One Sunday in June of 1996, we bought Chinese for lunch, and as I entered the kitchen with the bags, Farrah walked across the living room towards Sissy’s old bedroom. Her voice entered the kitchen. “You’re lucky you can afford to live in this place without a roommate.”

I pulled the cartons of food from the bag, setting them on the table. “More than you know, getting the Super Speedy Delivery gig after Sissy moved out was a stroke of luck.” I stopped a moment. “Although, I’m not sure if luck is the right word, locked into hell tighter with higher pay might be more appropriate.”

Placing an empty eggroll container in the trash and shifting a quick look into the living room revealed her gazing into the half-empty spare room. “What are you going to do with this room?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided whether I want another roommate or if I should make the room an office.”

She appeared in the door of the small kitchen, wearing a sly look. “You know my apartment sucks.”

“So does this one.”

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Farrah lounging on the sofa, reading a magazine, captured the eye like a painting forces study of the glazing and feathering to identify some flaw or truth, and studying her made the truths and flaws of myself overwhelming. “Farrah, I need to talk to you.”

She looked up from the magazine. “Did you cheat on me?”

“What? No.” I shook my head.

“Okay, we can talk.” She rested the magazine on her lap.

“Wait, so if I cheated on you, we wouldn’t talk.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you really want to know what we would be doing if you said you cheated?”

Raising my hands. “No.”

She leaned back, smiling. “It’s cool. I’m just playing, sort of. What’s up?”

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A great effort exerted steering from discussions with Syph concerning writing or literature. Despite the effort avoiding him, Syph still managed to place himself in the crosshairs of contempt, and this character flaw placed Syph on the wrong end of ridicule’s muzzle with Farrah pulling the trigger.

Being a waitress, bartender, and Baltimoron, made Farrah an expert bullshit detector with an unfiltered mouth. While I enjoyed this quality, other people did not find it entertaining, especially Syph, who learned to despise her, and her ball-crushing honesty.

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Being blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and well-formed highlighted her motion as she rushed behind the bar, serving drinks almost as fast as she received the orders. At four-foot-eleven, the bar rose around her like a giant demanding tribute, but she continuously thwarted the monster expertly pouring and sliding drinks into the patron gullet. Her barmaid repertoire forced a stare, and on return with my order, telling her to keep the change invoked her fake smile. “Thanks.” She returned to mixing and pouring as I delivered drinks to a table of thirsty coworkers.

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One Saturday afternoon, Sherēm happened to pull into the yard just after I clocked-out and headed to the Jeep. Turning around and meeting him where he backed his truck into a space, I gave him an eye to safely guide his truck between trailers. As he exited the rig, I pointed to his car across the parking lot. “I’m hungry. You drive, I’ll buy.”

“Sounds good.” He jumped off the rig.

We went to a local sub shop not far from work, and after the waitress took our order, Sherēm took a drink of soda. “Man, this year has been crazy. Have you seen the rates they’re paying for hauling that tech?”

“I know; we’re receiving tractor-trailer loads of telecommunications equipment and new computers daily. Everyone is upgrading: government and companies. The money is great. We’re seeing more tech than household goods in the warehouse at this point.”

“I know, man. To be honest, it makes me worry a little. The business is changing so rapidly, and there is a lot of competition. With the internet booming, we’re losing a lot of good people, and no one is replacing them, at least no one good.”

The waitress brought our lunch as I pointed my thumb in the direction of Atlas. “I know. Theo, Edo, and some other good movers left for IT jobs after getting Microsoft Certification. We’re having issues covering the work in the warehouse, and Sadim keeps hiring crackheads.”

Sherēm looked out the window. “Yeah, when this bubble bursts, there’s going to be problems. Prices are already getting pushed down on non-tech work. The internet is creating a lot of price competition.”

“Hopefully, the work will keep up for a while. Seems hopeful with all the new dotcoms.”

While eating, Sherēm shifted subjects. “By the way, Lil told me you picked up some girl at happy hour a week or two ago. What’s up with her?”

I shook my head in frustration. “Oh, that would be Carin Suss. That bitch is crazy.”

He laughed, “What the hell happened?”

“Sherēm, I should’ve just walked away from her at happy hour when her group of friends mingled their way into our group. From the moment I met her, she rolled her eyes at everything and talked about everyone like they were pieces of shit.”

“Why did you keep talking to her?”

“Because she’s fucking hot. Why else?”

He laughed as I shook my head. “On our first date, all Carin talked about was herself. She droned on and on.” I raised the pitch of my voice, mimicking Carin, “I couldn’t believe my boss said that to me. Can you imagine? I’m a hard worker and a selfless person who tries to help everyone. Oh, by the way, can you get that lazy waitress? I’ve been waiting an eternity for some butter for these shrimps. Then my boss told me to work on my attitude because people don’t like it when I speak to them in a demeaning manner. Unbelievable! Me, demeaning my coworkers? Well, I wasn’t. I’m nice to everyone at work- Excuse me! I’ve been waiting forever for the butter I asked you to get for my shrimp. I don’t understand what is taking so long. Your job isn’t complicated.”

Sherēm shook his head, laughing at my impression of Carin. “Man, she sounds awful.”

“Tell me about it. I kept imagining Reins and the kitchen staff taking turns spitting into Carin’s butter.”

Sherēm pointed his fork at me. “Yeah, Reins is pretty tough, I could see her getting mad.”

“I know. Carin is no Reins. You think by now I’d know to walk away from girls like Carin. I need to institute a new rule: fuck girls like Carin once and never call them again.”

“You know, man, maybe you just miss Reins. She was cool, and I thought you two were a good fit.”

