THE THREAD | The Impossible Sack
The Impossible Sack
The sack he carried over his shoulder was obviously heavy. But from the contours of the sack it was impossible to tell what might be inside. No sharp edges indicating boxes or bricks, no round-edged lumps suggesting stones or bags of flour. The entire sack was simply full and round, like an inflated balloon, but heavy rather than floating. The way it hung over his shoulder and down his back, the way his forearms strained to pull the twisted top of the sack across his shoulder, was the opposite of buoyant. As if he had filled a balloon with anti-helium.
As he approached the bench where Clara sat, she tried not to stare at him. She absolutely avoided eye contact, which was easy because his gaze was entirely on the ground two steps ahead of his lumbering frame. But Clara could not stop from staring at the sack itself. The seeming weight of it. The strain in his gait. His gestures making it seem as if he could only possibly carry it to the end of this block, not one step further.
When he was about to pass directly in front of her, Clara leaned forward as if seeking the chance, if only he would glance over, to ask what is in the sack. No, she thought. It’s none of my business. He is clearly struggling. And anyway, he is not looking up at me. But what if I slide a foot out or cough to catch his attention, no, no, he is not looking my way. Drat. I should look up anti-gravity sack when I get home. I should wait for him to get further down the sidewalk. Then maybe I can just stand and — nonchalantly, for sure — just one block perhaps, follow him? No. I am not a creep. Am I a creep? No, I have way more important things to do right now. Yes, I have important things to do. But. But what if I never know? What if what’s happening right now, this thing right here, this man with his impossible sack, what if this dumb question comes to live in me somehow and yet I never come to know the answer? I don’t need one more thing left to uncertainty. I need less. I need one less thing. Fine. Sand. It is sand, I will say. The shape, the weight of it, the likely reasons why—child’s sandbox, grouting a patio—this can all make sense with sand. That’s what I will say when I tell this story later, this anecdote about the man and the impossible sack. I’ll make clear it was so obviously sand. Better to cut the ambiguity in the retelling than to say I don’t know.
What I’m currently listening to: Maggie Rogers’ Surrender
What I’m currently reading: Italo Calvino’s Six Memos for the Next Millennium, Austin Kleon’s Show Your Work
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