All Fears

“Why did you come to work with a lunchbox the size of a suitcase?” I joked when Victor came to our truck in the morning.
“It’s a real suitcase with my clothes. My girlfriend handed it to me when I left for work—it’s the first time this has happened. She really threw me out,” he said with a long sigh.
His shoulders slumped and trembled. He looked as if he might shatter like glass. But even in better times, Victor had never resembled a fairytale prince—or a macho man with a sombrero and a heavy holster on his belt.
Victor and I worked for a charitable organization. Twice a week, we drove a truck to collect clothes people no longer wore, which they left in donation boxes in shopping center parking lots. Our income, to put it mildly, was very modest.
He set his suitcase on a bench and opened it. It was my turn to sigh.
“If these clothes were meant for donation, we would never accept them in this condition,” I said.
Out of respect, I couldn’t bring myself to say words like “awful,” “terrible,” or “garbage.”
A pair of trousers had a hole just below the belt. A shirt was missing half its buttons. Toothpaste and a toothbrush had been left on a black sweater, leaving a wide white streak, as if a shuttle had just landed.
Breaking up with a loved one is a deeply painful experience—especially when you don’t have a place of your own to stay and nearby hotels are too expensive. Victor—ironically, with such an optimistic name—learned this the hard way.
“Please, don’t give up—we need to analyze the situation! Did she make that hole in your trousers, or was it your fault?” I tried to sound optimistic.
Victor froze, his face turning completely expressionless, like a mask. It was a clear sign his memory was hard at work.
“Wait—I remember! I had to climb a fence when a neighbor’s dog decided to test how fast I could run,” Victor said.
“Good. What about your shirt?”
“My shirt… I’m ashamed. She’s such a good cook that I gained maybe ten pounds over the last year. The shirt became too tight. When I tried to hug my girlfriend to thank her for the beautiful dinner, the buttons popped off.”
“Wonderful, but the white streak on the sweater clearly shows some evil intentions,” I said sadly.
“No, there’s an easy explanation! Do you remember our party to celebrate that pile of donated clothes? I got home late and decided to go to bed with clean teeth. But—I remember only managing to open the toothpaste, and then… completely blank,” he said.
We looked at each other, uncertain.
“Let’s look into your suitcase more carefully,” I said.
“My dear, in your charity there is a beautiful repair shop. In your suitcase, I have put clothes that need the hands of your masters. Waiting for supper. Kisses to you.”
We looked at each other in silence. We ourselves had created all the fears in our lives.