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Traveling
alarm
clock
.
Cordless
electric
razor
.
Toothbrush
.
Six
pair
underwear
.
Six
pair
black
socks
.
It
turns
out
,
my
suitcase
was
vibrating
on
departure
from
Dulles
,
according
to
the
security
task
force
guy
,
so
the
police
took
it
off
the
flight
.
Everything
was
in
that
bag
.
My
contact
lens
stuff
.
One
red
tie
with
blue
stripes
.
One
blue
tie
with
red
stripes
.
These
are
regimental
stripes
,
not
club
tie
stripes
.
And
one
solid
red
tie
.
A
list
of
all
these
things
used
to
hang
on
the
inside
of
my
bedroom
door
at
home
.
Home
was
a
condominium
on
the
fifteenth
floor
of
a
high-rise
,
a
sort
of
filing
cabinet
for
widows
and
young
professionals
.
The
marketing
brochure
promised
a
foot
of
concrete
floor
,
ceiling
,
and
wall
between
me
and
any
adjacent
stereo
or
turned-up
television
.
A
foot
of
concrete
and
air
conditioning
,
you
could
n't
open
the
windows
so
even
with
maple
flooring
and
dimmer
switches
,
all
seventeen
hundred
airtight
feet
would
smell
like
the
last
meal
you
cooked
or
your
last
trip
to
the
bathroom
.
Yeah
,
and
there
were
butcher
block
countertops
and
low-voltage
track
lighting
.
Still
,
a
foot
of
concrete
is
important
when
your
next-door
neighbor
lets
the
battery
on
her
hearing
aid
go
and
has
to
watch
her
game
shows
at
full
blast
.
Or
when
a
volcanic
blast
of
burning
gas
and
debris
that
used
to
be
your
living-room
set
and
personal
effects
blows
out
your
floor-to-ceiling
windows
and
sails
down
flaming
to
leave
just
your
condo
,
only
yours
,
a
gutted
charred
concrete
hole
in
the
cliffside
of
the
building
.
