Lesser men leave the house without sparing a second, third, or 464th thought for what they carry. Without a plan, a backup plan, a backup plan should the backup plan prove itself wanting. Not him though. He’s equipped for all contingencies. Prepared. Properly outfitted. Carry for the life you want, not the life you have—that’s his motto. Today is no different. After his morning ablutions—what his father, who didn’t know the difference between a run-of-the-mill keychain and a load-bearing carabiner built to belay, coarsely referred to as “a shit, shower, and shave”—he is dressed. On his left wrists sits his Casio G-SHOCK in the limited-edition urban camouflage which he checks now: 0800 on the dot. If he opens his front door and exits his apartment, it’ll take him six minutes to walk to the bus stop. An 18-minute ride to the office. Another 90 seconds to march across the lot and up the stairs to the second-floor office and he’ll be officially at work, in-person. He’s the co-lead of the UX team. He can work from home but must occasionally show his face to rally the troops. His well-prepared face.
Wristwatch, check.
Write-Anywhere pen to compose emergency notes, addendums, employee evaluations, memos, ideas for future memos, letters to loved ones who won’t answer your calls, your repeated, desperate calls. He caresses the pen in his left pocket. The all-weather pressurized cartridge feels like a pet nuzzling his thigh for warmth, a lover walking their fingers toward your crotch. He’s been MIA in the office for five months now but once his team sees him and his practical attire, the rugged resolve apparent in every item on him, they’ll understand his dedication, his devotion to getting things right. His erratic behavior will be wiped from their memories.
Writing implement, check.
In his left cargo pocket, a 2.3-inch fixed blade knife, lauded by survivalists and bushcraft enthusiasts the world over. His ex-girlfriend, Sara—only girlfriend, girl who if she’d said yes would have been his ex-fiancé and if she’d never said no after that, no to him and all he insisted on carrying, would have become a wife, his wife, and not an ex anything—never understood why he insisted on always carrying a knife. As if she couldn’t understand the manifold ways the world might ensnare them and what then? Who would she come crying to for help cutting them free? Though she cut herself free of him easily enough. And fine, he hasn’t unsheathed it outside of regularly scheduled sharpness inspections but it’s ready should it need to serve, slice, and sever, should it be called on to open a box or a jugular or a wrist. He turns to look over his shoulder at his made bed, crisp and empty.
Knife, check.
In his right pocket, his slim carbon fiber wallet with RFID blocking and durability that makes its lifetime warranty feel superfluous. ID. Cash. A single credit card. All a minimalist needs. Should he—when he—makes it to the office today, he can offer to buy everyone lunch. Or a box of donuts. A tray of coffee. Friendship, comradery, respect. And if he should meet someone on the street, on the bus, in the office, a woman with a friendly smile, a mellow mien and a discerning eye for lightweight, well-designed and hard-wearing everyday essentials, he can ask her out to dinner. He can. He could. He might, perhaps, should the opportunity arise. If conditions are right. If the atmosphere is determined to be amenable. If this minimalist decides he does, in fact, have other, an other, need.
Wallet, check.
Below it, in his right cargo pocket, a mini tactical flashlight perfect for checking the dark crevasses between two desks for a missing memo. For stunning would-be assailants with 600 lumens of self-defense. Perfect for when you wake up in despair at three in the morning and find yourself searching beneath your bedside table for a long, beautiful, familiar hair. Sara, is your new man armed? Does he have a pocket full of light to protect you? To illuminate the way? Has he done his research? Has he spent the witching hour on his hands and knees combing the carpet for a single trace of you?
Flashlight, check.
Next to it, a pocket notebook with a protective and quite stylish cowhide leather cover. A space to write down reminders, record one’s thoughts, journal toward mindfulness, compose draft letters to loved ones, to a loved one, Dear Sara, you never came back to reclaim your Matisse print. I have nothing against the print. However, that one comment you made about me being both like the goldfish trapped in the bowl and like the passive museumgoers idling their weekends away observing said fish, I didn’t care for that comment. No. Maybe it wasn’t meant as a criticism but the tone and timing of its delivery, a day before you left, removing all other traces of yourself from my life five months ago, abruptly, as I said, deleting, as it were, our whole relationship, the concrete evidence of our relationship, well you can understand why I resent the comment and the print. And yet it’s there. In the foyer. Staring me down every time I leave the apartment. Every time I try to leave the apartment. Every time, Sara. Sara. Sara.
Notebook, check.
He’s sweating through his shirt. He checks his watch. 0811. At this rate, he’ll miss the bus. If he misses the bus, he’ll arrive late to work. If he’s going to arrive late, he may as well work from home, from the apartment he lives in and which used to feel like home. He takes hold of the doorknob with his left hand but doesn’t turn it. His pants sag with the weight of his carry. Keys in his back left pocket. Phone in his back right. In his phone, the one number he wants to call and shouldn’t. Behind him, an empty bed. To his right, a cheap print of famous goldfish. His hand trembles.
0817.
0832.
0904.
He releases the knob.
Wristwatch, check.
Kent Kosack is a writer based in Pittsburgh. His stories, essays, and reviews have been published in Exacting Clam, Full Stop, minor literature[s], 3:AM Magazine, and elsewhere. See more of his work at kentkosack.net.
Image: sebastiansantanam8qnfs, morguefile.com
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Heavy Feather Review 