Weekly Poem #8 – Some Point
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Some Point
(Bref Double)
at some point someone decided out of seven days in a week five are dedicated to the job I'm no mathematician but five and seven divided makes for a bleak diet of 71% broccoli raab It feels misguided like using a telephone, one that is antique to warn of a fast approaching mob Is the point of work to say, "I abided!" and many fruitless efforts seek?
Weekly Poem #7 – Resting
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Resting
(Breccbairdne)
Pushing snooze again - The fourth time this morning as if the night prolonged, the day starts, no warning. I'm awake again - Barely. I've been dreaming and still, sleep's not enough - a third of my being. You'd think I'd assay and try to be awake more hours each day - Resting though - a treat to partake.
Weekly Poem # 6 – Love My Health
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Love My Health
(Snam Suad)
My desire to admire who I am - Heavenly! Led astray went away and betrayed Pensively. Little found middle ground - who I am Everyday dusty shelf Hate myself Love my health Cast away...
Weekly Poem #5 – Washing Dishes
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Washing Dishes
(Sijo)
Once again I am here, belly wet, washing dishes Yesterday, I told myself I'd stop eating altogether. Today, I am sailing with the warm water, the soapy sponge.
Weekly Poem #4 – Snow Poems
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Snow Day
(Minute Poem)
It took me three hours to drive home white windy snow - unexpected, almost stranded A bowl of hot soup to settle start the kettle Chaos ensued time to Seclude It is winter's way to convey, "Sorry, I'm grey. I know you're stressed. Stay home and rest."
Ode To Snow
Though you're so cold, and can be disruptive, gotta hand it to you, snow. Your presence is instructive You let us know, we need to slow down and watch our step. You reflect the sun You dull the sounds - still. Even the SWISH of a car driving by when it's melting carries a charm that puts me at ease.
Weekly Poem #3 – Social Anxiety Wrecked Me (Nonet)
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Social Anxiety Wrecked Me
Social anxiety wrecked me I need a day to recover - to curl up in a ball and stare at the TV screen still turned off. I tried to go out and meet friends Social anxiety wrecked me I hardly talked to anyone - forgot the words to my own song. Couldn't help but wonder if I should give up and become a doll Social anxiety wrecked me I'd like to lie limp and empty Another week and I'll go out stubborn as all hell, I give up only for a bit, even if Social anxiety wrecks me.
Weekly Poem #2 – Dog Walk (Nashers)
I’ve been trying to write a poem a day for the past couple weeks. It doesn’t always work out, but even if I can squeeze one in on busier weeks, I’ll call it a win. I’ll try and share my favorite from each week here.
Dog Walk
I took my dog for a walk to catch some scenery She took a squat on seemingly every patch of greenery At each passing car, bike, or dog - she leapt like a bafoon. When we got back home, I felt like I had walked through a typhoon.
The Saddest Dream House There Ever Was (Short Story)
To hell and back with these stairs. Darin stopped to catch his breath midway up to his third floor apartment. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed me, he thought and continued on.
Their apartment door was left open and there were several stacks of boxes and piles of belongings needing to be packed. One box at a time, he told himself. Too overwhelming to think of it all at once.
The movers were supposed to be there soon. Thank god for young legs. His were anything but. Old, skinny, slow, weak. He chuckled to himself, picturing his old body and legs running up and down the stairs with a pile of boxes like a young athlete.
If only. Money’s not the issue.
He and Bev had set themselves up pretty well. It took quite awhile, having to rely on one another at different times. They had their financial struggles, Darin’s battle with alcohol, Bev’s battle with depression. But what a team they made and how they’d come out the otherside on top of the world. Just in time too.
Hiring three moving trucks and six movers was not a big deal. He felt bad the movers have to deal with these damn stairs. They should be used to it though. It was their trade. They chose this line of work and to use their young able legs to help an old fart like himself move all the crap he and his wife had taken forty-nine years to accumulate.
He looked at the pile of boxes in the hallway just outside the bedroom. All the books. She loved her books. He had a substantial collection of his own, but nothing compared to hers. A mover’s worst nightmare between the two of them, he was sure. That and steep stairs. He shrugged.
A healthy tip was in store for them. What good is it to hoard all your money? Particularly when you have no next of kin? The economy is reliant on the community to feed it. Without generosity, humans are nothing. We’re all connected much more than we think, he smirked.
There was a pile of cables and gadgets in the corner of the room that Darin hadn’t been sure how to deal with. Some of them were spare phone or laptop chargers, some went to devices unknown or long gone but kept around on the off chance that day would come when its service was required. It felt weird to him to just throw them in the trash only to end up taking space in a landfill somewhere.
He used to be all about the newest and latest gadgets. Palm pilots, blackberries, calculators. He would buy them and tinker with them to learn how they worked. He liked the puzzle of fixing things. That is, until things started becoming obsolete within a year of purchase. Then, it wasn’t worth trying to keep up. As things became more computerized and less mechanical, the fun of tinkering became as obsolete as the devices themselves.
Bev, however, had always been averse to technology. Or was it the other way around? No matter the device, it seemed to malfunction around her. Computers and cell phones would crash and die when she put her fingers on them. Credit card readers would freeze or shut off, so she always had to carry cash. Couldn’t even use ATMs or cell phones. Even devices like metal detectors, or those stolen good alarms at the clothing stores would go off no matter what she was or was not carrying through them. She always made sure to have a landline telephone. That’s why she stuck to crafting and reading. Staying at home, away from a world that was increasingly designed against her.
The phone rang and snapped Darin’s head back down from in the clouds.
“Hi, Honey,” Bev said. “The movers called. One of their trucks broke down. They’re going to be late.”
She had left him at the apartment an hour prior to meet the movers at the new house.
“Well, I’m moving pretty slow over here,” he chuckled.
“They’re sending one truck to you and offloading the storage stuff from the broken down truck to another. The third crew is helping with that. I think it’s going to be a late night, dear,” she said. He could hear her stress level rise through her voice.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Do you know when I should expect them?”
“They told me no more than an hour. Who knows?”
“That’s fine. Just make sure you take it easy, Bev. Drink some tea or something.”
“There’s no tea here. And no teapot.”
“Isn’t there a cute little coffee shop close by? I think I recall you commenting on it. On Market Street?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll drive over there and waste some time. Bring a book.”
“There ya go. I love you, Bev.”
“Love you.”
Heavy tears began to drop from his eyes like melting snow from a tree. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry since they received the news almost a month ago.
Pancreatic cancer.
Stage 4.
That house is going to feel so empty.
Poor Bev.
Poor, poor Bev.