I leaned back in my seat, throwing my napkin on my plate. “I don’t know. We did, and we didn’t. Everything about her was great, but the timing was all wrong. She just started law school, and I am here trying to write or be a mover. There are no guarantees, and if I followed her to Boston, I’d be taking a huge risk.”

“Considering everything you could lose, ending up with a smart, beautiful, successful attorney seems just too great a risk.”

“Fuck you, man.” I threw some money on the table. “Well, guess I better get ready for tonight.”

“What do you have planned?”

“Carin. What else?”

Sherēm laughed, “You never learn.”

Despite side-work, money issues continued plaguing me with the need to work overtime, making the job feel endless. Working in the warehouse also lacked career advancement unless willing to become a boss, but the small size of Atlas limited opportunities and pay. The desire to get back on track with writing goals grew in a financial struggle, which always felt like a dilemma of choosing one path over another. Lacking any desire to make a career of moving and storage began a quest for alternative business opportunities and ways to make money that led to a brief period of tutoring college students.

While helping a driver load his truck one morning, a discussion of kids and their cost led to talk of his daughter’s education. Tim, a veteran driver for the company, made decent money but struggled like everyone with the cost of paying for a kid’s education. “Yeah, my daughter has it rough with school right now. She is taking this writing course and failing. If she fails, I got to pay for her to retake the class.”

I stacked some pads. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. Her teacher is some kind of a hard-ass.”

“What kind of writing class is she taking?”

Tim looked up thoughtfully while pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m pretty sure it’s a creative writing course, but don’t ask me how that pertains to a degree in nursing.”

“Tim, I can help her with that class. Sometimes students just need a little extra tutoring.”

Explaining to Tim my aspiration to be a writer surprised him, and his eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll pass her number to you so you can work with her directly.”

A hot, young college student in her freshman year, Marie struggled with an introductory writing course but began passing with a little help. Marie came to the apartment about twice a week for eight weeks, and she sent some signals, but I didn’t answer them, even when dating Carin ended. Working with her dad barred sex with Marie, but more so, an increasing ambivalence towards life killed the desire to have sex with her or anyone.

Along with a lack of dating interest, tutoring hourly proved unprofitable, and after six months, I abandoned dating and the business. The struggle to make more money and write led to finding a roommate. Renting the empty second bedroom would significantly reduce living expenses and add no more time to my work schedule. Lack of foresight and perhaps even a little depression overrode a lack of desire for a roommate and led to some bad decision making when Sissy learned of my room for rent.

When he asked if he could rent the room, all thoughts of him being an annoying ex-crackhead disappeared in foolishness to believe him a good roommate in his claims to be a sober, responsible, career-minded person. Three years of him being a creationist ass and recovery freak somehow disappeared in his pursuit of a Class-A CDL. Fallaciously equating Sissy earning a CDL and more money with him becoming a better person proved a terrible mistake with no one to blame except me since plenty of irresponsible, asshole drivers worked at Atlas.

The living arrangement’s failure clarified the first Saturday evening after he moved in when I arrived home and found Sissy on the couch scribbling in a notebook. “What’s up, Sissy?”

He stopped writing and set his pen down while sighing and looking upward. “Vince, I would appreciate you calling me by my pen name. My nom de plume is Syph Sios. You do understand what a nom de plume is, correct?”

“Yeah, I figured it out when you said pen name. So, you’re a writer. I never knew that; I don’t remember you mentioning it on the truck. What do you write?”

“Yes, I never discuss my writing with those morons at work. I am a nonfiction writer. I’m writing about my experience in the Ozark Mountains during a family vacation. While walking in the woods, I became lost briefly, but the real terror began when a werewolf chased me. I managed to run back to the cabins where my family stayed, and the wolf stopped following me, seeing other people outside the cabins.”

“Well, Syph, that’s interesting, but I’m going to take a nap.”

Syph continued scribbling in his notebooks as I entered my room, feeling the familiar, grating frustration he once produced on the truck. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the failure of having once again misjudged a person became apparent in Syph’s narcissism and lunacy now haunting the living room. Am I really this stupid? I should know by now I can't make good decisions concerning people. Falling sideways on the bed, anger for Syph’s crazy story mixed with a feeling of being duped. That asshole better pay rent on time.

The weeks wore on with Syph obtaining a Class-A license, and Atlas hired him to drive, allowing the timely payment of rent. Life in the apartment proceeded okay with the concerted effort to stay out of Syph’s business and avoid discussions about writing, not wanting to punch him in the face. Prior aggravating conversations dictated avoidance. “Vince, I don’t think you understand the poem. You do know how to read poetry?”

“I’m pretty sure I learned how to read poetry in elementary school. Look, I said it was nice and took a lot of imagination. What are you looking for?”

“I just don’t believe you are feeling the gravity of the poem. You see, my poetry is an abstract style that is multilayered in meaning. Here let me read it to you.”

“Please don’t.”

Ignoring the plea, Syph launched into a recital,

The car is fast
The car won’t last
The car is motion
The car is emotion
The car is not what we see
The car is me.

“That’s great, man.”

“What was great about it?” Syph pressed.

A moment of silent frustration ended in anger. “Look, if you want a critique of your poetry, then here it is –– that shit sucks. It’s not funny, sad, angry, or anything. All your poetry is about you comparing yourself with an object. That’s not how poetry works. Poetry should interest you and other people or at least jar an emotion. I may not know exactly what makes good poetry, but your poems are not it.”

Syph turned red. “You lack an understanding of the complexity of poetry and prose. I write for me.”

I walked away. “Well, if that were true, then you wouldn’t be trying so hard to publish that shit.”

