Damn the Backpack!

I had to go to the bike shop the other day to pick up a backpack I had ordered a few weeks ago. No telling how long it had sat there, but the saleswoman gave me a call Thursday morning to remind me I had wanted it. I hadn't forgotten about it, I just didn't want it anymore... but I didn't tell her that. I figured that it was already paid for, maybe one of them could just take it home with them or give it to a needy biker or something. I just didn't really feel like driving all that way to pick up a gift I had purchased too hastily. I didn't tell her that either.

So I got in my car and drove there, the whole way cursing myself for all the stupid purchases I made this last month that were totally wasted... the backpack; the corset/garter/thigh-high/high heels ensemble--that crap alone set me back a couple hundred dollars; all the ingredients and the 3 and 5-shaped pans to make that damned chocolate peanut butter cake thing I had to research how to make. And here I was now, wasting at least thirty bucks in gas to pick up a backpack that is no longer wanted. I felt so stupid, but I was too mad to cry about it. So I drove on, made the left onto the highway, and wondered what the chances would be that I might pass him on the road. Then I felt sick. I didn't want to see him... even by accident. Then I wondered what I would do if I happened to run into him at Wal-mart or something. Then I felt really sick. The sun was bright, though, and it was hot. Really hot. So I cranked up the A/C, turned the music up louder, and told myself to stop being so stupid. I was too mad to cry. And I drove on.

I wanted that night to be so special. I could tell him over and over that he meant everything to me, and that I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone before, but I wanted to show him that I did. I wanted to treat him to a beautiful dinner and have the waitress bring out my special cake (I even called to make sure I could drop the damned cake off early so that he wouldn't know about it beforehand), and I searched everywhere for a dress to wear that would cover my new corset with the ruffly panties that looked almost exactly like that crazy outfit from Blades of Glory... he really liked that outfit. I thought about picking up a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy to give him at the door when I went over there. It's kinda cheesy, I know, but I thought it would be cute. Then I remembered the sand on my feet from the beach trip I made that day instead of baking a cake, and how I cried myself to sleep that night instead of dancing around in my pretty pink corset. It was too long a drive for me to be making by myself that day with all of this stuff so fresh in my mind, but I drove on anyway. Still not crying, but not so mad anymore.

Then I thought about Kansas. My daughter would be flying there in a week to visit her father, and I had to drive her to Houston to catch her plane. That's at least a three hour drive. The drive to the bike shop is only an hour. Three hours to Houston and three hours back. By myself in the car. Lots of time for thoughts to roll around in my head. I better bring Kleenex. But I didn't need Kleenex now... I wasn't going to cry over this. At that instance I formulated a plan: burn it. Yeah, burn it. I was going to just march on into that shop, grab the damned thing, throw it in the back of my car so that I didn't have to look at it too long, then set the bitch on fire once I got back to my house. I was mad again.

I finally pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of my car. I think it took me about ten seconds to go from raging scorned woman with an urge for arson to a pathetic waste of skin... by the time I reached the door to the shop I had that uneasy feeling in my gut. Don't cry. Don't cry. Pull yourself together, dammit! I knew she was there--that same girl that helped me when I first walked in there, desperately searching for that bag because the only one on eBay was no longer available. She showed me a blue backpack... "No", I said. "It has to be Suzuki." She showed me a black Suzuki backpack... "No", I said. "It has to be blue. It's the blue one that goes with his bike." "What kind of bike does he have", she asked. I laughed and said, "Suzuki." I knew I was out of my element then. I had no idea what kind of bike we were talking about--a crotch rocket. "It's blue and white with a red R on it." She pulled a blue t-shirt off of the rack and pointed out the emblem screened on the front of it. "Does it look like this," she asked. "Yes! That's it! GSX! That's the one. I need the packpack for that bike!" She said she didn't have one in the store, but she could order one if that's what I needed. I agreed to that and followed her to the counter and watched her as she flipped through the pages of a catalog. As she looked up the item number I told her how happy he was going to be because he loves his bike and he told me that he wanted this for his birthday and I was so worried because I thought I wouldn't be able to get one because the only one like it on eBay had already been bought and the Suzuki site didn't have the exact one I was looking for because all they had was the plain old backpack with no helmet carrying thing on it.... then she stopped and looked up at me from the catalog. She showed me a picture of the backpack and told me that this GSX-R techpack has no helmet harness either. "Then that's not the one," I said. "He wants the one with the thing to hold the helmet. That's the whole point. I can't order this one. That's not what he wants." She turned the catalog around towards me, and I furiously flipped through it, scanning for anything blue that resembled a backpack, pausing for a moment at one picture then another. I couldn't get him something he didn't want. He wanted the damned backpack that could hold his helmet. "This is important," I told her. "He told me exactly what he wanted and I need to find it." She giggled a little at my desperation then pulled out a couple more catalogs. I guess she understood. We finally found it... the blue Hayabusa backpack. Not the same bike, but a blue Suzuki backpack with a helmet thingy. And as she keyed my request into the computer I went back to the rack to pick up that t-shirt she showed me. "Here, ring this up, too. Since the backpack isn't really the same as his bike, I'll get him this shirt. He's got blue eyes, it'll look really good on him." And she took my money. Damn the backpack!