He shook his head and wiped his face with the inside of his elbow. Gingerly loped into the kitchen and grabbed a box, unfolded it, and taped the bottom. He had a lot to catch up on. Laughed and shook his head at his slow pace.
At this rate, I’ll need a second truck to break down.
– – –
Brady downed the rest of his Gatorade. He was squatting next to the truck, waiting in the Shell Station parking lot for Phil to emerge with a pack of smokes and, most likely, a bag of chips. Funyuns if he had to guess.
“Let’s hit it,” Phil said as he slammed the passenger door. He tore open the bag and crunched a handful of Funyuns noisily before chugging what was left in his plastic water bottle. He crumpled the bottle and tossed it casually to the floor underneath and propped the soles of his shoes on the front of the dashboard.
“So we got an apartment to unload, then meeting the other truck to load into the house, yeah?” Brady said.
“Yeah,” Phil said. “Judging by that storage unit, who knows how much more of it they have sitting in their apartment. Probably on the third or fourth floor, too. These people can suck it.” He lit a cigarette while still loudly chewing.
Brady exhaled loudly, mentally preparing himself for another long day, so he can get up and do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, have Sunday off and back it for the next six. Yesterday was a lighter workload than normal. Two small apartments and he was home by two o’clock. Blew his whole forty dollar tip on a case of cheap beer and some pizza for him and his roommates. Gotta take advantage of the easy days when ya can.
When he applied for the mover/driver position, he didn’t have any high paying job offers and wasn’t sure what line of work he had the proper qualifications for. With only a few weeks worth left in his savings account and some driving and warehouse experience he figured, screw it, maybe it’d be a fun challenge and help get himself back in shape in the process. He didn’t imagine it would be like this, though. Blue collar boot camp, he called it.
He pulled his burrito out of the paper sack on the seat next to him and took a chomp.
Good old Shell Station lunch.
Phil finished off the last bite of his hot dog and crumpled his hand into his second bag of Funyuns. It was already almost one o’clock and traffic was hardly moving. They were assigned Ol’ Smokey that morning – the truck that left a wake of thick clear smoke behind it, inviting honks and frustration from environmentally-conscious Portlanders.
Ol’ Smokey was particularly puffing a wake of white smoke that day too. It was a warm day in late spring and there was a typical ceiling of insulating clouds hanging over the city. The air was still and created a feeling of being indoors, like the inside of a large open warehouse with high ceilings. Brady imagined the trees being convincingly man-made as if part of a movie set.
“Get off the road!” someone yelled through the window of their Subaru Forester in the next lane.
“Fuck you, ya fuckin’ twat!” Phil yelled back.
“You can’t drive that on these roads. That truck is illegal. I’ll report you if you don’t pull over!”
Phil leaned his head out the window and tossed his cigarette at the Subaru. He sat up, leaned forward, turned to Brady, and snarled “Not like we have any control over what truck we get or its condition.”
“Pull over!” The Subaru nuisance hollered.
Phil flipped him the bird. “Pull over,” he told Brady. “I’m gunna show this assclown what’s up.”
Brady dropped back and was able to get some separation from the Subaru by moving over to the right lane behind it and taking it slow up the steep hill on Highway 26, letting cars pass and build up some distance between them and the Subaru.
“You non-confrontational fuck. I’d have kicked that guy’s ass. He ain’t callin’ no cops.”
Brady laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
“You’re outta control, Phil,” he said. Phil grinned and started laughing.
“Nobody fucks with your boy Phil,” he said.
By the time they reached the apartment complex it was 2:35. Phil called the customer.
“Third floor,” he said after he hung up. “Called it.”
The stairs were steep and made of rigid concrete with metal hand railings. Brady and Phil shared a look of discouragement as the air brakes engaged with a loud hiss.
“Let’s fuck this shit up,” Phil said and lept out of the cab like a gymnist.
They rolled the back gate up, pulled the ramp out, and set it in the slots on the back ledge of the truck. Then they grabbed their hand trucks and made their first trip up the concrete steps.
The man answered the door and showed them around. He was still in the middle of packing boxes.
“Probably best if you start in the office here and work your way back,” the man said. “I can finish packing while you get all this. The desk comes apart in two pieces. Probably best to disassemble it before you lug it out there. Sorry in advance for all the books. No controlling that wife of mine.”
Without a word, Brady and Phil started stacking boxes on their hand trucks.
The man wasn’t wrong, the boxes are not light, Brady thought.
Three loads in and the back wall of the truck was covered chest high in boxes. Brady grabbed a bottle of water, poured the contents down his throat, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sweatshirt before tossing it against the sidewall. Phil took a drag of a cigarette and pinched the end off before setting what remained on the tailgate for later.
“We’re gunna fill this thing up,” Phil said, evaluating the man’s possessions in his head. “Might have a little room at the end. We’re not even gunna be done here til at least six. There’s no way we’re getting this whole job done today.”
Phil pulled out his phone to call in and report to the office while Brady lugged his hand truck back up the steps. Brady was slender for a mover, despite having built up some muscle over the last eight months. A few of the other movers called him chicken legs. A fair nickname considering the reality of his build, but he wasn’t crazy about it. His will to not give up got him through the first few months despite coming home completely exhausted and down for the count every night. His will to prove he was man enough to belong or something.
Darin was slowly assembling and packing boxes, taking his time to examine every item.
“I just can’t believe all the stuff we have,” he said, turning to Brady who was gathering loose odds and ends to fill out the truck on top of the piled boxes. “You know, we’ve only been in this apartment for two years? Feels much longer.”
“Yeah, you keep pulling more stuff out of the walls,” Brady joked.
The man chuckled. “Bev is one of a kind I tell you. We’ve had our struggles. Each has our own shortcomings and each had our periods of unemployment and job and money insecurities, missteps and mishaps, but one of us was always able to support the other when need be. That’s teamwork. That’s what a marriage is. Are you married?”
Brady shook his head.
“Dating anyone? No? Well, just know whenever you do tie the knot, if you ever do, it’s an equal partnership. It’s like a dance you each are leading as you move through time together. It takes time to find balance. And you know how people say never go to bed angry with one another? That’s a load of crap. Sometimes, you just have to sleep it off and talk the next day. And say goodbye to your pride and do as she said,” he chuckled. “How long have you been a mover?”
“About eight months,” Brady said. He was crouching down, resting his back as the man talked. “Not my long term plan. It works for now though.”
“Do you have a long term plan? You’re young still. You should start making plans. You don’t want to have to wait until your seventy to retire because you fiddled around in your twenties and thirties. Society will let you fall to the gutter and leave you there to rot if you’re not proactive. It’s unfortunate it’s like that, but it’s the reality we live in.”