The most important rule of moving and storage dictated not hurting people. The dangerous nature of moving and storage often made injuries catastrophic, and after only three years, I witnessed two compound fractures, lost fingers, and countless twisted ankles and cuts requiring stitches. Guys working as subcontractors had no health insurance, and workman’s compensation did not provide enough to live on, which made injuries both financially and physically disastrous.

Sadim hired a newbie who claimed to know how to drive a forklift, and arguing with Sadim over the decision to work this man proved futile. Sadim ignored the obvious addict symptoms of fast-talking and rushing through tasks exhibited by the crackhead who raced around the warehouse on a forklift at top speeds.

The first two days, the newbie got the job done, but on the third day, he ran over Raimo’s foot when rounding a corner too fast to stop the four-thousand-pound forklift. Running from the other end of the warehouse to the scream’s origin, I found Diek and Sadim trying to help Raimo. The weight of the machine split the canvas of his sneaker from the sole, flowing blood from the sides of the shoe, pooling on the floor. Raimo howled in an incoherent agony. “The Gods teach in painful play. Queen of Shade returns this way. In my heart, I have truth known. Shade holds sins that men have grown. Love is the Lord’s redemption. Knows no end or exemption.”

Diek and I lifted him from the concrete, each supporting one arm and one leg, trying to steady legs to avoid worsening the injury as he cried in pain, “You’ll hold leviathan weight. Reap the love and suffer fate. The pain leaves purest hearts torn. Joy lost in the Devil’s scorn. She laments causing sorrow. Sows she must, seeds of morrow.”

Sadim backed his van into the warehouse, meeting us at the large rollup door to place a delirious Raimo within. “Bury me near my Mother. It is the Mount of Father. When the host of many takes. She leaves us with heart that breaks. Goes weeping on river’s wakes. Just chaff in the wind that blows. Chaff rolling in wind that blows. In the silent wind that blows. Wind swirling in constant flows. That in time’s true endless flows. Blows, blows, and forever flows.”

Closing the van’s doors on Raimo’s incoherent speech, Diek turned to the newbie. “Get your shit and get the fuck out.”

Diek’s composed and fair disposition gave way in the newbie breaking a cardinal rule, but chasing off one crackhead accomplished nothing. Sadim continued hiring crackheads as the pool of skilled workers continued diminishing. Raimo lost two toes, and seeing him limp from that day forward invoked disgust.

Acceptance of fate or circumstance didn’t prohibit anger, and Raimo’s indifference or lack of faculty to become enraged bothered me deeply when watching him work and perform tasks without complaint on his bum foot. Efforts to find better workers and arguing with Sadim to stop hiring crackheads failed, and accidents and injuries continued.

The end of 1995 brought an aloneness and lostness without cause and began churning worries of depression, or that insanity might be creeping back into life. The growing negativity darkened life in a play of monotonous nonexistence as if becoming a ghost haunting home and job. Stuck in the background of life’s mediocrity, days passed in a repetition of tasks and nights spent drinking beer or vodka while staring at a blank sheet of paper.

Abandoning the pen for booze followed with a TV purchase, hoping television might break the tediousness of life. Pursuing media and alcohol soon led to blank stares at the television that failed to entertain.

On Thanksgiving, Syph left town, allowing dinner without worry of a terrible prose or poetry recital. The TV played in the background while eating Chinese takeout and questioning life’s goals. Syph’s argument positing I lacked understanding of the writing craft weighted thoughts, and with no great adventure or wisdom to share, what purpose did authorship hold? Tired of the financial struggle and lack of creativity, shelving authorship seemed practical, at least for a time. Concentrating on a moving and storage career made sense since the job appeared to be the only success in life.

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The first six months of 1995 passed in a montage of one-night stands between moments with Reins. Meeting most girls by accident, the way I met Patea, confounded endlessly with a strange lack of effort as though not giving a shit somehow enticed women. For nothing about me changed beyond this resolution except new clothes and a Jeep. Still, fucking lots of women provided no safeguard against the fantasy of relationships.

Reins finished college in the spring and needed to return home at the end of May after acceptance to law school in Boston. She stayed at my apartment her last week, and taking time from work, we went to different events around town, but mostly, the days passed in a togetherness made strange by her pending departure. Boxes piled beside her in the living room as we worked to ship belongings in those final days. She knelt, topping off a carton with books. “Can you tape this up for me? That’s the last one we need to take to the post office.”

Kneeling beside her, I taped the box shut. “Are you excited to go home?”

“I guess, but Baltimore has been fun.”

“Well, at least you’ll be back with your people who understand that shitty accent.”

“Fuck you.” She punched my arm and threw her body against me in her playful, tough way. “Dammit, woman, you play like you’re facing off for a hockey puck.”

“Wussie.” She pushed into my arms and kissing her rose a sadness in her voice. “You know I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

“You know, Boston isn’t far away.”

A kiss to her neck flashed a narrative of dating from afar with flights to Boston and her returning to Baltimore whenever spare time arose. The dream faded in awareness of the commitment and complete dishonesty of the relationship, but for a moment, honesty almost took control. “I want that, but I don’t want to distract you. You’re just starting law school.”

She hugged me. “Isn’t that my choice? Everyone keeps telling me how much time law school takes and how difficult it will be. I feel like I’m sacrificing everything for this career.”

Cradling her head, the scent of her hair challenged the lies. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s why I can’t be there. You’re not sacrificing your whole life; you’re starting it. In some ways, I am in the same place. I’m not sure either of us knows where we’ll be tomorrow. You know I’d do anything to be with you, and it’s killing me saying this stuff.”

She leaned harder against me. “Are you bullshitting you or me?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully neither.”

Her hand lightly punched my back. “Dumbass.”

At the end of the week, I took Reins to the airport, and kissing caused her to cry, twisting my guts. She boarded the plane and a long time passed, watching the plane taxi to the runway, take off, and disappear in the clouds. I never saw Reins again.

