The Interior Life of Ruck

I backpack.

Named Ruck. Store person put me on shelf. She say I “handsum”. I not know what it mean, but she make happy face when she say, so must be nice thing. 

Nothing to do while I sit here but lots to look at. After I see sun come up from outside window two times, I feel little bored. I feel little empty, like I hungry.

But I not wait long. Young man come, he look at me. He lift me from shelf, take me to store lady, who ask him if he want me “in a bag”, which make them both laugh. We go outside, he sling me on back. What a feeling! I move so free! I then rest on his back. I still empty, but it feel nice to use my straps. We go forward, away from store. 

I miss nice store lady but I like outside more. I like being on back.

—

Owner name Kafka, I hear him say. I learn Kafka a “uhcountant”. He work with numbers. He use heavy machine to help make sentences from numbers. At end of each sentence, he take short break, then start next sentence. He write lots of number sentences on machine. I think one day he write book (book is like many papers, put together with gloo), like ones I carry, or ones I see at his home.

We spend lot of time together. Every time we go out, it new “uhdventure” (fun work, but makes no money) for me. Kafka not tell me where we go, I find out right before we leave home. It fun game for me to guess where we go from the things he give me to carry. When he bring his uhcountant things, I know we go to office. When I carry snacks, water, spray for “bears” (animals that hike but not carry backpacks), I know we go hiking. When I empty, I know we go get food from store (different store than where I from) to keep at home. I not eat store food. I not hungry when I carry things.

Hiking my favorite.

—

While Kafka at work, I read the things left inside me. Sometimes these are small things I can read, like receipts and snack labels, but they interesting because they important enough for me to carry, so I read them to learn why so important to Kafka that I work hard to carry and keep for him. I not upset, I just wonder, because I have lots of time to think while we at his “office”.

Mostly I read his books that I carry. But because he an accountant, his books are more numbers than words. So I think I slow to learn words. I like words, because they give me way to understand Kafka and to think better. Numbers not help me very much yet.

Books heavy, but are my favorite thing to carry. I read them and read them again.

—

At work today I read a very different kind of book. This one didn’t have many numbers in it. And it was very different than the accounting books I normally read. It was more of a fun story, but I don’t know yet if the story is true or not. It was about a wizard boy named Harry, and if it is true, then I wonder if Kafka has any friends from the school of magic. How fun and curious it would be to meet someone who has a bag that can store as many things as it want. I’d like to meet that bag, what a fun trick! Sometimes when I’m so full that I can’t fit anymore, I feel a bit bad because I know Kafka needs me to carry more. He gently squashes all his other stuff down to make room for more stuff, and I feel guilty. I would like to learn how to make more room. Unlimited room! I have much to learn. 

If not a true story, then I wonder why someone would write it?

—

When we don’t go to Kafka’s work, I carry stuff that feels different. Like today we went on a picnic and we brought along “homey” things (things that are softer, things that feel like they are from home, borrowed from home, and when you have them with you, you feel like home is with you).

I carried a soft blanket, a “journal” (a book that Kafka sometimes writes his stories in, but ones with no numbers), a pencil, sunglasses, a little bottle of lotion, a salad with separate dressing (it took a lot of effort to keep the “dressing” upright!), some napkins, and an empty bag. Not a bag like me, but a smaller one, a plastic one that seemed disinterested in whether it was carrying books or garbage, whether it was empty, or wrinkled to death with folds.

While we were lying on the blanket at the park — I feeling a blissful stillness in a sunbeam, feeling alive from the earthy tree air that travelled across us slowly — Kafka made a new friend who was also laying in the park, a blanket and a patch of grass away from us.

“I’m Kafka”, Kafka said, flashing a smile.

“I’m Jeannie”, she smiled back.

I wonder a little if Kafka knows my name. It was a nice day, lots of work and lots of play.

—

Sundays are crisp and best enjoyed when they begin in Kafka’s “Dodge” (a type of car that is used for going to and from the city), and are followed by a day-long hike. 

Car rides are as fine as paper towel, but truth be told, I am still not used to facing forward while also moving forward. It’s a strange sensation, perhaps like a human walking backwards while facing forwards. But knowing that we’re about to spend the day hiking is enough to distract me from the strangeness.