“I’ll be alright,” Brady said. He appreciated getting advice from older folks when solicited, but felt like he had a good grasp on his life. He’d been thinking a lot about carpentry. During the summers when he was in high school, he would help out his dad’s friend building and remodelling houses. Working with his hands and creating something from nothing and seeing the process through. Each job was unique and never the same. It all sounded very rewarding. Not to mention it wouldn’t be as hard on his back and mental state as this shit had been.
“Thanks for the advice,” Brady said and started out the door with a few trash bags filled with clothes, hangers, and knick knacks.
Phil was livid as Brady returned to the truck. He was smoking a cigarette and pacing the parking lot.
“We gotta finish tonight. Nick said they have a full schedule tomorrow and no wiggle room. Greedy dipshits overbooked. We’re gunna be working til 2 in the morning.”
Brady’s stomach sank.
“Well, let’s get to work,” he said and they both headed back up the thirty two steep steps, feeling steeper with every trip.
The couch was the next object to grab, and of course it wasn’t a light one. It was an old sleeper. Phil led it to the doorway and then stopped. He looked at the couch, then the doorway, and set it down. He reached over to a pile of moving blankets and grabbed one and laid it down in a square between the couch and the doorway. Then he raised his end above his head and Brady set his end on top of the blanket. Brady held the couch steady and Phil pulled on the blanket and twisted the couch through the doorway as Brady lowered the top end down and through. They moved down the stairs effortlessly before setting the couch back on its side over the blanket Phil had previously laid out, feet against the sidewall.
“This ain’t safe, man,” Phil said, latching the ratchet straps around the couch. “I see you already starting to slow down. By the time we’re finished at the drop off it’ll be a miracle someone’s not hurt. Probably more stairs there too. I don’t know how this is even legal.”
“We got this,” said Brady, catching his breath.
By this time, the truck was about three quarters full and aside from the barbeque, some large potted plants, and the desk there were mostly small odds and ends like a couple floor lamps, picture frames, and a couple rugs rolled up and piled on the patio.
At about 5:30, they dropped the barbeque at the end of the truck, strapped it in, and lowered the door. Brady lifted the ramp and slid it back in under the truck and lit another cigarette.
“The other truck should be about to the drop-off now,” Phil said as came back down to the truck after running up to ensure they were clear to leave. “There’s gunna be pizza there for us at least.”
Brady spat on the pavement and tapped out the end of his cigarette. Hopped in the truck and started the engine with an eruption of white smoke.
– – –
Darin locked the door of the apartment behind him. He planned on coming back the next day to clean. Bev wanted to hire professionals, but he planned on making an excuse to get out of the house and come and do it himself. They didn’t have to be fully out for a couple more days and he enjoyed the alone time to sort through his thoughts.
He thought about his time working construction in his early twenties, just after his undergrad. Two years of that lifestyle was plenty. Being out in the elements; rain, snow, wind, or shine was not for him. That was when they lived in Wyoming nonetheless. They didn’t make wool socks or steel toed boots thick enough, and you couldn’t wear enough layers to stay warm in that harsh climate. He swore up and down if he had worked that job for another two years the wind would have blown the skin right off his face. No thank you. That’s when he decided to go back and get his masters in medieval literature. He worked his way to become a tenured professor at Lewis and Clark college in Portland. He finally retired earlier that year.
The car behind him honked. The light was green and he jolted and stepped on the gas pedal. He was supposed to call Bev when he left, but he didn’t feel like talking at that moment. He enjoyed hearing only the humming of the tires on the road and the occasional babup of the car going over a pothole or a bump.
The sun was beginning to set and the clouds had slightly opened up straight ahead, revealing a skyline of pastel pinks and blues. There were some spotted clouds, revealing the yellow tint in the gaps. He wished he could drive his car right up to the middle of the skyline there with Bev by his side and they could exist there in those floating colors and cirrus clouds for the rest of eternity existing in the peaceful clouds smiling at the birds as they flew by. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was a peek into heaven, if there was such a thing. He hadn’t allowed himself to think too much about death throughout his lifetime, but now that it was knocking on his door he found it difficult not to speculate.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough, he thought as he neared up to the house. As he parked on the street he saw Bev was in the driveway pacing beside one of the moving trucks.
“Honey! Thank god you’re here,” she said as they hugged.
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
“I can’t believe we’re putting these movers through this,” she said. “They’re going to be here until midnight! They’re already exhausted, I can tell.”
“Oh, they’ll be alright. It’s a long day, but we’ll just have to tip extra. They’re professionals. Now, I hear there’s pizza. I’m starving.”
– – –
It was dark by the time Brady and Phil reached the drop off. Two trucks were already there. One was in the driveway and the other parked a block away. The other crew was eating pizza and talking to the woman. Darin was sitting in his folding chair in the open garage eating a slice and drinking from a can of coke.
The house featured a wide open kitchen, cabin style walls, a stone fireplace, three healthy sized bedrooms, and a studio/library, which of course was eighteen steps steep according to Johnny, who had eaten his pizza already and was laying the floor runner through the entrance hallway.
“Grab some pizza,” Eric told Phil and Brady. “There’s soda too. Fill up and let’s knock this out.” Eric was one of the assistant managers of the company, primed to open and operate the company’s expansion location in Seattle a few months later. He was rarely sent out on site. Brady found his presence curious.
Brady grabbed a piece of pepperoni pizza and sat against the wall in the kitchen, bracing himself for those stairs and round two of those boxes. Three trucks? It wasn’t a small house, but didn’t seem like they had enough space for three full trucks worth of stuff. This was the biggest move he had been a part of up to that point, though he’d heard stories of five truck loads for the CEO of Blue Cross Blue Shield. That was the day before Thanksgiving and they had expected everything to be unpacked and ready for company the next day. Glad he missed that one. A few of his coworkers helped move Damian Lillard a few weeks back, too. They said Dame didn’t tip worth a shit, but his brother snuck them an extra ten each. This old couple was just an old couple, finally able to afford to build their dream house to spend their retirement in. They had to be fully moved today? Couldn’t figure out a way to spread it out?
This day can go to hell and take these old farts with them, Brady thought.
“Guess what?” Phil said, sliding his back down the wall to sit next to Brady, a slice of ‘za hanging from his mouth. “All the books are going upstairs. All of ‘em. And the truck that’s parked down the block locked up so we’re gunna have to haul from where it’s at. Eric is on one too so better watch yourself.”