In the summer of 1995, Taco left the company after joining the military, and following his departure, several competent veteran drivers and helpers departed Atlas to work in different industries. Earmarked for a warehouse position, I received the bosses’ offer for Taco’s job.

The job guaranteed about fifty hours a week and health benefits but required changing from subcontractor to hourly employee. Paying more taxes and not working on the hundred-weight meant considerably less take-home pay and the need to sacrifice some dating and expensive clothing. Still, job security and benefits held appeal despite the compromise to lifestyle.

A call to Sherēm revealed his support despite feeling disappointed. “I hate losing you, but I like to think I led you to a better position. Working for Atlas can be a pain in the ass. You’ll lose the freedom you have on the trucks. Hopefully, I led you to the promised land and not to hell.”

Hanging up the phone at the end of the conversation left an uneasy feeling of the large change that promised benefit but required sacrifice. Working with Sherēm held enjoyment and educated: two things no job prior allowed simultaneously. Companies made many hollow promises, but after two and a half years, pay increases could only occur by becoming a driver or an employee. Taking the position felt like a huge loss, and after Reins, feelings of being unfocused on personal goals returned. Leaving the trucks to become an employee marked the end of an era but perhaps a new beginning.

The first day as an employee started with the warehouse manager and Diek giving a tour of the facility and overview of the warehouse responsibilities, but most importantly, they taught the value of side-work. Any job performed off the books but used company resources such as trucks and equipment constituted side-work. If the company did not take its cut, movers could offer significantly reduced labor rates to customers. This practice was probably as old as the moving business.

Warehousing side-work took many different forms, such as recycling, which entailed loading a semi with as much plastic or metal as possible and delivering the load to the recycling center to get paid. At the end of the first day, Diek approached and offered a wad of cash. “Hey man, here is your split for the furniture we sold today.” Earlier in the day, a visitor picked up some furniture which didn’t seem unusual until learning Diek sold her a storage account scheduled for disposal. This surprise brought some relief to the worry of the warehouse position’s loss of pay.

Becoming a warehouseman also meant learning many valuable skills such as driving forklifts, organizing racks, and driving trucks. The warehouse manager, Sadim, oversaw education, and under his tutelage, an extreme dislike for him arose. Sadim modeled the bosses, but efforts to stand on the superior rung of the company ladder failed since the warehouse manager title afforded only slight respect from office workers and bosses who viewed the position as subservient. They thought the same of Diek and me, but we didn't care, whereas Sadim did, and his aspiration produced a gruff, insulting, greedy, and petty disposition. “Now look, dummy. You need to learn to drive a tractor-trailer. Go to the dispatch and get the keys to truck number thirty-five.”

Doing as commanded, then following him through the yard, Sadim stopped in front of an old flat-nose truck and pointed to the rig. “Now get up in the truck and start driving it around the yard. Once you feel comfortable bobtailing, I’ll show you how to hook up the trailer.”

Unbelievably, Sadim scurried back to the warehouse, leaving me to learn to drive a semi on my own. Climbing and sitting in the monstrous machine, the dashboard stared back, offering no hint to the truck’s operation. She was old, strong, and reliable, holding close the secrets of her operation, but I eventually learned and discovered her history.

Born in Detroit, before the fall of Motor City, she rolled off the line in the late sixties or early seventies. She possessed a thunderous Detroit Diesel engine easily recognized by ear alone after hearing.

She shook like a jackhammer when idling, and when given gas, the engine howled like a wild beast ready to lunge. Using her clutch felt like riding a bronco out of a rodeo stall and letting off too fast with too much fuel made her leap from the parking space, bucking wildly around the yard.

She was a chariot for a titan. With no power steering, driving required sheer strength, but treating her without respect made her fight like a tiger fights a fool trying to ride her. But if handled with care, she plowed through all weather conditions, climbed any hill, and protected any load required of her.

Although still a force of nature, the bosses retired her to the yard to jockey trailers and teach people how to drive, having passed her prime for running the road. She came from an era and place where trucks lived forever, and although old and no longer capable of serving the needs of men, her heart, that Detroit Diesel roared and shook, longing for the road beneath her.

After truck thirty-five, driving other trucks seemed simple, but that first day, thirty-five made me earn her secrets. Clueless about her operation, the turn of the key started nothing but the dashboard lights, causing my forehead to rest on the wheel, knowing the day would be long.

Fifteen years working in the warehouse turned Sadim into a lazy piece of shit, and too much comfort in the manager position made him think dumping work on Diek and me acceptable. Along with dumping tasks on us, Sadim made us work every Saturday, and though used to working weekends, the expectation to work six days a week without some downtime felt like punishment, so I confronted Sadim, “Why do you make Diek and me work every Saturday when it only takes one person to run the Saturday crew? We both don’t need to be here.”

Sadim stared as if I went insane. “Vinnie, you ain’t a manager. You don’t have the authority to run a crew by yourself.”

This bullshit excuse hid his desire to ensure the completion of work while he took days off, and exhaustion and burnout began after only four months working in the warehouse. The need to solve the problem or quit motivated a request for a meeting with the owner, Diek, and Sadim to present a solution.

Unaware of my fluency in the language of bosses, Sadim stared in shock while I presented ideas as either good for the company or good for the boss. “I realize Saturdays are necessary workdays, but we can save money if Diek, Sadim, and I take turns managing the Saturday shift instead of both Diek and I working. As hourly employees, the company pays us overtime. That is two people earning overtime rather than one. If we need an extra worker, adding another subcontractor is still cheaper since you don’t pay them overtime.

