It's Never Just A Washer & Dryer & A TV...
Where's That Damned Tube Of IcyHot???
I try to avoid moving people.
No, not people in motion, but people shifting their domiciles.
I wasn't always this way. I used to be helpful. Of course, once upon a time, I was slimmer, more energetic and usually available nights and weekends. And I worked for beer. Cheap beer, in 12 pack quantities. Eventually, I raised my rate to a fifth of good bourbon.
I've quite lost count of the times I've moved friends, family and acquaintances from one home to another. Some were spur-of-the-moment relocations. Some were intricately planned cross-country events. I moved some friends from Dallas to Denver, then rented a car and drove back in one hop.
I've helped to move people out in the middle of the night, the day before rent was due. I've moved a woman out of her apartment in the midday July heat, hoping like hell her abusive boyfriend didn't decide to come home for a meal and a beat-down before we got her out of there.
Most times, the person asking for help could float gas money, or a 12 pack, or a good meal. Sometimes all they could afford was a heartfelt "thank you", and I was quite OK with that. Karma's always churning away in the background, so willing help given out equals an equal return at some point in time.
At some point, though, I just lost my enthusiasm for wrestling sectional couches up three flights of stairs. I envy people with large hardback book collections, until I'm moving box #34 of 85. My knees aren't up to it anymore, and my back and ankles aren't much better.
It pained me greatly to recently have to tell my one of my oldest friends that while he was welcome to my truck to move into an apartment, I was a Teamster only. I'd drive, but he'd need to look up someone from the Longshoremen's Local to do any loading and unloading. As fate would have it, the weekend he moved was the weekend my truck was in the shop. Karmic Kalamity dodged!
I got slapped by the MoveMonster on Sunday, though. My uncle called Friday night, and wanted to know if he could use me & my truck to move (and I quote) "A Washer & A Dryer & A Big-Screen TV".
Sigh. I'm not able to say no. I've got to help. This is family, Mom's brother, who's been catching every available snippet of Bad Luck in the Bay Area for the last 25 years.
So, here's the rundown. Kid #2 (his son, my cousin) has appeared on this blog before. He's the ex-con who's been in and out of the joint on a rotating basis since he was still in high school.
He married some round-heeled tramp, and in November they hatched out a kid to add to their collection. They got a duplex, a job apiece, and all seemed well until fairly recently. He got back on the pipe, then she started doing coke too, and things came apart rapidly.
My cousin got a "Rehab or Jail" deal from his parole officer, so he's off to Shaky Acres to clean up. His coke-whore wife decided she was bored with it all, dumped the three year old and the 5 month old off on my aunt and uncle (in their mid-to-late 60's, mind you) and disappeared into the underbrush. No one's quite sure where she is, but she's rumored to be in rehab as well.
So, I get called in to pull some items out of the duplex before they get seized in lieu of unpaid rent.
"El Capitan, it's just A Washer & A Dryer & A Big-Screen TV... We'll be out of there in an hour."
Heh. As if.
The packing that was supposedly done by coke-whore cousin-in-law hadn't been done. She'd snuck back for a few meals, and left the unwashed dishes piled in the sink. Stuff was scattered all through the duplex, and though we managed to get everything packed in my truck and my Uncle's Tahoe after 3 hours or so, there wasn't room to wiggle a finger inside either vehicle.
We then drove from far NW Houston 50 miles down to League City in order to dump it all in the storage room coke-whore cousin-in-law had rented.
Turns out she took the money my aunt had fronted her to rent a 12X15 space, rented a 4x5 closet, filled it full of her crap, and kept the rest of the cash for herself.
My uncle & I, naturally, don't find this out until we've got the truck mostly unloaded, and there's only room inside the storage unit for maybe two chairs and a rolled-up rug. I've never struck a woman before, but I'd have been hard-pressed not to have pistol-whipped that bint if she'd shown up Sunday.
So, back everything goes on the truck, and we go unload it into my uncle's living room.
Add a 7 a.m. curtain call this morning for back-to-back 2 hour training sessions, and I'm one whipped mule. New and exquisite forms of pain are radiating from my lower extremities, and my back feels like its 10 degrees off of plumb.
Methinks tonight has a big glass of rum awaiting me, followed by a hot water foot soak, then a bit more rum. Damned shame I have to work tomorrow.