Brady sat silently and finished his slice. Pulled himself up and finished the last swig of his water. He gently set the empty bottle and the paper plate in the trash can, walked out to snag his hand truck, rolled it down the driveway, piled it with boxes, and started his first trip up the stairs. His legs felt heavy and stiff and the exhaustion he felt when they finished at the apartment came rushing back. After a few more loads, he was able to catch a second wind. He started to feel as if he was floating in his body. losing all sense of time. Similar to that of a runner’s high.
Even with six movers, not including Eric, it took an hour and half to unload the first truck. Eric celebrated the empty truck with a good ol’ fashion “Atta boys,” and shouted “Almost there! Two more trucks fellas. We got this.”
The crew paid no mind. This wasn’t a football game. No fans cheering them on. No love of the game to push them through. No glory. Just a few extra hours of overtime pay and the chance of a decent tip.
The six man crew was defeated. Worn out and angry at the situation. Three movers were assigned to each of the remaining trucks. Brady watched Johnny pull the empty truck from the driveway, and ran to Ol’ Smokey and backed it in. He got out, lifted the tailgate and one of the other movers grabbed the ramp and pulled it out and set it.
Darin and Bev were standing at the doorway next to Eric, watching the movers go back and forth. Brady’s head had been down, deliriously stacking boxes onto his hand truck and pulling them up the stairs. Before too long he noticed Eric was not there and he hadn’t been passing any other movers in the truck or the hallway. He set his hand truck aside and meandered to the truck that was stalled down the block to discover Phil yelling at Eric.
They’re overworked. They’re exhausted. They need a break.
“If any of you want to leave,” Eric said. “We’ll call you an Uber to come get you.”
Brady considered volunteering. His feet never ached so badly, his knee was sore and possibly swollen, and he felt a tightness in his back as he stood still for the first time in over an hour. The pressure to appear weak to his coworkers kept him silent. He may not have liked all of them, but dammit did he respect each one of them for showing up day in and day out, some of them for several years.
“Don’t,” Johnny leaned over and said quietly. “It’s a trap. You take the offer, you’re out of a job.”
“Seriously?”
Johnny nodded.
“Phill, you have a kid, right,” Brady heard Eric say calmly. “You need to pay rent, keep that kid fed, right? Better get to work, man.”
Phil aggressively lifted a dresser like it was nothing and set it on his hand truck, tipped it back, and rolled it down the ramp. The rest of the movers followed suit and started back at it.
Brady grabbed a couple dining chairs and filed into the house behind the rest of the crew, all with defeated looks on their faces. Bev was standing by the front doorway crying as Eric barked at the crew to keep on.
Darin walked from the garage to the doorway to comfort Bev. The intensity of the day had swelled up. She was no dummy and could see the turmoil in the crew. The movers were miserable. Each one of them avoided eye contact with her. They were being pushed beyond their limit, just so she and Darin could have their stuff sitting in boxes in the same house they slept in that night. Management told her they wanted to take extra care of them because of Darin’s cancer. This was how they were going to be starting their days in their dream house. The saddest dream house there ever was. It was all too much for her.
After a few more loads, Brady nearly collapsed. Eric pulled him aside.
“Take a minute, Brady. Drink some water.”
Brady nodded and grabbed a fresh water bottle. Eric was particularly sympathetic to Brady because for some reason, the higher ups at the company targeted Brady to eventually join their ranks. Brady had no desire to be with the company that long. He’d rather be homeless. He accepted the peace offering from Eric though and sat against the wall of the garage for a few minutes thinking about sleep.
Once he was back at it, he caught eyes with Darin, who sent him a look of sympathy, but also one of strength. It was oddly inspiring in a way Brady didn’t fully understand. He wondered what the man did for a living, what his life had been like, other than his seemingly happily passive role in his marriage.
Phil nearly bumped into him, zooming by with his fully stacked hand truck.
“Let’s go, man,” he said stoically.
Soon, the truck in the driveway was empty. The other truck was almost halfway there and it was 10:30. Brady made his way to the truck to find Phil throwing another fit. He watched him grab a lamp from the top of the pile of possessions and tossed it to the ground.
Smash!
“Whoops,” he said. “My bad. Must’ve fallen on the drive up.”
Another crew member, Bryce, tossed a vase and head banged with an air guitar as it crashed on the floor.
All but one mover was in the truck talking shit about the job when Eric came running up to the tailgate and poked his head in.
“Guys, we’re almost there. Come on! Get back to work.”
“Fuck this,” Phil said.
“Offer still stands,” Eric threatened. “We can still call you an Uber.”
Brady, who was standing in the back of the truck watching the chaos ensue, stood forward.
“I’ll take one,” he said.
“Brady? You don’t want to do that,” Eric said.
“Sure, I do. I’m done. I’m fucking done.”
“Are you quitting?” Eric confirmed.
“No, I’m not quitting. You offered an Uber, I’m taking your offer. That’s all.”
Phil started laughing. Surprised but proud of his partner for standing up like that.
“Are you positive?” Eric said.
“Yup.”
Eric walked away and made a phone call.
“Alright, got you an Uber. You can wait by the driveway. Show up at the warehouse at 10 tomorrow morning. We’re giving you guys a late start tomorrow. Everyone else, get back to work.”
The rest of the crew silently started lifting boxes, tables and bookshelves and heading back to the house.
“Hate to see you do this, man,” Eric said as Brady sat on the curb waiting. “I know it was a long day, but you don’t have to leave, bro. I mean, we’re almost done. Another half an hour and…”
Brady stood up and walked down the street. He turned back to look at Eric and shook his head in disgust.
When the Uber arrived, Brady crawled in the back seat and let out a sigh of relief rubbing his sore knee. He was ready to fall asleep. As the car moved through the streets he pictured himself outside on a sunny day pulling nails from a leather tool belt loosely set around his waist, measuring where they go, and hammering them one by one. No big hurry, but deeply focused on the task at hand. He hoped Darin and his wife were happy in their new home and were able to enjoy the rest of their days cooking nice meals in that wide open kitchen and reading all those books, crafting,and putting puzzles together in front of the fireplace all through the damp dark winters of Portland. He hoped he could afford a nice place like that someday, but knew in the back of his mind it was a pipe dream.
Out of principle, he planned to get up and show up at the warehouse by 9:45 fully expecting to be sent back home soon after.
To hell and back with these stairs. Darin stopped to catch his breath midway up to his third floor apartment. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed me, he thought and continued on.
Their apartment door was left open and there were several stacks of boxes and piles of belongings needing to be packed. One box at a time, he told himself. Too overwhelming to think of it all at once.
The movers were supposed to be there soon. Thank god for young legs. His were anything but. Old, skinny, slow, weak. He chuckled to himself, picturing his old body and legs running up and down the stairs with a pile of boxes like a young athlete.
