EVERYDAY CARRY
Peter harbored an interest in bags, packs, knapsacks. As one might harbor, Fred thought, a fugitive, a criminal, a secret. Peter owned a briefcase, a messenger bag, a satchel, a sling bag, and a backpack. Each of them, he told Fred, was utterly distinct, best-suited to particular needs and destinations. Peter occupied much of his time happily shuffling things from one bag to another: many fountain pens with different kinds of nibs and shades of ink, a pen-case, a small canvas folio that held multiple saddle-stitched notebooks, his phone, whatever novel he had on the go, and other sundries whose occasions for use presented themselves only rarely. He was a man driven by desire: for organization, for the perfect selection of things he might wish to use on any given day, arranged in the optimal manner.
Though at first his tastes vastly exceeded his budget, Peter managed to parlay his interest into something that crudely resembled fame and fortune. He began, that is, to film himself reviewing his bags and packing his things inside them. Because he himself found them entrancing, Peter made videos in which he discussed his new purchases, such as an eighty-dollar bag designed to look like those sported by mail carriers of yore. He tucked his things one by one inside its canvas interior, lovingly holding it up to the camera’s gaze. Then he took everything out again and showed the camera what it looked like inside, newly emptied. Always Peter found new objects necessary to carry on his person: a flashlight, a bottle opener, a Swiss Army knife, a different multitool that Fred found byzantine and vaguely disturbing, fidget toys. He was becoming, he told Fred, a bit of an expert. An expert on what, Fred asked. On everyday carry, said Peter. On what a guy like me should carry. A guy like you, Fred repeated, feeling embarrassed.
People would pay to support this venture, to see exclusive videos, and in time companies began to send Peter free bags to review and, hopefully, to furnish with his stamp of approval. Fred felt he could only accompany Peter so far on this journey. Because of Peter’s clumsy facility with technology, Fred assisted him. Fred helped him set up the spare room for filming, and he uploaded the videos for Peter’s viewers’ pleasure. He monitored the comments on Peter’s various accounts.
Once Peter had reached a five-figure follower count, Fred began to notice odd comments now and then. Accounts with blank profile pictures complimented Peter’s beard or hands. One user, more forthright, called Peter sexy. Fred blocked these accounts, but there appeared to be no shortage of them. Freaks and losers, he told Peter, who found them frightening but also, in a strange way, flattering. One user wrote to ask whether Peter had everything he needed for the journey. What journey, Fred thought and frowned. He left the comment there.
The men prepared a new video devoted to a backpack inspired, the ad copy said, by the adventures of a young archaeologist. You’re not an archaeologist, said Fred. It’s a really nice backpack, said Peter, and anyway I got it for free. On camera, Peter slowly loaded it with his things as his voice described and his fingers stroked each pocket, zipper, and clasp. This time, he packed food, water, and a first-aid kit as well. Also a small blue artifact whose purpose Fred could not fathom. What’s all that for, asked Fred. For the journey, said Peter.
After the video went live, a comment appeared almost immediately. It’s not enough, the user wrote. Fred squinted at the name: _ali3l. Then he saw that _ali3l had posted again: You must go to the west.
Peter took a turn, and Fred began to face this new strangeness in him. Peter now recorded his videos alone. In the next one, he prepared a survival kit. In another video, he packed a duffel bag with food and water as well as small tools, fishing hooks and rods, a collapsible snare. And again the artifact.
Subsequent videos seemed to Fred increasingly ominous. An array of knives. Hatchet, compass, shovel. Antibiotics. And, always, the artifact. It looked, Fred thought, a little bit like the Venus of Willendorf, a name that ten minutes of google searches helped to dredge up from his memory. It was small, dark blue, and smooth, made of marble or polished stone. In every video, Peter held it up to the camera for just a moment longer than seemed normal, and then he tucked it into the pack. His eyes looked weary and a little manic. His disposition unnerved Fred.
Peter’s new videos seemed far more popular than the old ones. Not just _ali3l but hundreds of people discussed in the comments the journey and their preparation for it. People had come to depend on him, he told Fred. For what, Fred asked. To learn how to survive. Survive what, Fred asked. Fred tried to inquire about the artifact, but Peter had nothing to say. He locked himself away in the spare room and would not permit Fred to enter.
From a new video, posted in the middle of the night, Fred learned about survival tips, necessary for the westward journey. Peter did not offer further geographical specifics. The blue artifact leered from the corner, if something can be said to leer that does not have eyes.
The next day Fred thought the sky outside the window had taken on a darker color but reasoned that it was, perhaps, his mood. He noticed that Peter was gone, as was his archaeologist’s bag. Fred opened the front door and saw outside not his own neighborhood, familiarly drear, but a wide, arid plain through which a great fire was roiling. The fire raged, it went on forever, his eyes burned, his lungs could not take it, he felt utterly lost, he had nothing to carry, there was nobody to carry him, and he felt shockingly, terribly alone.
Daniel David Froid is a writer who lives in Arizona and has published fiction in Post Road, Black Warrior Review, Lightspeed, and elsewhere.
