Moving Day
The U-Haul place at Wedgewood and 8th is run by a delightful, crusty group of folks. There is likely no greater collection of jailhouse tattoos in the entire city. And words like Goddamn, shit, and bastard flow naturally and unrestrained. There is a beauty to the foul language here that is born of real folk whose goal is not to shock but to communicate and be lighthearted. The eloquence of a well-placed fuck can elicit a poetry of its own if handled correctly.
This crew is a living Charles Bukowski riff. From the old man with sparkling eyes and mouthful of motherfuckers to the ex-convict/bookworm with a red shock of moustache and spiderweb drawings on his arms to the young grubby girl rocking back and forth suggestively as she smiles at Uncle G., I would go out of my way to befriend each. These are the people in life that you can depend on in case anything goes wrong. These are people who have fought and loved and stolen and hated and hurt and helped. They are people whose trust you have to earn. There have been no free rides in their world. And as such, they do not offer any. They are judgmental and coarse. And they are accepting and beautiful. A man could do worse than to achieve their friendship.
And so it was after Em’s soccer game and with an old man’s implied threat ringing in our ears that we set about the task of moving Uncle G. into his new apartment. “You need to have that Goddamn truck back by five now!” The voice alive with mischief trailed us out the door. “We can do that,” we assured him.
Uncle G.’s apartment is nestled behind Sam’s Sports Bar on 21st. Sam’s is harmless enough and can even be comfortable at times. But the regulars are a lowdown sort. By lowdown I mean that (from what I know of them) they have no code. Between drinks and blow and whatever else that can be had, they are simply waiting for the next party. There is nothing about them that lends itself to sympathy, empathy, or any feeling at all really. They are simply taking up space. See, Sam’s has no warmth, nor anything that would lead you to want to share your U-Haul story with its patrons. But it is close; and close can mean safe and convenient. Barely a parking lot away, it is easily within staggering distance.
There are few things I enjoy as much as moving. Retinal abrasions and food poisoning rank right up there. But Uncle G. is a good sort and I would help him move once a week if that was what he needed. Because he asked, I agreed to help him heft his material world up the three narrow flights of stairs. We started with the boxes we had freed earlier from the storage unit. I quickly pointed out that we should get right to the heavy stuff as I felt my legs going and was unsure of their shelf life. We knocked everything out in good order—to include the bed, television, and futon. The entire move took only a few hours. We then did a temperature check on Emerson who was doing well with Nana. We drove back to Wedgewood and 8th to unburden ourselves of the moving truck and pick up some supplies for Nana’s upcoming move. We turned in the keys and paperwork and grabbed boxes and tape. The U-Haul crew wanted to know if we weren’t maybe going about this in the wrong order. Their point being that most folks get boxes before they move. The young guy who processed the truck suggested that next time we “oughta gitch you a truckload of nekid girls to help you move.” This seemed like a good idea and made us laugh. The grubby girl still had designs on Uncle G. and continued to rock slowly on her chair as she watched him. The chair made a wonderful, illicit squeaking noise. I don’t know that Uncle G. noticed.
Back at the apartment, we lumbered up the stairs one last time. L. joined us and brought some remaining items from Nana’s—a plant, dress clothes. Uncle G. quickly connected his stereo and speakers and tore open a box labeled “CDs”. On the porch we drank ice cold Corona with slices of lime. We sat in G.s new chairs purchased for the occasion. The breeze was soothing and whispered right through us.
Three stories up we looked down on Sam’s and the harried parking lot; we looked at the BellSouth building peaking through the clouds and trees on the horizon; we watched the sun dip slowly in the distance. And we glanced in the direction of 8th Avenue where, at a U-Haul truck rental location, people closed up shop after a long day. Behind locked doors, Saturday night plans were being made and broken; poetry was being composed, vulgar and wonderful; and a lonely girl with dirty hands sat rocking slowly back and forth, keeping time with a tall beautiful boy in a red baseball cap.
This crew is a living Charles Bukowski riff. From the old man with sparkling eyes and mouthful of motherfuckers to the ex-convict/bookworm with a red shock of moustache and spiderweb drawings on his arms to the young grubby girl rocking back and forth suggestively as she smiles at Uncle G., I would go out of my way to befriend each. These are the people in life that you can depend on in case anything goes wrong. These are people who have fought and loved and stolen and hated and hurt and helped. They are people whose trust you have to earn. There have been no free rides in their world. And as such, they do not offer any. They are judgmental and coarse. And they are accepting and beautiful. A man could do worse than to achieve their friendship.
And so it was after Em’s soccer game and with an old man’s implied threat ringing in our ears that we set about the task of moving Uncle G. into his new apartment. “You need to have that Goddamn truck back by five now!” The voice alive with mischief trailed us out the door. “We can do that,” we assured him.
Uncle G.’s apartment is nestled behind Sam’s Sports Bar on 21st. Sam’s is harmless enough and can even be comfortable at times. But the regulars are a lowdown sort. By lowdown I mean that (from what I know of them) they have no code. Between drinks and blow and whatever else that can be had, they are simply waiting for the next party. There is nothing about them that lends itself to sympathy, empathy, or any feeling at all really. They are simply taking up space. See, Sam’s has no warmth, nor anything that would lead you to want to share your U-Haul story with its patrons. But it is close; and close can mean safe and convenient. Barely a parking lot away, it is easily within staggering distance.
There are few things I enjoy as much as moving. Retinal abrasions and food poisoning rank right up there. But Uncle G. is a good sort and I would help him move once a week if that was what he needed. Because he asked, I agreed to help him heft his material world up the three narrow flights of stairs. We started with the boxes we had freed earlier from the storage unit. I quickly pointed out that we should get right to the heavy stuff as I felt my legs going and was unsure of their shelf life. We knocked everything out in good order—to include the bed, television, and futon. The entire move took only a few hours. We then did a temperature check on Emerson who was doing well with Nana. We drove back to Wedgewood and 8th to unburden ourselves of the moving truck and pick up some supplies for Nana’s upcoming move. We turned in the keys and paperwork and grabbed boxes and tape. The U-Haul crew wanted to know if we weren’t maybe going about this in the wrong order. Their point being that most folks get boxes before they move. The young guy who processed the truck suggested that next time we “oughta gitch you a truckload of nekid girls to help you move.” This seemed like a good idea and made us laugh. The grubby girl still had designs on Uncle G. and continued to rock slowly on her chair as she watched him. The chair made a wonderful, illicit squeaking noise. I don’t know that Uncle G. noticed.
Back at the apartment, we lumbered up the stairs one last time. L. joined us and brought some remaining items from Nana’s—a plant, dress clothes. Uncle G. quickly connected his stereo and speakers and tore open a box labeled “CDs”. On the porch we drank ice cold Corona with slices of lime. We sat in G.s new chairs purchased for the occasion. The breeze was soothing and whispered right through us.
Three stories up we looked down on Sam’s and the harried parking lot; we looked at the BellSouth building peaking through the clouds and trees on the horizon; we watched the sun dip slowly in the distance. And we glanced in the direction of 8th Avenue where, at a U-Haul truck rental location, people closed up shop after a long day. Behind locked doors, Saturday night plans were being made and broken; poetry was being composed, vulgar and wonderful; and a lonely girl with dirty hands sat rocking slowly back and forth, keeping time with a tall beautiful boy in a red baseball cap.
posted by Ryan at 1:17 PM
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