A Moving Experience

Yesterday morning I boarded one bus after another in order to get to a company that had responded favorably to my earlier emailed resume and accompanying cover letter in which I'd stated that I was reliable and a hard worker. I didn't really want the job. I mean if I had a choice in the matter I wouldn't have sought it out. But I was at a point and still am today where any job will and must do. So I am applying these days to each and every possibility. For I am broke and my bills still must be met. Thus I took measures yesterday that struck me as a backward step. I grasped at a job I'd once labored at some thirty five years passed.

I was then just out of high school and the job I took was that of a helper for a moving company. It did not matter that I thought the work was not for me. I needed a job and a moving company was hiring so it seemed a no brainer. I ought to apply. It was the same bit of logic that convinced me yesterday to once again pursue the same job. As I rode those multiple busses I thought about my experience three and a half decades ago.

My first day of work back then I was teamed up with a bantam weight driver who could have stood no taller than four foot eleven. He was the driver of our team and he looked like a kid behind the wheel. If I remember correctly he had to sit on a couple of phonebooks in order to see over the dashboard. He also had a bulbous black growth the size of a monstrous zit between his upper lip and nose that had me contemplating jabbing it with a pin. As we rode to our first assignment, a delivery of furniture to a third floor apartment, he searched up and down the radio dial for an oldies station. He did so without any luck. Undeterred he broke into a Frankie Valli And The Four Seasons song. He sang off key with the shrill voice of the chemically castrated.

Two renditions later we were at our destination and I learned on that day a fundamental truth known to every mover. There is no piece of furniture more difficult to move than a hide-a-bed couch. The reason for this is two fold: first off it's as heavy as a bear, and secondly at every pivot, twist, and turn you take while lugging the contraption it rocks back and forth and the bed partially springs open throwing you off balance. Adding to the overall difficulty that day I wound up being the person walking backwards and first up the steps. Because of the differences in our heights and the angle of the steps I had to stoop over and carry the hide-a-bed at ankle level in order to accommodate my coworker. Had he gone first up the steps we could have both carried it at chest level. It was an observation I took to heart and acted upon for the rest of that day's deliveries.

The following morning as I sat up high in the cab of our truck I happened to look out upon our fellow commuters on highway 91. When I did so I saw a wondrous sight. There below us in the car to our immediate right was a woman driving along while reading the Hartford Courant. She had the news paper spread out against her steering wheel. Every so often she blithely looked up from the paper to scan the traffic before her with a lack of concern that would leave me stupefied for many years to come.

A day later the supervisor called me and a driver who was a dozen years my senior into his office for a pow wow. We were to deliver some antique and fragile furniture to a monied customer who was a bit of a nervous Nelly and mightily concerned about the welfare of the pieces. He said he could not stress enough the care that we were to show both the furniture and the woman. We told our supervisor he could count on us.

We were hardly out of the company parking lot when the driver asked me if I wanted to get stoned. I said sure why not. He didn't have the weed on him so we had to make an unscheduled stop at his apartment. After we smoked a joint the driver complained of cotton mouth. He said he needed to stop and get something to drink. He pulled up to a liquor store and before popping inside he handed me his pot and papers and told me to roll another joint. So I did. Minutes later he returned with a six pack of beer. He offered me a one but I declined. He guzzled one down and immediately grabbed another and made quick work of that one too. We smoked the other joint in route and by the time we reached our destination the driver had consumed all the beer.

At the client's house the driver backed down the driveway. At least that was his intention. But he missed most of the driveway and ran over a couple bushes. The driver turned off the engine and abdicated his role of leadership, saying "You better talk to her. I'm too fucked up." That was the last thing I wanted to hear. Besides knowing that my eyes were bloodshot I was quite stoned and in no way wanted to speak with a responsible adult. But I had no choice in the matter. When we got out of the truck the woman was waiting for us. I apologized for running over her bushes and for being late. She was noticeably taken aback that I was doing the talking. I was the obvious underling. It did not help matters either that the driver was staggering around and fumbling with the bay door lock on the back of the truck. Eventually I excused myself from the woman and took over the task of opening the pesky lock. It popped right open and the driver with much effort climbed aboard the truck uncertainly. He told me to do the bulk of the moving while he sat in the bay of the truck. He said he would help me with the pieces that took two people to move.

Each trip I took from the back of the truck to inside the house the woman hovered at my side as if believing herself a guardian angel warding off mishaps. In this way I moved all the small items. Then it came time to move the pieces that required two men. We had a go at a sideboard and as the driver stumbled along behind me I saw a look of abject horror on the face of the woman as her suspicions were resolutely confirmed: That man was drunk.

Although there was much swaying and tipsy fumbling somehow the two of managed to complete the move without dropping or marring any one of the precious antiques. And the look of relief on the woman's face at the end of our labors was exultant.

I'm not sure if the woman ever complained about the driver's drunkenness. Were I her I would have. The driver and I never crossed paths again, and I soon quit out of dislike for the job. The following morning after a strong cup of coffee I looked for work elsewhere.

Fast forward to five years shy of four decades later. Once again I broached the possibility of being a moving company helper. By memory's sake alone you would think I'd be too wary to go down that rode again. Surely once was enough. But, and that is key, any job at this point out shines the very real prospect of being totally broke and subsequently homeless.