The Bottle

Sun, 07 Mar 2021 08:05:36 -0500

“Where did you get that coke?” My father suddenly asked me as I was standing to the side of the sliding door waiting to hop in the van.

“I bought it at the front desk,” I replied.

“That’s your mother’s Coke, isn’t it?” I glanced over and saw my mother, who was obviously thirsty and, like me, not enjoying the heat.

“No, I bought this at the front desk,” I retorted, making sure to say it respectfully.

“Show me the receipt.”

“I didn’t receive a receipt, but you can ask the front desk clerk.”

“Stop lying, Ethan, that’s your mother’s Coke. She had it right here, went to the bathroom, came back and it was gone. Now you have a Coke bottle. Why did you take it?”

“I didn’t!”

“Then where is your mother’s Coke?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t take it. This is a Coke I bought. Ask Alex, he saw me with it.”

I didn’t want to drag Alex into anything, but at this point I was getting really annoyed. My entire life to that point, my father was never wrong. Even if he was, he would never admit it. It was always someone else’s mistake. Someone else’s fault. Someone who was lying. Even if proof were presented to him, it would be ignored. He was right. End of story.

After 17 years of this, annoyed at lugging heavy suitcases from Idaho to Equador, and uncomfortable with the relentless sweating, I had had enough. I decided I was going to stand my ground this time.

“Sorry Ethan, I didn’t notice you with a Coke bottle when I came down,” Alex interjected. He probably didn’t notice but even if he did, we both knew that if we both got involved we would then both suffer the consequences. I decided not to dwell on it.

“Maybe Alex didn’t see me, but this is my Coke. I bought it and didn’t steal Mom’s Coke,” I said, my voice shaking and struggling to stay steady. It took all my strength to refrain from yelling.

“How could you lie straight to my face so easily?! And when we are here on a missionary trip, on our way to a church to spread the message?! How could you have such evil inside you?! Confess now and we can take the evil out of this group! Confess now and you can be forgiven!”

These might not be the exact words my father said, but they are not far off. It might seem a little excessive and melodramatic, but my father was like that. By the time I was 16 I was disowned more times than I could remember.

I was told I had the devil inside me, made to stand up in front of our church and confess things that I did not do, and was called Cane (from the biblical Cane and Abel story) on many occasions. My father had a habit of yelling and degrading you so much that it would wear you down until you eventually gave in to his demands.

Samsonite

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 11:04:00 -0500

My first trip abroad was three years prior when I was 14.

I went to the UK and, while it was different, it had many similarities to my home in the midwest. This, however, this was truly different. And I loved it.

I loved the complete disconnect from anything that was familiar. Even though my presence in Ecuador was to assist my father’s missionary work - which was loathsome for me - just being in such different surroundings was invigorating. Was this what people meant when they referred to the “travel bug”, I asked myself.

My feelings of peace in what to me was chaotic surroundings was interrupted as the rest of my group came through the lobby. I had already lugged down two of the massive suitcases filled with religious literature that we brought with us and my older brother Alex soon appeared with the second two suitcases.

While we had a short rough patch during our early teenage years, Alex and I have always remained extremely close. If it weren’t for him I don’t think I would have managed to get through many parts of my life. Ecuador was exciting yet agonizing in many ways, and having Alex there made it all easier.

I put my coke bottle - still over half full and cool to the touch - on the front desk and lugged two of the four heavy suitcases out to our van where our driver awaited.

We had been carrying these suitcases since our departure from home. Through airports, bus stations, trains, hotels, and many times loading and unloading them into different cars, taxis, and vans. Alex and I ruminated amongst ourselves that our father brought us with not to give us a unique experience, but to carry the luggage.

These suitcases were not the expensive, light kind that you might see today at a high-scale luggage boutique. These were heavy-duty Samsonite 1990s suitcases, and the worst kind. They were heavy themselves, only had two wheels on one end that only allowed you to pull them one way, and they were shaped oddly, with sharp angular edges on the top.

How I loathed those suitcases.

Travel on Cult of None

The Bottle

Samsonite