and the house was so packed with bargain hunters that I had to step outside and wait until my companion was done. I didn’t mind waiting. I had a magazine folded up in my pocket.