This morning though, I was in a bad mood.

Usually seated in the first-mate seat of Kafka’s Dodge, keeping him company, I was demoted this morning to an afterthought in the backseat on account of new company. Not even in the middle backseat, where at least the three of us would form an equilateral triangle, reassuring by virtue of its equity and impartiality, but rather in the seat behind Jeannie, furthest from Kafka, where I’m forced to stare at the back of the chair that used to be mine.

Sitting there, behind the open window instead of next to it, the gush of air tumbling into the back seat, crushing me with the force of its weight, made me want to “vomit” (when you hurl the contents out of your body because you don’t feel well). 

I tried to look mad by squishing my face the way I sometimes see Kafka do, but my attempt at shapeshifting was futile, because I’m too much on the outside who I am on the inside, which is rumpled stuff. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because the sanguine rockmelons upfront were preoccupied laughing at unfunny jokes.

When we got there, wherever there was, Kafka heaved me out from the backseat. Determined to not willingly become part of a scalene love triangle, I made myself as heavy as possible and Kafka grunted.

But it’s an odd thing. Despite my resolve to weigh down the buoying levity of their romance, to bring it back to earth, something got the better of me when we began hiking. My work began, the work of keeping their possessions safe and present, and my bitterness dissolved into the solvent air of the forest. I am a sentimental creature, easily overcome by the poetry of sticks, twigs, trees, and earthy air. 

I felt bashful of the jealousy I felt earlier, but I also felt reinvigorated, filled as much with purpose as I was with pasta salad, the two counting on me. I am the difference between well-prepared loving adventurers, and once-lovers torn apart by nothing other than the mundane rational problems of unpreparedness.

Later, all of us tired, we plopped down on a jagged rock whose redeeming quality was that it was large enough to seat us all in a forest that had no other chairs. We needed a break from the sun and the walking, and from the bugs too, but enamoured by our company, the bugs insisted on taking a break with us. 

Like a magician with their trusty hat, Kafka pulled out whatever it was that they needed; snacks, hydration, and afterwards, we all laughed at things that are only funny when you feel an overwhelming lightness.

—

We hiked everywhere. For a whole year, here, there, everywhere, even across the ocean, where people spoke languages I’ve never read (though often the numbers looked the same there as they did back home).

I could tell you of forests and cities; of ships, planes, trains, and bikes; of heat, of wind, of sand; of bugs and of birds. But there was one moment in particular while we were hiking off the Ligurian coast that was revelatory for me, when a truth about my kind gobsmacked me over the hood.

As with most prophetic moments, it happened simply, without ceremony, and only in retrospect do you realize that it was something you’ve been waiting to know. And often that realization is an answer to why you are the way you are, and why you sometimes inexplicably feel alone in the company of others. (Or so I’ve gathered from the books Kafka and I have read, I don’t have many revelations of my own to draw from, but it seems to be a sort of universal phenomena that makes us all ironically alike.)

Anyways, during one of these hikes, in the silence of the morning, Kafka and I passed by another backpack and their human, who nodded at us as we crossed paths, the strangers going onward into our past while we went onwards into theirs, the other backpack and I continuing to face one another for longer than most humans would feel comfortable holding a gaze with one another. This stranger backpack was well worn, one of the eldest I ever encountered. It had aged gracefully without becoming fragile, a marbled patina having formed on its leather surfaces, adventure imbued into its fabric.

It was then that it dawned on me; that backpacks live looking backwards. You’d think it would be obvious, “back” is even in the name of my kind, but it took me living a dozen Fodor’s for this to really sink in.

When humans walk, they walk towards something. Objects ahead of them become bigger and bigger, at their largest before suddenly they disappear forever. Being able to march forwards towards the unseen, unencumbered by what they leave behind, makes them ideal explorers.

But when we as backpacks travel, it’s the opposite. Things start out at a scale hyper quixotic to a little backpack, become smaller and smaller, until eventually — they don’t disappear — they just become infinitesimally small. What’s more is that I always know how much longer I have to appreciate something before it fades away, the correlation between time and visibility made predictable, like a sunset. 