If only. Money’s not the issue.
He and Bev had set themselves up pretty well. It took quite awhile, having to rely on one another at different times. They had their financial struggles, Darin’s battle with alcohol, Bev’s battle with depression. But what a team they made and how they’d come out the otherside on top of the world. Just in time too.
Hiring three moving trucks and six movers was not a big deal. He felt bad the movers have to deal with these damn stairs. They should be used to it though. It was their trade. They chose this line of work and to use their young able legs to help an old fart like himself move all the crap he and his wife had taken forty-nine years to accumulate.
He looked at the pile of boxes in the hallway just outside the bedroom. All the books. She loved her books. He had a substantial collection of his own, but nothing compared to hers. A mover’s worst nightmare between the two of them, he was sure. That and steep stairs. He shrugged.
A healthy tip was in store for them. What good is it to hoard all your money? Particularly when you have no next of kin? The economy is reliant on the community to feed it. Without generosity, humans are nothing. We’re all connected much more than we think, he smirked.
There was a pile of cables and gadgets in the corner of the room that Darin hadn’t been sure how to deal with. Some of them were spare phone or laptop chargers, some went to devices unknown or long gone but kept around on the off chance that day would come when its service was required. It felt weird to him to just throw them in the trash only to end up taking space in a landfill somewhere.
He used to be all about the newest and latest gadgets. Palm pilots, blackberries, calculators. He would buy them and tinker with them to learn how they worked. He liked the puzzle of fixing things. That is, until things started becoming obsolete within a year of purchase. Then, it wasn’t worth trying to keep up. As things became more computerized and less mechanical, the fun of tinkering became as obsolete as the devices themselves.
Bev, however, had always been averse to technology. Or was it the other way around? No matter the device, it seemed to malfunction around her. Computers and cell phones would crash and die when she put her fingers on them. Credit card readers would freeze or shut off, so she always had to carry cash. Couldn’t even use ATMs or cell phones. Even devices like metal detectors, or those stolen good alarms at the clothing stores would go off no matter what she was or was not carrying through them. She always made sure to have a landline telephone. That’s why she stuck to crafting and reading. Staying at home, away from a world that was increasingly designed against her.
The phone rang and snapped Darin’s head back down from in the clouds.
“Hi, Honey,” Bev said. “The movers called. One of their trucks broke down. They’re going to be late.”
She had left him at the apartment an hour prior to meet the movers at the new house.
“Well, I’m moving pretty slow over here,” he chuckled.
“They’re sending one truck to you and offloading the storage stuff from the broken down truck to another. The third crew is helping with that. I think it’s going to be a late night, dear,” she says. He could hear her stress level rise through her voice.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Do you know when I should expect them?”
“They told me no more than an hour. Who knows?”
“That’s fine. Just make sure you take it easy, Bev. Drink some tea or something.”
“There’s no tea here. And no teapot.”
“Isn’t there a cute little coffee shop close by? I think I recall you commenting on it. On Market Street?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll drive over there and waste some time. Bring a book.”
“There ya go. I love you, Bev.”
“Love you.”
Heavy tears began to drop from his eyes like melting snow from a tree. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry since they received the news almost a month ago.
Pancreatic cancer.
Stage 4.
That house is going to feel so empty.
Poor Bev.
Poor, poor Bev.
He shook his head and wiped his face with the inside of his elbow. Gingerly loped into the kitchen and grabbed a box, unfolded it, and taped the bottom. He had a lot to catch up on. Laughed and shook his head at his slow pace.
At this rate, I’ll need a second truck to break down.
– – –
Brady downed the rest of his Gatorade. He was squatting next to the truck, waiting in the Shell Station parking lot for Phil to emerge with a pack of smokes and, most likely, a bag of chips. Funyuns if he had to guess.
“Let’s hit it,” Phil said as he slammed the passenger door. He tore open the bag and crunched a handful of Funyuns noisily before chugging what was left in his plastic water bottle. He crumpled the bottle and tossed it casually to the floor underneath and propped the soles of his shoes on the front of the dashboard.
“So we got an apartment to unload, then meeting the other truck to load into the house, yeah?” Brady said.
“Yeah,” Phil said. “Judging by that storage unit, who knows how much more of it they have sitting in their apartment. Probably on the third or fourth floor, too. These people can suck it.” He lit a cigarette while still loudly chewing.
Brady exhaled loudly, mentally preparing himself for another long day, so he can get up and do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, have Sunday off and back it for the next six. Yesterday was a lighter workload than normal. Two small apartments and he was home by two o’clock. Blew his whole forty dollar tip on a case of cheap beer and some pizza for him and his roommates. Gotta take advantage of the easy days when ya can.
When he applied for the mover/driver position, he didn’t have any high paying job offers and wasn’t sure what line of work he had the proper qualifications for. With only a few weeks worth left in his savings account and some driving and warehouse experience he figured, screw it, maybe it’d be a fun challenge and help get himself back in shape in the process. He didn’t imagine it would be like this, though. Blue collar boot camp, he called it.
He pulled his burrito out of the paper sack on the seat next to him and took a chomp.
Good old Shell Station lunch.
Phil finished off the last bite of his hot dog and crumpled his hand into his second bag of Funyuns. It was already almost one o’clock and traffic was hardly moving. They were assigned Ol’ Smokey that morning – the truck that left a wake of thick clear smoke behind it, inviting honks and frustration from environmentally-conscious Portlanders.
Ol’ Smokey was particularly puffing a wake of white smoke that day too. It was a warm day in late spring and there was a typical ceiling of insulating clouds hanging over the city. The air was still and created a feeling of being indoors, like the inside of a large open warehouse with high ceilings. Brady imagined the trees being convincingly man-made as if part of a movie set.
“Get off the road!” someone yelled through the window of their Subaru Forester in the next lane.
“Fuck you, ya fuckin’ twat!” Phil yelled back.
“You can’t drive that on these roads. That truck is illegal. I’ll report you if you don’t pull over!”
Phil leaned his head out the window and tossed his cigarette at the Subaru. He sat up, leaned forward, turned to Brady, and snarled “Not like we have any control over what truck we get or its condition.”
“Pull over!” The Subaru nuisance hollered.
Phil flipped him the bird. “Pull over,” he told Brady. “I’m gunna show this assclown what’s up.”
Brady dropped back and was able to get some separation from the Subaru by moving over to the right lane behind it and taking it slow up the steep hill on Highway 26, letting cars pass and build up some distance between them and the Subaru.
“You non-confrontational fuck. I’d have kicked that guy’s ass. He ain’t callin’ no cops.”
Brady laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
“You’re outta control, Phil,” he said. Phil grinned and started laughing.
