Notebook 1.7

The bag, a Coke bag from the Easter Show from maybe eight, nine or even ten years ago, hangs in a shapeless droop. The outline of the Coca-Cola logo is still visible on the black parachute material, but it is now a smattering of red strips and specks. One of the shoulder straps has been reattached with navy blue thread. The job is poor, amateurish – but the thread keeps the strap and the bag together. Maybe that’s all that matters.

There used to be a print of the iconic coke bottle on the bag’s sides. Once, he argued with his mum, both parents in the end, about what he was going to do with his life, why he had stopped going to school. He slammed the bedroom door and put some rap music on. He turned it up loud, miming the words, knowing his parents would be in the living room, maybe even right there in the hallway, deliberating about whether to bang on the door and tell him to turn the music down and risk making the situation worse. When, in the song’s chorus, they said, “Us!”, he grabbed the front of his shirt and said,

“Us!”

He put his fist in the air,

up high,

and later, in the dark room, cried.

The fight made him pack his bags, the new Coke bag among them, and leave home.

Lead Igloo

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