“I feel confident in my ability to lead a Saturday crew. In the past four months, I learned to drive trucks, forklifts, and handle inbound and outbound freight.”

The owner appeared interested, but Sadim, not wishing to work any weekends, leaned forward. “But Vinnie isn’t a manager. He can’t be running the crews without being a manager.”

Sadim’s counterpoint accidentally argued me into a warehouse supervisor position and a small raise. With the work schedule reduced to about two Saturdays per month, the meeting adjourned with Diek patting me on the back. “Man, working in the warehouse is going to be great now.”

By December of 1995, working in the warehouse smoothed into a regular pace that still required working more hours than on the trucks and making less money, but at least most weekends and nights belonged to me.

Shortly after I started the warehouse position, Sissy informed Sherēm of his intention to obtain a Class A CDL to become a driver. Soon after Sissy’s announcement, Stan also left, which forced Sherēm to undertake the costly and time-consuming process of training a new crew. Sherēm and I shared an equal frustration and disappointment because Stan began working in the warehouse.

Prior to being scheduled in the warehouse, Stan began talking to Sadim and Diek, trying to worm his way into the warehouse, but thinking Stan would lose interest kept me uninvolved. This assumption’s error became apparent when Diek asked if Stan was a reliable worker, and knowing Stan to be one crack pipe away from complete unreliability, I tried to dissuade Diek. “Man, I don’t know about Stan. When he works, he’s good, but he still has trouble with drugs. He started calling in sick weekly the last six months we worked together on the trucks. Honestly, I can’t vouch for him.”

Diek nodded. “I’ll let Sadim know because he is thinking of using him as a subcontractor in the warehouse. I thought working him might be a bad idea, but I wanted to check. Thanks.”

Like most businesses, supervisors scheduled labor based on the number of people needed to complete the job, not what’s ideal. If the tasks required eight people, eight people appeared on the schedule, causing a problem when someone didn't show. On the trucks, we often muddled our way through Stan’s absence and hangovers, but in the warehouse, absent workers added hours to the workday. Believing the problem solved proved untrue when Sadim scheduled Stan for work, which prompted another discussion with Diek. “Diek, why did Sadim hire him? He’s going to break something or steal.”

“I know it seems like a dumb move, but in all fairness, we are constantly shorthanded. Sadim is just trying to cover the work.”

“I get it, Diek.”

Understanding the labor issue didn’t discourage a pointed discussion with Stan the morning of his first day. “Stan, I want to talk to you about the warehouse.”

“Wassup, man?” He smoked outside the warehouse, waiting to clock in.

I pointed to the warehouse. “This job isn’t like working on the truck. We don’t have downtime in the morning and afternoon driving to and from jobs. Warehouse work makes the day seem long. I also can’t play favorites with you because there are sometimes fifteen guys working here. If you start making a lot of mistakes or start calling in, we’re going to stop working you.”

Stan babbled like a crackhead, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t sweat it, man. I can do anything in here.”

Of course, Stan turned out to be one of the worst warehousemen making many careless mistakes and arriving late most days, but being shorthanded, we tolerated his BS. Stan remained fixed on my radar because of his potential to be a thief, and knowing this risk, he buddied with Sadim like a punk seeking protection in jail. Luckily for Stan, Sadim kept him safe from me: the hair-trigger packing the unemployment bullet.

Three years of working with Stan and other crackheads proved tiresome, and his lying evolved from simple story exaggeration to constant reporting of insignificant problems. Intended to reflect a concerned worker, these reports of minor wrongdoings formed smokescreens, shifting attention from him. Thieves used this tactic to camouflage thievery, and drug addicts use the strategy to hide using dope on the job.

Stan and Sadim plotted thick as thieves as they constantly held private conversations, which worried both Diek and me since major issues could easily blowback on us. Drug addicts and other thieves stole with amazing ingenuity, and three years of witnessing them hide electronics in dumpsters or place expensive goods against the door inside trailers to steal after work proved these people a danger. Often their inventiveness led to false accusations, which ended with the wrong people terminated as bosses opted for the scorch the earth method when unable to assign blame.

Not knowing the exact nature of Stan and Sadim's relationship led to frequent spying that wasted a lot of time. Sadim ascending to the warehouse manager position by thieving seemed unlikely, making drug and alcohol use the likeliest motive for secrecy. Their secret meetings often convened behind the warehouse racks, causing Diek or me to observe them for fear of losing our jobs due to their actions.

The first time witnessing their clandestine meetings, Raimo appeared beside me, mumbling while making rounds sweeping the floor. “Everyone endures the fate they make. Suffers the yoke of sinful mistake. The lies they tell will happiness take. Fate demands their soul’s eternal stake. Of those who steal, misery will take. Their endless sorrow will burn and wake. Sin will bite its master like a snake.”

Turning to Raimo, I shook my head. “I really hope not, Raimo.”

Move Chapters

The magic of new clothing and style took effect a few weeks before Christmas of 1994 while searching White Marsh Mall for a gift to buy Reins. Careful shopping for something nice but didn’t scream, “relationship” led to many store visits before a window of Star Wars toys caught the eye and caused me to enter. The Big Cartoon Store sold cartoon and movie collectibles, which held no hope of a gift for Reins but jarred my interest, especially when a young, bubbly girl bounced into my vicinity. 

“Can I help you?” asked Patea. 

“I’m just looking.” 

“Well, what are you looking for? Something for your kid or maybe a collectible for your girlfriend?” 

Shifting attention up from the toys brought the girl with smoldering eyes into view. A low-cut shirt struggled to contain her breasts while a skirt fought to cover her ass during a jab of questions that inspired the request of her phone number. Patea wrote a phone number on a receipt, which I called the next day, and the following Saturday placed us at the Hard Rock Café in Baltimore having dinner. 