What does that make a backpack, whose motion is forward but is always looking back? What do you call someone or something that savours the past, bidding everything it passes a long and reverent goodbye?

A poet, a journalist, a cartographer, perhaps? Whose role it is to chronicle their loved ones’ life and adventures? Not on maps or on paper, but within the memory of our materials. We remember whatever is worth remembering before it fades away - like the smell of pine, the salt of creek water, the sap and dew of the trees we rest on - and imbue it in our fabric. We absorb and reflect the experiences of our humans, forming a tapestry of their lives.

—

We’ve been back home for a while, and so there’s been less hiking and no travelling, and more time spent at Kafka’s office. Fewer stories about Harry Potter (which I’ve since learned are “fiction”), and more stories about numbers (which I’ve since learned, I’m not the only one who doesn’t enjoy reading such stories). 

I’m not complaining. I know I speak often of how much I love my work while we hike and travel, but I can appreciate a break. I wouldn’t mind trying out one of these “spas” I keep reading about (a place where they spot clean your fabric with cucumbers), but for now it’s nice to have predictability in the possessions I carry, and to simply lay motionless in a climate-controlled environment for hours, or even days at a time.

—

I’ve noticed some peculiarities this past week, some of them as contradictory as salt and pepper. 

I’ll start with the exciting news. I’ve been carrying around fewer accounting books this week, and have instead been entrusted with Yosemite Falls travel books checked out from the library, which Kafka has been devouring at lunch time. The anticipation of another trip, our first in a while, sends a chill of excitement up my padded spine. For all my talk about rest and relaxation, it turns out I’m just a fisherman who misses the sea.

And while the fibres of my fabric, once clean and crisp, have softened, gently sanded down by the tide of adventure, I feel as durable and capable as ever.

There is a contradiction that has left me confused, however. I’ve noticed a few anomalies at home, traits inconsistent with how Kafka has usually behaved before a big trip. Ordinarily, we would both sit in the living room, and see what all we were capable of carrying. And though I’ve tried to signal to Kafka and Jeannie that I was ready, if not eager for this ritual, I’ve been left to idle while they plan.

But I chalk it up to experience; we have more confidence in what to pack, how to fit and carry it all, and being able to improvise with the unknown since you can never pack everything. That’s what aging is really all about; you no longer carry around the weight of the permutations of everything that will go wrong.

—

I should have seen the signs.

At first they were subtle. For example, Kafka used to gently and carefully clean my fabric, dabbing at me gently with Dawn dish soap and warm water; always warm, never cold, never hot. Warm with a precision that he seldom demonstrated for anything except numbers. Then recently, he became ambivalent about the temperature of the water, then he stopped caring about the soap, before finally he stopped caring about cleaning me altogether.

And in the past couple weeks, the clues became so obvious that I now feel stupid for not recognizing them sooner. Kafka and Jeannie began talking of me “wearing out”, which at the time, I assumed to mean they were getting ready to wear me “out”, as in outside of work, outside of the normal routine, outside of the comfortable but now lethargic sanctum we had all cocooned ourselves in. Now I see that “wearing out” is a human idiom, as in I’m being “worn away”, fading into the distance, like the trees and sticks that I used to enjoy watching become infinitesimally small until they only existed in my memory. 

So I am a “horcrux” now, a slice of Kafka’s soul, living outside of him. At a store, to be precise, filled with things. Not new things like where I grew up, but old things. Old things that would ordinarily be beautiful, like the backpack I saw on our hike off the Ligurian coast. But now, placed outside of their work environment, compacted in between other old things, sitting empty on a shelf, trying to catch a stray sun beam but having to pathetically settle for fluorescent lights, we all looked decrepit and humiliated.

I feel like vomiting, but can’t because I am empty. I am hungry, have nothing to read, and my arms are stiff from not moving.

The store keepers here are unsympathetic, as are the patrons, and we all move about as though we are discarded by our Kafkas. 

—

Adam, a red-headed boy of six or seven, walks into the store. He picks me up, and - now that I know more of accounting than he - pays for me at a depreciated value. 

We walk outside into a bright white world, and he slings me over his shoulder. Little Adam walks onwards, and I, on his back (and just as big), begin chronicling his life.