So, like, this scene is totally radical. I’m in the middle of this pile of trash somewhere, mashed between a plastic crate and the rotting rinds of some sorta fruit or something – cantaloupe, I think.

Take it from me, dude, it is rank.

I mean, I can’t smell or anything. I don’t have a nose. But I can carry an impression. I used to carry all sorts of stuff for this writer guy, who was always describing everything, and putting himself in other places and times and all. I guess a little bit of that habit rubbed off, sorta like the slime from that cantaloupe.

Anyway, this writer dude always said everybody should be open – people and government and all. Backpacks. But when you’re a bag, staying shut when you’re supposed to stay shut, like when you’re carrying notebooks or something, dude, that’s part of your job.

So when I started falling apart a while back, I knew I should start packin’. I mean, I knew my days were, like, totally numbered.

Don’t get me wrong. This guy likes to hang onto stuff and use it as long as he can, and that’s pretty cool. If he’s a pack rat, I’m a pack rat pack. I might as well be part of the “Brat Pack,” if not the “Rat Pack.”

I mean, get this – I’m from the ’80s. We’re talking 20 years of being slung around, loaded with books and pens and lunches. To survive this long, well, that’s just gnarly.

But not long ago, I got to be sorta like a Kwik Mart – open all the time. That may be OK for a coastal condo or a doughnut hole, but not somebody with my job. Sure, I held together for a while with the help of a few safety pins. The writer dude thought maybe I looked kinda retro, kinda punk, I guess. But with enough wear and tear, even strong nylon like me can rip apart like shredded wheat.

Yeah, I can remember the good old days. He found me in Boulder, Colo. I used to haul thick college notebooks around campus like they were sticks of butter, dude.

Sometimes the writer guy would go skiing. I would carry his camera and lenses and stuff.

I followed him to the Pacific Northwest. I tumbled through airport security tunnels more times than I can count. I rolled around car trunks. And I watched his back on hikes in the sun and rain.

Dude – I even toured parts of Europe. That’s usually a job left to the big backpacks, but this writer guy liked to travel light. So I guess I was just right.

I guess it was on the Continent that I started getting, well, kinda incontinent. I started slipping. I started losing it.

I haven’t been the only caddy for this guy. I know that. Like, for a long time, he used to lug his notebooks in a black shoulder bag, and eventually that wore out, too.

He was happy when he got a new leather satchel briefcase thingy the other day. I could almost hear him humming that old James Brown tune, “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.”

But I don’t mean to get on his case. He seemed kinda sad when he finally decided to send me to the scrap heap and all.

He was good to me. Totally. And maybe once in awhile he’ll, like, sorta track back to his old backpack. And now that I’m hanging on by my last threads, I’m glad I didn’t leave him holding the bag. I guess you could say I’m glad I spilled my guts.

Whenever he tries to retell the telepathic messages of inanimate objects, Brad Bolchuos says his object is to remain objective.