“Patea, is that your nickname?” I stared at her breasts. 

“No, it’s my real name. My mom and dad are really religious, and it means something like carrying fish with sticks.” 

“That’s interesting.” 

“Yeah, I like to think my name refers to all the people carrying the fish that Jesus made jump in the nets. Do you know the story?” 

“No, I don’t remember that one.” 

“Do you go to church?” She beamed curiously. 

“No, I stay as far away from church as possible. I didn’t have a good experience with Catholic schools as a kid.” 

“Really? Church can be fun. Maybe it’s because your Catholic. I’m a Christian, but originally, I was Presbyterian. You probably just haven’t found the right church.” 

“Perhaps not. How is your church?” 

“I love it. Our church is so much fun. We play music and have picnics. Pastor Mike sings and gets everyone in the spirit.” 

“That’s cool.” 

“Do you think you might want to go?” 

“To church?” 

“Yeah, silly.” She took a bite of her salad. 

“I don’t know; I work a lot, especially on weekends.” 

Patea quickly answered, “That’s okay. My church has services seven days a week at all hours.” 

“Wow. Doesn’t God rest?” 

 She laughed into her napkin. “Sure, on Sundays, but the rest of the week, he is working hard saving all of us. The least we can do is keep the door open.” 

Already a sellout to the demands of trend and style made thoughts of attending church feel like a going-out-business-sale for the soul. Before the divorce, the uneducated, mindless, privileged, and self-righteous people like Patea inspired hatred. Now, sitting across from the symbol of all wrongness in the world forced self-incrimination. What’s next? Listening to dance music? Buying a television and watching the Real World? Staring at Patea, I cursed myself for even considering church. 

The church attendance strategy began with a lie to Patea about needing to work on Sunday, thus avoiding the waste of a day off and making the need to work the next day a good excuse to leave quickly after a Tuesday evening service. A perfect strategy that promised sex after Patea witnessed my unwavering commitment to Jesus. Confidence grew in the plan when Patea told me the Tuesday church service preceded some weekly event. The assumption of a clam bake or dinner seemed less painful than a boring church service, but she refused my suggestion to skip the sermon. Picking Patea up at her apartment, the drive to church initiated immediate regret of attendance. 

She fastened her seatbelt as the Jeep pulled away from the curb. “You’re going to love church. I can tell. I can see the Spirit in you.” 

“What does that look like?” 

“It’s your aura.” 

Her words inspired distrust, and while parking in front of the church, I asked, “So, do we have to do anything during the service? Catholic church involves a lot of ritual standing and kneeling.”  

“No silly, it’s just a normal Tuesday night service.” 

“How long does the service last?” 

She beamed with excitement. “Sometimes everyone gets filled with the spirit for hours, especially on Tuesdays because baptisms follow the service.”  

Dammit! She tricked me. There’s no dinner after the service.  

Exiting the Jeep, she pulled me along. “You’re going to love this church.” For the next hour and a half, people waved their hands in the air while Pastor Mike sang and played guitar like Ace Frehley opening for Jesus at the Transfiguration. Forced to stand with Patea and wave hands in the air while she sang didn’t summon the spirit but bored traumatically with Christian rock music, likening to eating mouthfuls of sugarless candy. 

Praising the lord slowed as the collection plate passed, which seemed to indicate the end of service, but the error of this assumption clarified when Pastor Mike announced, “Now, is there anyone out there who would like to turn their will and life over to the care of Jesus Christ our Lord?” 

Patea rubbed my forearm sensually, causing a momentary false belief in the success of the church strategy until her sudden grip of wrist shoved my arm into the air as she bounced on her toes, waving her other hand. Unable to escape without making a scene, the clergy converged, ushering to display me on stage alongside some crackheads before the hundreds of true believers. 

Pastor Mike walked the line of crackheads and weirdos, stopping to hold hands and pray, which didn’t seem too bad, but being saved proved a much more involved process. The clergy ushered the neophytes into a room behind the stage containing a large hot tub, and one of the clergymen handed me a pair of swimming trunks. “You can change in the bathroom over there. Now, when you get baptized, you’re going to be born-again and filled with the spirit, so when you come out of that water, you’ll be speaking in tongues.” 

“What?” 

The clergyman looked slightly annoyed. “Tongues is the language of God. God is going to speak through you.” 

“Okay, where’s that bathroom?” 

Closing the bathroom door revealed a window too small to slip out, and with no escape, pushing through the situation as fast as possible seemed the best possible solution. Having come this far for sex with Patea, I resolved to finish the job. 

The return to the line of losers, wearing white sheet-like robes and swim trunks provided the time needed to study the people ahead. Taking turns entering the hot tub and listening to the pastor’s prayer, they leaned back, submerged, and sure enough, rose from the water speaking tongues. 

The lack of feeling the holy spirit recalled Langston Hughes, who lied to his church congregation, claiming he saw Jesus and afterward cried feeling guilty. Unlike Hughes, no tear would shed deceiving these people, and upon rising from the water, the language of idiots blared, “Blah, blah blah, bee, bee bee, blah!” 

Afterward, the clergyman gave me some pamphlets. “Vince, would you like to show your faith in the Lord by tithing ten percent of your income?” 

“I’ll have to think about that.” 

The disappointed clergyman walked away, and I found Patea, who felt such joy for my rebirth, she introduced fellow church friends to me. “This is Vince. He just got saved. He spoke the best tongues. Vince is a transportation engineer.” 

Patea knew I was a mover, but lacking a compelling reason to blow an opportunity to get laid, I ran with the story. Later, we left the Church and returned to her place and sat on the sofa drinking soda and talking, which soon led to making out. The passion intensified, but she placed a hand on my chest to stop our kissing and stared intensely. “I’m a virgin.” 