“Nobody fucks with your boy Phil,” he said.
By the time they reached the apartment complex it was 2:35. Phil called the customer.
“Third floor,” he said after he hung up. “Called it.”
The stairs were steep and made of rigid concrete with metal hand railings. Brady and Phil shared a look of discouragement as the air brakes engaged with a loud hiss.
“Let’s fuck this shit up,” Phil said and lept out of the cab like a gymnist.
They rolled the back gate up, pulled the ramp out, and set it in the slots on the back ledge of the truck. Then they grabbed their hand trucks and made their first trip up the concrete steps.
The man answered the door and showed them around. He was still in the middle of packing boxes.
“Probably best if you start in the office here and work your way back,” the man said. “I can finish packing while you get all this. The desk comes apart in two pieces. Probably best to disassemble it before you lug it out there. Sorry in advance for all the books. No controlling that wife of mine.”
Without a word, Brady and Phil started stacking boxes on their hand trucks.
The man wasn’t wrong, the boxes are not light, Brady thought.
Three loads in and the back wall of the truck was covered chest high in boxes. Brady grabbed a bottle of water, poured the contents down his throat, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sweatshirt before tossing it against the sidewall. Phil took a drag of a cigarette and pinched the end off before setting what remained on the tailgate for later.
“We’re gunna fill this thing up,” Phil said, evaluating the man’s possessions in his head. “Might have a little room at the end. We’re not even gunna be done here til at least six. There’s no way we’re getting this whole job done today.”
Phil pulled out his phone to call in and report to the office while Brady lugged his hand truck back up the steps. Brady was slender for a mover, despite having built up some muscle over the last eight months. A few of the other movers called him chicken legs. A fair nickname considering the reality of his build, but he wasn’t crazy about it. His will to not give up got him through the first few months despite coming home completely exhausted and down for the count every night. His will to prove he was man enough to belong or something.
Darin was slowly assembling and packing boxes, taking his time to examine every item.
“I just can’t believe all the stuff we have,” he said, turning to Brady who was gathering loose odds and ends to fill out the truck on top of the piled boxes. “You know, we’ve only been in this apartment for two years? Feels much longer.”
“Yeah, you keep pulling more stuff out of the walls,” Brady joked.
The man chuckled. “Bev is one of a kind I tell you. We’ve had our struggles. Each has our own shortcomings and each had our periods of unemployment and job and money insecurities, missteps and mishaps, but one of us was always able to support the other when need be. That’s teamwork. That’s what a marriage is. Are you married?”
Brady shook his head.
“Dating anyone? No? Well, just know whenever you do tie the knot, if you ever do, it’s an equal partnership. It’s like a dance you each are leading as you move through time together. It takes time to find balance. And you know how people say never go to bed angry with one another? That’s a load of crap. Sometimes, you just have to sleep it off and talk the next day. And say goodbye to your pride and do as she says,” he chuckled. “How long have you been a mover?”
“About eight months,” Brady said. He was crouching down, resting his back as the man talked. “Not my long term plan. It works for now though.”
“Do you have a long term plan? You’re young still. You should start making plans. You don’t want to have to wait until your seventy to retire because you fiddled around in your twenties and thirties. Society will let you fall to the gutter and leave you there to rot if you’re not proactive. It’s unfortunate it’s like that, but it’s the reality we live in.”
“I’ll be alright,” Brady said. He appreciated getting advice from older folks when solicited, but felt like he had a good grasp on his life. He’d been thinking a lot about carpentry. During the summers when he was in high school, he would help out his dad’s friend building and remodelling houses. Working with his hands and creating something from nothing and seeing the process through. Each job was unique and never the same. It all sounded very rewarding. Not to mention it wouldn’t be as hard on his back and mental state as this shit had been.
“Thanks for the advice,” Brady said and started out the door with a few trash bags filled with clothes, hangers, and knick knacks.
Phil was livid as Brady returned to the truck. He was smoking a cigarette and pacing the parking lot.
“We gotta finish tonight. Nick said they have a full schedule tomorrow and no wiggle room. Greedy dipshits overbooked. We’re gunna be working til 2 in the morning.”
Brady’s stomach sank.
“Well, let’s get to work,” he said and they both headed back up the thirty two steep steps, feeling steeper with every trip.
The couch was the next object to grab, and of course it wasn’t a light one. It was an old sleeper. Phil led it to the doorway and then stopped. He looked at the couch, then the doorway, and set it down. He reached over to a pile of moving blankets and grabbed one and laid it down in a square between the couch and the doorway. Then he raised his end above his head and Brady set his end on top of the blanket. Brady held the couch steady and Phil pulled on the blanket and twisted the couch through the doorway as Brady lowered the top end down and through. They moved down the stairs effortlessly before setting the couch back on its side over the blanket Phil had previously laid out, feet against the sidewall.
“This ain’t safe, man,” Phil said, latching the ratchet straps around the couch. “I see you already starting to slow down. By the time we’re finished at the drop off it’ll be a miracle someone’s not hurt. Probably more stairs there too. I don’t know how this is even legal.”
“We got this,” said Brady, catching his breath.
By this time, the truck was about three quarters full and aside from the barbeque, some large potted plants, and the desk there were mostly small odds and ends like a couple floor lamps, picture frames, and a couple rugs rolled up and piled on the patio.
At about 5:30, they dropped the barbeque at the end of the truck, strapped it in, and lowered the door. Brady lifted the ramp and slid it back in under the truck and lit another cigarette.
“The other truck should be about to the drop-off now,” Phil said as came back down to the truck after running up to ensure they were clear to leave. “There’s gunna be pizza there for us at least.”
Brady spat on the pavement and tapped out the end of his cigarette. Hopped in the truck and started the engine with an eruption of white smoke.
– – –
Darin locked the door of the apartment behind him. He planned on coming back the next day to clean. Bev wanted to hire professionals, but he planned on making an excuse to get out of the house and come and do it himself. They didn’t have to be fully out for a couple more days and he enjoyed the alone time to sort through his thoughts.
He thought about his time working construction in his early twenties, just after his undergrad. Two years of that lifestyle was plenty. Being out in the elements; rain, snow, wind, or shine was not for him. That was when they lived in Wyoming nonetheless. They didn’t make wool socks or steel toed boots thick enough, and you couldn’t wear enough layers to stay warm in that harsh climate. He swore up and down if he had worked that job for another two years the wind would have blown the skin right off his face. No thank you. That’s when he decided to go back and get his masters in medieval literature. He worked his way to become a tenured professor at Lewis and Clark college in Portland. He finally retired earlier that year.
