I’m on my way home when I realise that I’ve left my backpack behind somewhere.
Even in my dreams, I’m always fussing with my belongings – checking and double-checking that I have everything with me (wallet, keys, mobile, headphones, mask, gum).
In an ironic twist, my adherence to these frequent ritualistic checks has led me to lose the backpack itself.
I’m almost overcome with the annoyance of having to retrace my steps to retrieve the bag. The pointlessness, the lost time, the ground already covered.
I jog and speed-walk across wet, cobbled streets, back to where I last remember having my backpack: at an apartment building.
In a mercifully short span of time, I’m standing inside the building in question with my back to the lobby, staring down a long corridor. For some structural reason, all the entrances to the rooms are on the left-hand side of this hallway.
A disappointing discovery
The place has the buzzy vibe of moving-in day during freshers’ week. Against the right-hand wall at regular intervals, there are little islands of detritus: bags, cases, clothes and packaging.
My backpack has been emptied and left in the pile
Every doorway seems to face a little mound of belongings, as if offerings were being left in tribute to reclusive gods.
Almost immediately, I notice something in the collection of goods opposite the first door: my dark blue Kipling backpack. (In reality, an item that I’ve neither seen nor used for some two decades).
But there’s a problem: the backpack is empty.
It’s been neatly and repeatedly folded into a respectful little rectangle, before being wedged in with a bunch of other belongings. I retrieve the flattened bag and knock firmly on the door facing the pile.
After a while, a man emerges. He looks like a young Billy Eichner. He’s slim, with dark hair and a pale button-down shirt. He has a diffident air about him.
I ask if he knows what happened to the contents of my backpack and he’s really enigmatic about it.
It’s like I’m knocking on the door of a classroom while a seminar is in progress, and the teaching assistant has come to see what the fuss is about. I find this situation unfair and exasperating, but it’s clear he has my stuff inside the flat.
“Can you just give me back whatever was in the bag, and I’ll be on my way?” I ask him wearily.
He says he’ll get my belongings, but I’ll need to wait a moment.
Interrupting the party
There are obviously other people inside the flat. I hear someone refer to the man by name: Jos. In the crack of the door I notice a woman with short blonde hair and a white t-shirt as she passes by.
The guy is being intentionally annoying about my predicament and is making me wait
I’m left with the impression that I’m inconveniencing the people inside by wanting the contents of my backpack returned. From what little I can discern, I’ve stumbled onto another scheduled gathering: a private study session or maybe a book club.
As time passes I feel like the guy is being intentionally annoying about my predicament, making me wait on him. Why is it taking so long?
But when he does return the backpack, it’s much fuller and heavier than it was before.
I unzip it, and see that it is stuffed to bursting with glossy new trade paperbacks. There are voluminous collected editions of 1990s DC Comics story arcs, as well as what appears to be a coffee table art book that’s tied to some movie, TV show or game.
It’s like someone’s taken the backpack to Forbidden Planet and dumped half a shelf of product into it.
I start to pull these goodies out, saying “thanks, but I don’t need these.” (Although, in any other context, these collections of vintage Batman and Superman stories would have been very welcome gifts.)
A peek inside
I’m not actually sure what was in the backpack in the first place.
To be frank, there wasn’t much of anything – it was nearly empty. It’s annoying to have to audit what might have come out of the bag, especially now that it’s been filled with things that definitely don’t belong to me.
Jos has left the door to the flat wide open this time, and as I sort through the pockets I get a better look inside.
I’m surprised to note an absence of any real furnishings. The door opens into the living room. There’s a double mattress in the centre of the floor with pillows and a rumpled white sheet thrown across it, and not much else.
The situation is the same as in the corridor: everything is on the floor, as if the residents have either just moved in, or don’t care much for material possessions.
The effort to recall what should be in the backpack makes me realise that my mind is getting sluggish. My eyes are increasingly tired.
I squat on the floor of the corridor, going through the motions of auditing my belongings. At this point, I realise that there’s a large taupe carryall lying next to me.
Does this bag also belong to me? How many bags did I have on me to begin with?
Annoying the boyfriend
Tentatively, I start to unzip the tightly packed bag. But before I can make much progress I’m distracted by the presence of a very tall and broad gentleman leaving the flat.
I don’t feel physically threatened, at least not yet
This is Jos’ partner and he seems really agitated by my presence. Like: where has this interloper come from? Why is he bothering us at our home?
It turns out that Jos’ partner is on his way to a martial arts class and the bag that I’m about to investigate is actually his kit bag. There is, therefore, some justification for his peevishness.
“I’m getting out of your way,” I say diplomatically, before adopting a more grumbling tone. “I just want to note down where I am, in case I need to come back for more of my stuff.”
Jos’ partner is unnecessarily reproachful and surly towards me. I don’t feel physically threatened, at least not yet – just exhausted by all these misunderstandings. I can see how I probably seem a bit fussy at this stage, but in fairness my bag was ransacked.
Sensing that his partner’s ire is not diminishing as rapidly as it might, Jos does something unexpected.
Too many numbers
He places both his hands on his partner’s chest and pushes him hard, forcing him to take several rapid steps backward. His partner’s back slams against the wall adjacent to their front door.
Jos is noticeably smaller than his boyfriend. This dramatic intervention on my part has an insistent, playful quality to it.
“Just leave it, for goodness sake,” Jos urges him goodnaturedly, as he keeps his partner pinned to the wall.
While Jos defuses the situation, I try to note down the door number of the flat, in case I need to come back for something that I can’t remember in my present exhausted state.
It’s another one of my typical, pointless precautions. After all, this is the first flat in the building. It shouldn’t be hard to remember where to return.
In fact, there’s no flat number. Instead, next to the door, close to where Jos has his partner pinned, there is a collection of several door numbers affixed to the plaster.
Some of them are attached to metal curlicues and other baroque ornamentation, like a cluster of wing mirrors and headlights on a mod’s scooter. You wouldn’t be able to establish the number of the flat without asking one of the two men currently in a clinch against the wall.
Shared taste in music
I turn away from them to look through the glass panel of the fire door and into the lobby. Beyond that, I can see into the busy corridor on the opposite side of the building.
I pick up my backpack and leave.
In the lobby there is another man putting on his coat near a rack of brown metal mailboxes. We’re leaving at the same time and I notice he’s listening to a song from Mitski’s new album on the speaker of his phone. I think it’s ‘Working for the Knife’
I remark upon this, because I’ve been listening to the song recently, too. He asks whether I’ve noticed that the song has the same melody as ‘Don’t Upset the Rhythm’ by Broken Bells.
It feels like more of a statement than a real question. But unless I’m missing something, the Mitski song doesn’t seem to share this melody at all. The songs are not at all alike. Also, ‘Don’t Upset the Rhythm’ was recorded by The Noisettes, not Broken Bells.
But, as I try to process this dissonant information, I relinquish a momentary opportunity to initiate a longer conversation. I miss the chance to make a friendly connection with a stranger.
We both like this song but, as we get outside, he sets off in a different direction.
