Apologia for a Man-Bag

In his pockets: wallet, phone, a pen, coins, an iPod, a brochure with the address of his guesthouse. In his hands, a diary, a camera, an alpaca-wool sweater too hot to wear after 10 a.m. He juggles these things to open the cathedral door. Lays them beside him on the pew. Sweat dries in the ancient air, motes of dust illuminated in colored light flowing through stained glass.

Cool again, he ties his possessions into the sweater and returns to the street. He scans the plaza for pickpockets, thinks that he might as well change his name to Mark. “Chicharrones, chicharrones, chicharrón!” yells a hawker from the shade of the cathedral. Beside him, a woman selling stone sculptures. Beside her, a man beckons.

“You need a bag,” the man says in Spanish. “If your hands are full, people are going to rob you,” he explains slowly, as if to a child. His front teeth are broken, and he has dirt under his fingernails. “This bag is pure alpaca wool. See? The design is well-typical. A Cusqueño shepherd’s pattern. Fifteen soles.” He pays ten. To him, it is three dollars. To the other man, it is a chicken and five kilos of white rice.

The sweater and its contents go into the bag, and then the wallet, phone, pen, coins, iPod, and the bag buttons closed. With his free hands he walks and reads the brochure. With free hands he examines the sculptures. They are made of adobe, not stone.

With free hands he enters the alley market safely. Drives a motorbike, carries his coffee through the streets. With his bag he can carry extra pens, sunscreen, a novel, more brochures. On the beach, the bag is a pillow. With free hands he climbs through the fog into a city lost in the mountains.

He puts his memories inside, and carries them back to America.

“Faggot,” jokes the friend who picks him up at the airport. “Only two kinds of people wear purses: bitches and faggots.” He is speaking English with a North American accent.

They go to a bar to get drunk. “How do you expect to get laid wearing a purse?” says a drunk girl he’s just met. He looks around the bar. The men wear their jeans too large, hanging below their waists. How would they run away if they were attacked? A young black guy is wearing a bag over one shoulder, but it has a picture of Michael Jordan on it, so no one worries. The women carry very small purses, all with the same design. Louis Vuitton. Imitation or the real thing, he can’t tell the difference. He tells the girl, “Compartimos tú y yo una sangre y una cara pálida, pero llevo en mi bolsa otros almas, vidas distintas.” She seems afraid, and backs away. Later, she makes out with his friend by the toilets.

Walking home alone, he sees a man slap his woman, and gives that man more of a beating than is reasonable. Later he finds that all of his possessions are still in his bag, and drops of blood have soaked into the wool.

In New York City, no one looks twice at his bag. Why would they? Here the faggots wear skin-tight leather vests, have tall green Mohawks. The Latinas approach him when he carries it. They say it reminds them of their homes. It reminds him of a city lost in the fog. When they speak, he drinks in their accents. He is not one of them, but until he stops carrying the bag, nor is he a gringo.