The Man With Three Backpacks

A Monday spent on the couch as the rain pours down and the dogs bark in the backyard and the life slips slowly through the pours of Joe's body. A day spent where he is always about to start something, but never does. Thinking through the many tasks, burdens and responsibilities of his life hoping that one will inspire to move him from his lethargy.

Five hours of 24, four episodes of Enterprise, the two-part I-Robot episodes on American Chopper and a poorly acted 15 minutes of the Ashley Simpson show made up his day. As always, he worships heavily at the throne of Tivo. Only twice did he rise off the couch. Once was to surf for porn in some vain hope it would somehow mobilize him - get his juices flowing and back to work on his life. But as is always the case with vices, they only serve themselves and never those who are slaves to them.

The second time Joe rose from the couch was to investigate the strange man who had come to the door. The man was wearing three backpacks. His pants were a shaggy green with shirt to match. Hair seemed the sort of disheveled homeless chic he was used to back when he lived in the city. The man walked like his foot had fallen asleep and he had one hand locked against his body, holding something.

He rang the doorbell. He didn't push the button, like most people do. Instead, he rang the little brass bell by the door. The one only kids ring because they think it's fun. Joe could see all this from the couch. The blinds looking out the front window where barely opened. The man could likely not see in at all, but Joe had a good shot of all of this. He lied there motionless as the man bounced back and fourth on his asleep and not asleep feet.

In a very short amount of time, the man turned and walked away. Joe got up and peeked out of the blinds, but he was gone. He ran softly to the kitchen and through the door into the garage. Peering through the slits in the garage door, he looked for the disheveled man, but could no longer see him. He stood there for sometime in the cold garage, looking out through the cracks. Finally, he gave up, went back to the couch.

Now, it's almost one in the morning and Joe knows he should go to bed. His wife is already there and he does have to work tomorrow. He knows he should do these things. But he also knows he won't. What he is going to do has still to be decided by his imagination.