A Pack of Lies

He walked in wearing a backpack full of rocks. It was easy to tell the weight had taken its toll. Sweat stained his underarms and neckline, and his face flushed from overexertion. He moaned and groaned as waves of pain attacked his body while he walked to the nearest seat. Before he sat, he made a series of small stretches: rolling his shoulders, straightening his back, and moving his head from side to side. Every movement made him wince.

“Let me take your pack?” A kind, middle-aged man stood to help.

“No, thank you,” the hiker said, “It’s mine.” He sat on a cushioned chair facing the fireplace, still wearing the pack. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, unable to relax into the soft cushions.

“I only want to help,” the man smiled disarmingly. “I’ll simply carry it until you want it back.”

“I know you mean well,” the hiker smiled in return. “And it’s not that I think you would try to run off with them – heaven knows there are times I wish someone would and rid me of the cursed rocks,” he laughed. “Alas, as much as I might like a break, I wouldn’t know how to live without them.”

 “A pack of rocks?”

He raised his eyes and stared at the man. "They may only look like rocks to you, but I know," the hiker grew animated, his voice rising. "Yes, yes – I know! I know what would happen if I let them go."

The hiker had everyone's attention now. Some looked at him with pity. Others with anger. And still, others stared with resentment because they secretly wished they had kept their packs. The man gave nothing away with his expression.

"May I ask what would happen?" The man asked.

A crazed gleam appeared in the hiker's eyes, "What would happen! Don't you know?" He paused, apparently waiting for an answer.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Pandamonium! That's what! Pandemonium!" The hiker paused for a long while in an attempt to calm himself. He breathed deeply. Closed his eyes. He counted to ten and adjusted himself in the chair, repeating to himself in a whisper, "You have everything under control. You have everything under control," then he looked into the man's eyes. His words came out slowly and deliberately, "As long as I carry them, I control them."

A few heads in the room imperceptibly nodded in agreement; some looked uncomfortable, and others were abashed. Once again, the man gave nothing away with his demeanor. However, the hiker noticed a pile of backpacks on either side of the poker-faced man.

"Why do you have everyone's packs?" The hiker asked.

"It's what I do," the man smiled.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I carry packs for hikers."

The hiker looked puzzled. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"To help." The man added nothing more.

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I tell you what. You allow me to help you, then I will elaborate."

The hiker rose, "I don't need help, and I'm not that curious." He adjusted his pack and made his way to his bunk. He laid the pack on the bed and plopped beside it. He took out a rock, palming it, rolling it end over end. Purple, black, and gray swirled about the stone in a pattern like wisps of multi-colored clouds. He had smoothed the surface through numerous hours of handling. It was his most despised and most caressed.

He was startled by the man who sat on the bunk beside him.

"What do you see when you look at that rock?" The man asked.

"You again," the hiker said. "I don't know why I should tell you. You just want to add it to your collection."

The man raised his hands, palms out, "I promise, I just want to help."

"So you say," the hiker sat up, "Fine, I'll tell you. Why not?" He held the rock with both hands, focusing his eyes on it. "This one whispers to me the loudest. There is never a moment when I can't hear it reminding me of my father's words." He smirked while rubbing the smooth surface with his thumbs.

The man respectfully waited for the hiker to continue, but when it became clear he would not, he asked, "What did your father say?"

The hiker placed the rock on the bed, "I can’t say it." Still looking at the rock, he asked, "Does every son believe what his dad says about him?"

The man did not answer. He knew it wasn't a question. He silently stared at the chunk of swirling colors lying on the bed for some time. Finally, the hiker finished his bemusing long enough to return to their conversation.

"You are probably asking why I don't throw it in a lake – or something? Why do I let it continue to torment me?"

"Something like that," the man answered.

"Because! You can't just throw something like that away. It never goes away. It haunts you. It preaches to you. It teaches you. It smoothes you until there is nothing left." He ran his fingers through his hair, gritting his teeth in frustration and madness. "I used to have unique bumps and clever edges, but nothing remains. My dad's words smoothed them away." He looked back to the stone lying on the bed. "Words sure have an impact – don't they?"

"They do," the man shone with compassion. "But we can let them go with help." He held out his hand. "I could help carry that rock. It would be one less burden you would have to carry on your hike."

The hiker grabbed the rock, looking between it and the man's stretched-out hand. "I feel like that would be nice." He took one long gaze at the purples, blacks, and grays intermingled together, rubbing its smooth surface absentmindedly. "But if I do, I will lose something that built me. I will lose what made me who I am today."

"Do you want to be what your father said you are?"

"No!" He wrestled within himself. "No! I don't! But I am!" Anger with himself, his father, and the man sitting across from him almost escalated to a breaking point. However, a moment before it did, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself, "You have everything under control. You have everything under control," then he looked into the man's eyes. His words came out slowly and deliberately, "As long as I carry them, I control them."