The car behind him honked. The light was green and he jolted and stepped on the gas pedal. He was supposed to call Bev when he left, but he didn’t feel like talking at that moment. He enjoyed hearing only the humming of the tires on the road and the occasional babup of the car going over a pothole or a bump.
The sun was beginning to set and the clouds had slightly opened up straight ahead, revealing a skyline of pastel pinks and blues. There were some spotted clouds, revealing the yellow tint in the gaps. He wished he could drive his car right up to the middle of the skyline there with Bev by his side and they could exist there in those floating colors and cirrus clouds for the rest of eternity existing in the peaceful clouds smiling at the birds as they flew by. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was a peek into heaven, if there was such a thing. He hadn’t allowed himself to think too much about death throughout his lifetime, but now that it was knocking on his door he found it difficult not to speculate.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough, he thought as he neared up to the house. As he parked on the street he saw Bev was in the driveway pacing beside one of the moving trucks.
“Honey! Thank god you’re here,” she said as they hugged.
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
“I can’t believe we’re putting these movers through this,” she said. “They’re going to be here until midnight! They’re already exhausted, I can tell.”
“Oh, they’ll be alright. It’s a long day, but we’ll just have to tip extra. They’re professionals. Now, I hear there’s pizza. I’m starving.”
– – –
It was dark by the time Brady and Phil reached the drop off. Two trucks were already there. One was in the driveway and the other parked a block away. The other crew was eating pizza and talking to the woman. Darin was sitting in his folding chair in the open garage eating a slice and drinking from a can of coke.
The house featured a wide open kitchen, cabin style walls, a stone fireplace, three healthy sized bedrooms, and a studio/library, which of course was eighteen steps steep according to Johnny, who had eaten his pizza already and was laying the floor runner through the entrance hallway.
“Grab some pizza,” Eric told Phil and Brady. “There’s soda too. Fill up and let’s knock this out.” Eric was one of the assistant managers of the company, primed to open and operate the company’s expansion location in Seattle a few months later. He was rarely sent out on site. Brady found his presence curious.
Brady grabbed a piece of pepperoni pizza and sat against the wall in the kitchen, bracing himself for those stairs and round two of those boxes. Three trucks? It wasn’t a small house, but didn’t seem like they had enough space for three full trucks worth of stuff. This was the biggest move he had been a part of up to that point, though he’d heard stories of five truck loads for the CEO of Blue Cross Blue Shield. That was the day before Thanksgiving and they had expected everything to be unpacked and ready for company the next day. Glad he missed that one. A few of his coworkers helped move Damian Lillard a few weeks back, too. They said Dame didn’t tip worth a shit, but his brother snuck them an extra ten each. This old couple was just an old couple, finally able to afford to build their dream house to spend their retirement in. They had to be fully moved today? Couldn’t figure out a way to spread it out?
This day can go to hell and take these old farts with them, Brady thought.
“Guess what?” Phil said, sliding his back down the wall to sit next to Brady, a slice of ‘za hanging from his mouth. “All the books are going upstairs. All of ‘em. And the truck that’s parked down the block locked up so we’re gunna have to haul from where it’s at. Eric is on one too so better watch yourself.”
Brady sat silently and finished his slice. Pulled himself up and finished the last swig of his water. He gently set the empty bottle and the paper plate in the trash can, walked out to snag his hand truck, rolled it down the driveway, piled it with boxes, and started his first trip up the stairs. His legs felt heavy and stiff and the exhaustion he felt when they finished at the apartment came rushing back. After a few more loads, he was able to catch a second wind. He started to feel as if he was floating in his body. losing all sense of time. Similar to that of a runner’s high.
Even with six movers, not including Eric, it took an hour and half to unload the first truck. Eric celebrated the empty truck with a good ol’ fashion “Atta boys,” and shouted “Almost there! Two more trucks fellas. We got this.”
The crew paid no mind. This wasn’t a football game. No fans cheering them on. No love of the game to push them through. No glory. Just a few extra hours of overtime pay and the chance of a decent tip.
The six man crew was defeated. Worn out and angry at the situation. Three movers were assigned to each of the remaining trucks. Brady watched Johnny pull the empty truck from the driveway, and ran to Ol’ Smokey and backed it in. He got out, lifted the tailgate and one of the other movers grabbed the ramp and pulled it out and set it.
Darin and Bev were standing at the doorway next to Eric, watching the movers go back and forth. Brady’s head had been down, deliriously stacking boxes onto his hand truck and pulling them up the stairs. Before too long he noticed Eric was not there and he hadn’t been passing any other movers in the truck or the hallway. He set his hand truck aside and meandered to the truck that was stalled down the block to discover Phil yelling at Eric.
They’re overworked. They’re exhausted. They need a break.
“If any of you want to leave,” Eric said. “We’ll call you an Uber to come get you.”
Brady considered volunteering. His feet never ached so badly, his knee was sore and possibly swollen, and he felt a tightness in his back as he stood still for the first time in over an hour. The pressure to appear weak to his coworkers kept him silent. He may not have liked all of them, but dammit did he respect each one of them for showing up day in and day out, some of them for several years.
“Don’t,” Johnny leaned over and said quietly. “It’s a trap. You take the offer, you’re out of a job.”
“Seriously?”
Johnny nodded.
“Phill, you have a kid, right,” Brady heard Eric say calmly. “You need to pay rent, keep that kid fed, right? Better get to work, man.”
Phil aggressively lifted a dresser like it was nothing and set it on his hand truck, tipped it back, and rolled it down the ramp. The rest of the movers followed suit and started back at it.
Brady grabbed a couple dining chairs and filed into the house behind the rest of the crew, all with defeated looks on their faces. Bev was standing by the front doorway crying as Eric barked at the crew to keep on.
Darin walked from the garage to the doorway to comfort Bev. The intensity of the day had swelled up. She was no dummy and could see the turmoil in the crew. The movers were miserable. Each one of them avoided eye contact with her. They were being pushed beyond their limit, just so she and Darin could have their stuff sitting in boxes in the same house they slept in that night. Management told her they wanted to take extra care of them because of Darin’s cancer. This was how they were going to be starting their days in their dream house. The saddest dream house there ever was. It was all too much for her.
After a few more loads, Brady nearly collapsed. Eric pulled him aside.
“Take a minute, Brady. Drink some water.”
Brady nodded and grabbed a fresh water bottle. Eric was particularly sympathetic to Brady because for some reason, the higher ups at the company targeted Brady to eventually join their ranks. Brady had no desire to be with the company that long. He’d rather be homeless. He accepted the peace offering from Eric though and sat against the wall of the garage for a few minutes thinking about sleep.