“You’re twenty-two and never had sex?” 

“No, silly. I’ve had sex, but I got saved. I’m a virgin again, and so are you.” 

“Oh, if we’re both virgins, then-” 

She interrupted, having heard this line before. “No, silly, we can’t have sex, but we can do other things.” 

The blowjob received, for certain, did more for my salvation than that dunk in the hot tub. 

Laughs and jokes about the date with Patea filled the ride in the truck, along with Sherēm shaking his head. “Man, no wonder you don’t like religion. You keep ending up in the wrong churches. That place sounds terrible.” 

“Tell me about it. Afterward, she was so embarrassed by my job, she called me a transportation engineer.” 

Stan cackled, “Man, maybe we should call you a Relocation Expert.” 

Sissy leaned into the cab. “What about Inanimate Object Motion Specialist?” 

Sherēm glanced my way. “No, no, I got it, Supreme Ultimate Master of Storage.” 

“El Hombre, the Mover of Furniture, Lover of Women!” yelled Stan, who devised this suggestion with Sissy in the stupidity of believing my name was Spanish rather than Italian. I pointed my folded hump strap upwards. “Man, people hate movers. I can’t believe the stigma attached to our job. I feel like when I say, ‘I'm a mover,’ people hear, ‘I’m a barehanded toilet cleaner.’” 

The guys laughed as Sherēm nodded. “Pretty much. The stigma has always been bad for working guys, but somehow, that career smirch is worse for us. Think about it; you can buy a calendar showing construction guys, police, and firemen working, but there are no calendars with guys humping furniture up three flights of stairs.” 

Pulling Sissy back into the sleeper berth, Stan leaned into the cab. “Yeah, I just don’t tell women what I do.” 

Sissy squeezed next to Stan. “Maybe we should just date women that work in the office or similar companies. They’d understand our jobs.” 

I shot him a frown. “Man, have you seen the women working in the office at the company? They’re whales beached on the office chair of life. Fuck that.” 

Sherēm shook his head in reluctant laughter. “Man, that’s terrible.” 

“Yeah, but you know it’s true.” 

Stan turned to me. “Yeah, man, that’s fucked up.” 

“I’ll tell you what’s fucked up, Stan. The quality of woman I fuck is proportionate to my job title, cost of clothing, and the car I drive.” 

Everyone laughed, but Patea never called me again for the likely reason that dating a mover didn’t appeal to her. Taking Stan’s advice spawned a new rule forbidding the mention of job titles and work, which felt like another brick stacked in materialism’s mausoleum entombing me. 

Not having an ear for music, the discernment for what qualifies as superior violin performance held no meaning beyond the inspiration and emotion known when Reins performed. Lounging on the living room floor as Reins sat on the sofa playing the violin, the instrument sang in a familiar way like a memory always present but difficult to access. She moved her body rhythmically with the instrument, and her accent disappeared as she sang in French to the lite jazz. Her voice flooded the room with the violin's play, cleansing the world of everything bad. Pushed into the realm Reins spoke from the vernacular of beauty, life’s worries drowned in a fluidic melody containing no syntax for negativity in any form. 

With the opening of eyes, music’s ethereal dimension departed, leaving my Southie muse with her violin held close, staring at the high hopper window. Her placid countenance revealed true love as Reins’ affair with her violin completed her in a way no person could, and clearly, she longed for those moments between the resurgences of life.  

“You still got it.” I watched her. 

Beaming, she placed the violin in its case. “Yeah, maybe I still do.” 

She fell to knees then smashed into me with her frame forcing me to grunt. “Dammit. How does someone so small manage to feel like a linebacker?” 

“Fahck you.” 

I kissed her. “You don’t mind coming to my company party tonight?” 

Reins stared at me inquisitively. “Nah, it should be fun, but people might think you have a girlfriend.” 

A deep kiss avoided the question of us.  

Theo stepped on the back of the trailer from the warehouse dock to help Heavy and me fold moving blankets. “So tomorrow we’re going to the gym. You need to get in shape.”  

“Dude, I’m not fat or out of shape. Why are we going to the gym?”  

“No, you ain’t out of shape, but you need to build up some muscle. Look, when you go to the steakhouse, you don’t order the steak filled with fat that tastes bad. No, you order the filet mignon, right? Being a little ripped, having some muscles in your arms or six-pack abs, is like being the filet mignon. You know bitches ain’t ordering the meatloaf. Check it out.” 

Theo pulled up his work shirt showing a flat stomach and six-pack abs. I nodded. “Damn. That must take a lot of working out.” 

He dropped his shirt. “Some, but it’s a lot about diet. If you get to the right weight, it makes it easier to get the abs. Let me tell you: chicks dig a flat stomach and muscles. If you get a bit ripped out, you’ll get all kinds of hoes throwing pussy at you.” 

Heavy, whose real name was Al Chisel nudged my arm. “Yeah, man, you should come to the gym and box with me. Girls like a guy that’s in shape and got some arms. I need a new sparring partner since Taco quit going to the gym.” 

Heavy was Taco’s uncle, and they worked on Heavy’s truck before the company hired Taco to work in the warehouse. Rather than eating his way into a name, Heavy’s name came from fellow boxers who claimed his heavy hands felt like being hit with cement gloves. Although quiet and reserved, Heavy was a sleeping tiger nobody poked. In his late thirties, he still boxed, and although he never competed professionally, I felt sure of his ability to be a contender under different circumstances. 