So, need help moving? Call Mayflower. I'm retired.
I try to avoid moving people.
No, not people in motion, but people shifting their domiciles.
I wasn't always this way. I used to be helpful. Of course, once upon a time, I was slimmer, more energetic and usually available nights and weekends. And I worked for beer. Cheap beer, in 12 pack quantities. Eventually, I raised my rate to a fifth of good bourbon.
I've quite lost count of the times I've moved friends, family and acquaintances from one home to another. Some were spur-of-the-moment relocations. Some were intricately planned cross-country events. I moved some friends from Dallas to Denver, then rented a car and drove back in one hop.
I've helped to move people out in the middle of the night, the day before rent was due. I've moved a woman out of her apartment in the midday July heat, hoping like hell her abusive boyfriend didn't decide to come home for a meal and a beat-down before we got her out of there.
Most times, the person asking for help could float gas money, or a 12 pack, or a good meal. Sometimes all they could afford was a heartfelt "thank you", and I was quite OK with that. Karma's always churning away in the background, so willing help given out equals an equal return at some point in time.
At some point, though, I just lost my enthusiasm for wrestling sectional couches up three flights of stairs. I envy people with large hardback book collections, until I'm moving box #34 of 85. My knees aren't up to it anymore, and my back and ankles aren't much better.
It pained me greatly to recently have to tell my one of my oldest friends that while he was welcome to my truck to move into an apartment, I was a Teamster only. I'd drive, but he'd need to look up someone from the Longshoremen's Local to do any loading and unloading. As fate would have it, the weekend he moved was the weekend my truck was in the shop. Karmic Kalamity dodged!
I got slapped by the MoveMonster on Sunday, though. My uncle called Friday night, and wanted to know if he could use me & my truck to move (and I quote) "A Washer & A Dryer & A Big-Screen TV".
Sigh. I'm not able to say no. I've got to help. This is family, Mom's brother, who's been catching every available snippet of Bad Luck in the Bay Area for the last 25 years.
So, here's the rundown. Kid #2 (his son, my cousin) has appeared on this blog before. He's the ex-con who's been in and out of the joint on a rotating basis since he was still in high school.
He married some round-heeled tramp, and in November they hatched out a kid to add to their collection. They got a duplex, a job apiece, and all seemed well until fairly recently. He got back on the pipe, then she started doing coke too, and things came apart rapidly.
My cousin got a "Rehab or Jail" deal from his parole officer, so he's off to Shaky Acres to clean up. His coke-whore wife decided she was bored with it all, dumped the three year old and the 5 month old off on my aunt and uncle (in their mid-to-late 60's, mind you) and disappeared into the underbrush. No one's quite sure where she is, but she's rumored to be in rehab as well.
So, I get called in to pull some items out of the duplex before they get seized in lieu of unpaid rent.
"El Capitan, it's just A Washer & A Dryer & A Big-Screen TV... We'll be out of there in an hour."
Heh. As if.
The packing that was supposedly done by coke-whore cousin-in-law hadn't been done. She'd snuck back for a few meals, and left the unwashed dishes piled in the sink. Stuff was scattered all through the duplex, and though we managed to get everything packed in my truck and my Uncle's Tahoe after 3 hours or so, there wasn't room to wiggle a finger inside either vehicle.
We then drove from far NW Houston 50 miles down to League City in order to dump it all in the storage room coke-whore cousin-in-law had rented.
Turns out she took the money my aunt had fronted her to rent a 12X15 space, rented a 4x5 closet, filled it full of her crap, and kept the rest of the cash for herself.
My uncle & I, naturally, don't find this out until we've got the truck mostly unloaded, and there's only room inside the storage unit for maybe two chairs and a rolled-up rug. I've never struck a woman before, but I'd have been hard-pressed not to have pistol-whipped that bint if she'd shown up Sunday.
So, back everything goes on the truck, and we go unload it into my uncle's living room.
Add a 7 a.m. curtain call this morning for back-to-back 2 hour training sessions, and I'm one whipped mule. New and exquisite forms of pain are radiating from my lower extremities, and my back feels like its 10 degrees off of plumb.
Methinks tonight has a big glass of rum awaiting me, followed by a hot water foot soak, then a bit more rum. Damned shame I have to work tomorrow.
So, need help moving? Call Mayflower. I'm retired.
posted by El Capitan | 3:05 PM
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