25.7.03
The Bag.
A long time ago, I met a boy with a backpack that spoke to him.
It was, we agreed, a sure sign of his insanity, because nobody else could hear it.
But even though we agreed on that, I somehow never found it strange. When I thought about it at all, I was slightly jealous.
The bag first spoke to the boy after he'd been beaten up in the locker room. The bag had been beaten up as well. The boy apologised. "It's okay," the bag replied. "The fuckers don't know where my nuts are."
The backpack swore like a sailor - something he said he'd learned from a Puma sports bag. He gave good advice. He gave bad advice. In the beginning, he hated me.
I could tell, somehow. The gortex straps prickled against my palms. The boy apologised awkwardly, not knowing how to apologise for a fragment of himself, however disjointed, that would spit at me if it had saliva.
And it was disjointed. The two could hold entire conversations. Sometimes I joined in, by way of the boy's translations. The bag was funny. The bag was hysterical. The bag had a wit so sharp you could cut yourself on it (and I frequently did, although, with time, the bag's laughter took on a kinder edge). The boy was sweet, and daft, and made the people around him laugh, but never with a razor-edged sarcasm. He tried sometimes, but only the backpack could really pull it off.
"I'm bored, let's do something."
"Okay, what?"
"Dunno, you pick."
"Can't think of anything. Ask the bag."
"Hey, dude, what should we do?"
"What does he say?"
"Err..."
"What?"
"Well..."
"What?"
"Um..."
"Look, whatever it was, I can take it. I'm a big girl."
"He said I should take him dancing. He wants to feel pretty."
"What, he went straight for the sarcasm and skipped my insult? I'm almost disappointed."
"We had words. He said he'd stop that."
Slowly, I became an object above contempt, and Iw ent back to being jealous. Psychiatry be damned, the whole thing was pretty cool. And I remembered being lonely, and I remembered locker rooms, too.
"So that's not his mouth?"
"He says, hell no, it's his pouch. What do you think he does? Swallow all the stuff he carries?"
"Well... it makes sense..."
"He says, 'dude, that's gross.' He says he's a marsupial."
"If he hasn't got a mouth, how does he speak?"
"Um, apparently, you aren't wise enough in the ways of the force to understand, young one."
What the bag wanted more than anything, I learned, was to be filled with cool stuff. This was at the point where our conversations no longer consisted largely of four letter words followed by 'you', but before... Well. Before.
As a bag, apparently, carrying stuff is a duty and a calling. He never wanted to be able to speak. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened. After that, he wouldn't tell me anymore. I suppose we reached a block in the boy's mind - a point at which his logic train threatened to fall apart, or perhaps it just became too painful. You know. If you want to analyse.
Later than that, right before the before I was talking about - the boy was pushed up against the fence on the other side of the garden. I was crouching, trying to decide if it was dark yet. He told me the bag was dying.
I cried.
"I shouldn't be the one to do this. You should be the one to do this."
"We don't want me to do it."
"But he hates me."
"No. He doesn't. Not anymore. He's me, remember. And I trust you, so he does too. We trust you. You'll do this right."
"Why don't you do it?"
"Because I can't. He's me, remember. I can't bury myself. It would hurt too much."
"But we're not even going to bury him. Shouldn't we at least bury him?"
"He's a bag. He wants to die like a bag."
We filled him with as many cool things as we could find, and I carried him home with me.
On the train, I thought, for a moment, that I heard him demanding to know why he didnt' get a ticket. I would have replied - something funny and sarcastic - but the conductor was staring at me, so I fumbled my ticket over to him, said nothing, and regretted the decision.
When I got home, I buried him in the trash can.
A long time ago, I met a boy with a backpack that spoke to him.
It was, we agreed, a sure sign of his insanity, because nobody else could hear it.
But even though we agreed on that, I somehow never found it strange. When I thought about it at all, I was slightly jealous.
The bag first spoke to the boy after he'd been beaten up in the locker room. The bag had been beaten up as well. The boy apologised. "It's okay," the bag replied. "The fuckers don't know where my nuts are."
The backpack swore like a sailor - something he said he'd learned from a Puma sports bag. He gave good advice. He gave bad advice. In the beginning, he hated me.
I could tell, somehow. The gortex straps prickled against my palms. The boy apologised awkwardly, not knowing how to apologise for a fragment of himself, however disjointed, that would spit at me if it had saliva.
And it was disjointed. The two could hold entire conversations. Sometimes I joined in, by way of the boy's translations. The bag was funny. The bag was hysterical. The bag had a wit so sharp you could cut yourself on it (and I frequently did, although, with time, the bag's laughter took on a kinder edge). The boy was sweet, and daft, and made the people around him laugh, but never with a razor-edged sarcasm. He tried sometimes, but only the backpack could really pull it off.
"I'm bored, let's do something."
"Okay, what?"
"Dunno, you pick."
"Can't think of anything. Ask the bag."
"Hey, dude, what should we do?"
"What does he say?"
"Err..."
"What?"
"Well..."
"What?"
"Um..."
"Look, whatever it was, I can take it. I'm a big girl."
"He said I should take him dancing. He wants to feel pretty."
"What, he went straight for the sarcasm and skipped my insult? I'm almost disappointed."
"We had words. He said he'd stop that."
Slowly, I became an object above contempt, and Iw ent back to being jealous. Psychiatry be damned, the whole thing was pretty cool. And I remembered being lonely, and I remembered locker rooms, too.
"So that's not his mouth?"
"He says, hell no, it's his pouch. What do you think he does? Swallow all the stuff he carries?"
"Well... it makes sense..."
"He says, 'dude, that's gross.' He says he's a marsupial."
"If he hasn't got a mouth, how does he speak?"
"Um, apparently, you aren't wise enough in the ways of the force to understand, young one."
What the bag wanted more than anything, I learned, was to be filled with cool stuff. This was at the point where our conversations no longer consisted largely of four letter words followed by 'you', but before... Well. Before.
As a bag, apparently, carrying stuff is a duty and a calling. He never wanted to be able to speak. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened. After that, he wouldn't tell me anymore. I suppose we reached a block in the boy's mind - a point at which his logic train threatened to fall apart, or perhaps it just became too painful. You know. If you want to analyse.
Later than that, right before the before I was talking about - the boy was pushed up against the fence on the other side of the garden. I was crouching, trying to decide if it was dark yet. He told me the bag was dying.
I cried.
"I shouldn't be the one to do this. You should be the one to do this."
"We don't want me to do it."
"But he hates me."
"No. He doesn't. Not anymore. He's me, remember. And I trust you, so he does too. We trust you. You'll do this right."
"Why don't you do it?"
"Because I can't. He's me, remember. I can't bury myself. It would hurt too much."
"But we're not even going to bury him. Shouldn't we at least bury him?"
"He's a bag. He wants to die like a bag."
We filled him with as many cool things as we could find, and I carried him home with me.
On the train, I thought, for a moment, that I heard him demanding to know why he didnt' get a ticket. I would have replied - something funny and sarcastic - but the conductor was staring at me, so I fumbled my ticket over to him, said nothing, and regretted the decision.
When I got home, I buried him in the trash can.