I think I hesitated at the door for a moment. I must've been lost in thought or got nervous or something. I thought I might just turn around, but a salesman opened the door for me, so I walked in and straight to the counter. Yep, there she was, the same girl: "What can I help you with?" I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I choked back the burn in my throat, cleared it with a small cough, and said, "Backpack. You called me this morning about the backpack we ordered." "Oh! I got it! I got it!" She pulled it out from under the counter and held it above her head. "Ta Da! Here it is! It is a nice one. Better than the first one we looked at." Great. She remembered. I felt so foolish. I just wanted to choke her for being so happy about it, but it wasn't her fault. I was so happy about it, too, just a couple of weeks ago. She laid it on the counter in front of me, still in it's clear plastic bag. It smelled new. I opened my mouth again to say something but quickly closed it again. Don't cry. Don't cry. I couldn't look her in the face. Maybe I should just turn around and walk out. Leave it there. She doesn't know me. Wait... she has my number. She called. Dammit! Damn the backpack! I knew I shouldn't have, but I put my hand on it. I touched the plastic bag that covered it. Then I looked at her. I want it. I want it. But I didn't tell her that. I could have easily said thanks and taken it home with me to burn, but I didn't want to burn it anymore. I wanted to take it out of the bag and hold it. I thought I could hold it really close to me for a few minutes, then put it back in the bag. I could just throw it on his doorstep. I knew he wanted it. I wanted to give it to him. It was his birthday present. She held my gaze for a moment, saying nothing. I want it. I want it. Just take it. I opened my mouth to say thank you, but again, nothing. My bottom lip started to tremble. Don't cry. Don't cry. Just take the damned thing! Damn that fucking backpack! Her energetic smile faded and she whispered, "Do you still want it?" I want it. I want it. But I didn't tell her that. "He..." I choked out. He doesn't want me! He doesn't want me! I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her to shove the fucking backpack up her ass and go home to her fucking husband who would hold her fucking hand and kiss her and never make her feel like I felt right then.

But I didn't say any of that to her. Instead, I remembered how I told him I wanted a bicycle for my birthday, and how when I saw it with a balloon tied to it at the party they threw for me at work, for an instant, I thought that he had taken the night off and showed up at my party to surprise me, and I even asked everybody if he was there and I didn't see his car outside. But the bike wasn't from him. "No," I said softly, "I really don't need it anymore."

I took one last look at it: new, flat, no creases from anything being stuffed into it, sealed tightly in its shiny plastic shell. "I'm sorry you went through all the trouble, and I know it was a special order. So keep it. Maybe you can sell it and make double the money on it." I didn't even look at her. I just turned around and walked as fast as I could out of the door. Don't cry. Don't cry. I repeated my mantra as a hot tear streamed down my cheek. Get in the car. Get in the car. Go home. I couldn't think of anything else to do. Another tear. Don't cry. Don't cry. Seven years, I thought. Seven years. I closed the car door and started the engine. It took me seven years to be able to love someone after sperm donor. Seven years to get over a man I spent a year with and only half-way thought I loved. I was young, I was stupid, and I only thought I wanted to be with him. Seven years! This is a man I absolutely adored and wanted to spend the rest of my life with! Seven years! Don't cry. Don't cry. I can't be miserable for seven years. I'm not young anymore. In seven years I'll be forty. Go home. Go home. Damn that fucking backpack! I turned off the engine. I sat there. And I cried.