Once he was back at it, he caught eyes with Darin, who sent him a look of sympathy, but also one of strength. It was oddly inspiring in a way Brady didn’t fully understand. He wondered what the man did for a living, what his life had been like, other than his seemingly happily passive role in his marriage.
Phil nearly bumped into him, zooming by with his fully stacked hand truck.
“Let’s go, man,” he said stoically.
Soon, the truck in the driveway was empty. The other truck was almost halfway there and it was 10:30. Brady made his way to the truck to find Phil throwing another fit. He watched him grab a lamp from the top of the pile of possessions and tossed it to the ground.
Smash!
“Whoops,” he said. “My bad. Must’ve fallen on the drive up.”
Another crew member, Bryce, tossed a vase and head banged with an air guitar as it crashed on the floor.
All but one mover was in the truck talking shit about the job when Eric came running up to the tailgate and poked his head in.
“Guys, we’re almost there. Come on! Get back to work.”
“Fuck this,” Phil said.
“Offer still stands,” Eric threatened. “We can still call you an Uber.”
Brady, who was standing in the back of the truck watching the chaos ensue, stood forward.
“I’ll take one,” he said.
“Brady? You don’t want to do that,” Eric said.
“Sure, I do. I’m done. I’m fucking done.”
“Are you quitting?” Eric confirmed.
“No, I’m not quitting. You offered an Uber, I’m taking your offer. That’s all.”
Phil started laughing. Surprised but proud of his partner for standing up like that.
“Are you positive?” Eric said.
“Yup.”
Eric walked away and made a phone call.
“Alright, got you an Uber. You can wait by the driveway. Show up at the warehouse at 10 tomorrow morning. We’re giving you guys a late start tomorrow. Everyone else, get back to work.”
The rest of the crew silently started lifting boxes, tables and bookshelves and heading back to the house.
“Hate to see you do this, man,” Eric said as Brady sat on the curb waiting. “I know it was a long day, but you don’t have to leave, bro. I mean, we’re almost done. Another half an hour and…”
Brady stood up and walked down the street. He turned back to look at Eric and shook his head in disgust.
When the Uber arrived, Brady crawled in the back seat and let out a sigh of relief rubbing his sore knee. He was ready to fall asleep. As the car moved through the streets he pictured himself outside on a sunny day pulling nails from a leather tool belt loosely set around his waist, measuring where they go, and hammering them one by one. No big hurry, but deeply focused on the task at hand. He hoped Darin and his wife were happy in their new home and were able to enjoy the rest of their days cooking nice meals in that wide open kitchen and reading all those books, crafting,and putting puzzles together in front of the fireplace all through the damp dark winters of Portland. He hoped he could afford a nice place like that someday, but knew in the back of his mind it was a pipe dream.
Out of principle, he planned to get up and show up at the warehouse by 9:45 fully expecting to be sent back home soon after.
Broken Bowl
Broken Bowl
I broke her favorite bowl. It was an old ceramic bowl; green, blue, brown trim, or was it black? I should really pay more attention. Her late mother gave it to her along with a coffee mug and a similar bigger bowl that we always have placed on what little valuable counter space our tiny kitchen has available. It serves as our temporary compost bowl.
It’s not the first dish I have destroyed while trying to wash the unwanted meal remnants off of. I shouldn’t be allowed to do dishes. That’s what she told me when I showed her the shards of ceramic stacked in my hand. She’s probably right. Wine glasses in particular have a way of shifting their weight in my hands suddenly to crash into something, or jumping out of my hands altogether in preference of a life in the trash bin and in pieces, than in our cupboard serving its very important function as an on call vehicle of comfort, sophistication, relaxation, and/or silliness. It’s not just wine glasses though. Plates, bowls, mugs. I’ve hit them all. I don’t discriminate.
Her face was a look of such disappointment. I let her down. I was able to fix the coffee mug when I broke the handle a year or two ago. The one her mom gave to her with the two ceramic bowls. Super glue is a man’s best friend. Except when the man clumsily puts the bowl on the edge of the drying rack where there is very little room. It was a temporary placement. That last pot of lot needed a good scrubbing. Then I was going to rearrange the overflowing drying rack. I didn’t know where to put it so I wedged it in the bottom shelf on top of some tupaware. Tightly hugging the bottom of the top shelf. Super glue wasn’t going to be enough to fix this accident.
I should really start hand drying more often.
“Oh yeah so I’m just going to sit back and let you do all the dishes from now on? Come on, that’s ridiculous!” I snarled back at her.
It wasn’t.
But the hit to my pride was too great to take advantage of the opportunity most engaged…married? Partnered? Or really any people living with another would jump at.
How many dishes had to be victims of my carelessness before they all revolt against me and I’m left without a partner and without any dishes, eating off the ground like an adolescent pit-bull. I know this about adolescent pit-bulls because we have an adolescent pit-bull and she eats everything off the ground. Rocks, grass, cat poop, her own poop, who knows who or what else’s poop…
I wouldn’t eat poop, I don’t think.
We were both fumigating and she charged up the stairs as I stubbornly finished scrubbing the last pot, and figured might as well wash the cutting boards while I was at it, because dammit all I’m not giving up my kitchen duties just because there’s no doubt I will break every last thing by either the end of our relationship or the end of my lifetime. No way in hell. Despite the inevitability.
The dog was cowering in the next room and the two cats were perched in high ground staring at me, clearly thinking to themselves, “Get a grip dude. It was after all a gift from her mother. She’s allowed to be upset by this particular act of carelessness. She tolerates way more of your air-headedness than anyone else in your life ever has. By a long shot. So get a grip you asshole.”
The cats were right. Usually they’re not. But this time they were on to something.
Once I was done with the pan, sat down and considered what I had done and cooled down, I went upstairs. She was sitting in bed and had also cooled down.
If she hadn’t, again, I wouldn’t blame her. When your would-be husband breaks one of the few things you own that reminds you of your late mother, in the middle of a global pandemic, two months after losing your job which, turns out was a large part of your identity, five months after you would have had the best and most memorable wedding since, I don’t know, the invention weddings, as you live in the monotony of household and puppy upkeep day after anti-social day, when all your close friends geographically have also become like long distance relationships, right before the holidays that you can’t spend with what’a left of your immediate family who you haven’t seen in over a year. Cause there’s a global pandemic.
Yeah, I don’t blame her.
Don’t blame the bowl either. Probably figured it would happen anyway, now’s a chance to get it over with on its own terms, before I carelessly bash it into that stupid sidewall of the sink. It’d seen enough of its cupboard mates disappear and never come back on the shelf where they had always sat.
Better sooner than later.
Less anxiety that way.
B.R. Mount 