Scene: A baseball game. Two messenger bags are placed at a table, while their owners slip away to watch the action. The camera watches them leave, then pans back to the bags.
Bag 1: Whew. They’re gone. Finally, a chance to talk.
Bag 2: What is there to say? This is what we do.
Bag 1: Yeah, but don’t you aspire to something more?
Bag 2: Like what? I’m a bag. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. That’s all I’ll ever be. You should get used to this.
Bag 1: I’ll never get used to this. It’s like they carry us everywhere. They never leave us alone. I have interests, man.
Bag 2: Like what? Carrying stuff?
Bag 1: No, dude. That’s, like, my job. I really want to get into woodworking. Can you imagine how great it would feel to just make a chair? For the rest of your life, you would think “I made this,” every time you sat in it.
Bag 2: Look, let’s set aside for a second the fact that you don’t have any hands. Even if you could make the chair, you’re still a bag. When he’s done with you, you get dumped on the floor nine times out of ten. The only chance you have of even using the chair is when you get put in it by somebody who is afraid you’ll get tripped over or get something spilled on you. Just like you were this time.
Bag 1: You’ve got a really shitty attitude.
Bag 2: Hey, don’t shoot the messenger bag. I’m not trying to be a bummer. I’m just saying you need to be realistic about who you are, and learn to accept it. Listen, I’ve been around for a long time; a lot longer than you have. These dumbasses carry us every single place they go. Absolutely. Every. Single. Place. They never, ever leave us behind. They never ask if we want to go with them. They never offer to lighten our load. They stick their laptops and their phones and their books and their “idea journals” and their packs of gum and their spare tissues in us and couldn’t care less if it’s fulfilling or fun or comfortable for us. I’m sorry if this is hard for you to hear, but I really think it’s best that you understand this above all else: We are stuck with these assholes until they find a better, stronger, younger bag, and then we get thrown in a dark closet, if we’re lucky, to live in obscure retirement except for emergencies or moving days. It’s either that or out with the trash. So keep your straps strong, buddy. Because that’s the best that you can hope for.
Bag 1: I’m sorry. That’s not enough for me.
Bag 1 pops a stitch.
Bag 2: What are you doing?
Bag 1: The only thing I can.
The bags owners, Carson Cistulli and David Temple, return. Temple picks up his bag, his laptop slipping from the bottom, towards the concrete floor, saved at the last moment when Temple puts his foot under it to cushion the fall.
Cistulli: Hey, what’s wrong David Temple?
Temple: My bag just got a big rip in it and I dropped my laptop on my foot.
Cistulli: You should get a new one of those. I like mine. It’s always very reliable.
Temple: I guess so. I really liked this bag too. Guess it just wasn’t strong enough.
Print This Post