There's a dude I knew years ago (early 20's), everybody called him Backpack Jack, even though his name was Keith. I never saw him put anything in his backpack, nor take anything out. It looked light as fuck, so I used to tell everybody that he collected farts from old couches and dead birds. It was a cheap olive green thing, with yellow trim, a couple of big pockets, no frame. But he always had that fucking backpack. Ask him what's in it? Nothing special, he would say. Then why carry it around? I dunno, I just do. Now Backpack Jack never seemed to have any money, but he never asked for anything either. If you offered him a beer, he'd drink it. Sometimes he would just say no thanks. Offer him a joint, he would smoke it. But he never ever asked for a fucking thing, and never assumed that he would be shared with. He also wasn't a guy who would make sure he was standing around to get a toke. If he was there, he was there. If he was across the room or with another group, he wouldn't make his way over. He was alright to talk to. Clever, social, pretty normal. Except for the fucking backpack. For 2 years I saw this thing. Either by his feet or right beside him. Well. One time at a yard party, Backpack Jack is nowhere to be seen, but the nerdbag is right there. Alone. I scan the yard, he's nowhere to be seen. I figure he's in the garage toking, but I was literally shaking with joy/fear. I went to the knapsack, undid the little belt buckle and looked inside. I pull out a big ziplock bag. In the bag is 1 item. Underwear. 1 pair. Dirty, shitty, women's underwear. That's it. The knapsack is ripped from my grasp. Not the bag of undies though. Knapsack Jack fucked the fuck out of there with his empty bag. I shit you not, that was the last time anybody in that circle ever saw him again. Don't know where he got the skid marked undies from, and I have no idea why the fuck he carried them everywhere. But he did.
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