It was hard to conceal my disappointment when he walked into the bar wearing a giant ass backpack. Why does he need to carry so much bullshit on his person? I'd understand if he were a European traveller hitchhiking across the county, a stressed-out sixth grader studying for mid-terms or a teenage runaway, but he doesn't appear to fall into any of those categories.
As soon as he hoisted it off his shoulder, it crashed to the ground with a loud thud. I scrunched my eyebrows in concern. What the hell? Why is it so heavy? What does he have in there? A decade's worth of Rolling Stone magazines? A dozen high school yearbooks? A goddamn fax machine?
I watched as he fussed with the endless parade of zippers trying to fish out his wallet in the mess. Just from his .03 seconds of rustling around, I could tell that it was filled to the brim with nonsense. Personally, I was exhausted watching him deal with it in any way, shape or form.
The worst part of the whole thing was knowing that his knapsack was so close to my feet. I kept accidentally kicking it under the table and it felt like kicking an ottoman or a sleeping dog. I kept thinking that I was kicking him so I apologized roughly every four minutes which was not my idea of a pleasant afternoon. In conclusion, fuck that fucking backpack in its fucking face.