Whispers of Heavy being gay circulated, and despite working in an industry and culture defined by masculinity in overdrive, Heavy lived unapologetically using trained fists to enforce freedom to live life on his terms. Even the most homophobic of movers gave the man respect. Heavy also took care of the husband, the girl he got pregnant at eighteen, and his daughter by driving and humping furniture for twenty years. Holding a tremendous liking and respect for Heavy led to weekly boxing after that day. He was a good guy who helped many and taught much about fighting and life. 

Sissy stepped onto the truck carrying pads and motioned to Theo and me because cowardice made him too much of a punk to talk to Heavy this way, “You guys are fucking gay. I’ve never seen two guys worried about their appearance the way you guys are unless they’re sucking each other’s dicks. You sound like a couple of bitches getting ready for a date.” 

Theo laughed and freed his Baltimoron. “Man, I bet the ugliest girl I fucked drunk is hotter than the best-looking girl you ever bought. The best you’re going to get is some biker trash or whore hanging outside a bar. Look at you, man; you’re a slob.”  

“Fuck you. You’re just some punk kid. You don’t know shit.” 

Theo pointed at Sissy. “Look at you, man. You can’t dress, you’re out of shape, and what the fuck is up with those teeth? Oh, I’m sorry; you got summer teeth. Summer here and summer there. Fucking crackhead.” 

Heavy and I laughed as Sissy dropped the stack of pads. “Fuck you, man. You want to roll with me?” 

Theo kept folding pads casually. “Don’t be stupid, man. You got no game. You don’t want to get your ass beat and embarrass yourself.” 

Sissy glared at Theo and stormed off the truck as I shook my head. “Dude, so harsh.” 

Theo motioned his head in Sissy’s direction. “Man, that Essex piece of shit is a fucking punk. I hate phony, punk bitches like him. That crackhead thinks he's cool because he gets lucky every now and then or because he blows all his paycheck on whores. I don’t pay for ass, and I fuck fine bitches. That fool probably wakes up watching some fat cunt stretching her beefcake pantyhose or some toothless crack whore trying to brush her two teeth.” 

Everyone laughed, not knowing how close to the truth Theo spoke. 

The gym’s value became apparent on the first visit with Theo. Theo bench pressed with a fellow gym rat spotting and yelling, “Don’t cheat your body, donut!” Theo pushed the iron upwards with veins popping on the forehead as a gorgeous yoga instructor approached. Finished lifting, the group conversed in a lively and animated way with the yoga girl gripping each of their biceps, smiling as if to say, lookin’ good guys, and yes, I will fuck you. 

Theo finished bantering with the yoga girl and approached my workout station. “Looks like you’re in a routine now.”  

“Yeah, this is great, man,” I glanced to the yoga girl. “I can see why you come here.” 

“Dude, the gym is fucking awesome for meeting women, but it takes time and practice. Most guys come here thinking they’re going to pick up bitches, and they fail miserably.” 

“Why is that?” I set the dumbbell on the floor. 

“They don’t understand gym women. Fit hot chicks with rocking bodies are the most difficult to fuck. Think of all the dudes that yoga girl can choose to date. Average guys come here thinking they’re going to scoop a hot chick only to get shut down quick. Imagine a scale of zero to ten with aerobics or yoga instructors being tens and new desperate fat people at zero. You got to be pretty ripped up to get one of those tens; you know what I mean?” 

“For sure.” 

“You also gotta think about timing. Most people go to the gym to work out, not to be hit on. Most of these women need to get to work or have a schedule. If you’re going to get their attention, you need serious game and be in top shape.” 

Lifting the dumbbell to perform more curls, I started laughing, and Theo looked at me. “What’s so funny?” 

“I was just thinking about all that crap you hear growing up like beauty is only skin deep. Seems like a lot of BS now.” 

“Dude, that’s all bullshit. Look around. There ain’t no fat whores or man-pigs talking shit like, it’s better to be beautiful on the inside than on the outside. Motherfuckers in here build their relationships on sweat, strength, and endurance.” 

Gym attendance became a new rule as well as a central theme in life. 

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The Rēos fiasco necessitated a more proactive approach in the quest to date skillfully. Luckily, a new laborer named Theo Pardi came to work for Atlas, and his knowledge further enhanced dating prowess and strategy. 

The twenty-year-old Theo stood apart from the other guys wearing bright, blond hair, tongue piercing, and earrings. Overhearing girls in the office discussing his cuteness and workout-acquired physique surprised me as office employees never discussed workers in that way. Theo appeared to be just another guy, yet women flocked to him, and guys thought him cool despite his somewhat flat personality. The inability to solve this mystery stemmed from my lack of style. Theo’s hipness and attractiveness did not happen by accident but instead from wearing all the right garb. 

The need to acquire dating knowledge inspired conversations with Theo, which led to a partnership. Theo’s newness to the business provided the bargaining leverage of getting him employment on Sherēm’s truck, which posed no challenge since Stan called-in about once a week. Still underage, Theo also needed someone to buy him booze. In exchange for these valuable services, Theo provided the secrets of attracting hot women. A wise deal. 

The first exchange of booze for dating intelligence happened at White Marsh Mall, starting with a stop at Endlessly Eighteen. Upon entering the teenybopper store, I nudged Theo. “Dude, what on earth are we doing here?” 

“Oh, I’m just stopping in here to let my girlfriend know what time I’ll be over tonight.” 

His girlfriend strolled to the front of the store like a supermodel on the runway. Her hotness caused a slight salivation not thought possible, and when we left, I turned to him. “Dude, she is fine.”  

“Yeah, wait till you see the girl I’m banging at the gym.” 

His casual confidence inspired credibility, and walking through the mall, Theo continued speaking honestly, “So, if you want to pick up hot women, you need to fix some things.” He looked me up and down. “The first thing we need to do is get you some fucking better clothes. Dude, you look like shit. It’s a wonder you get hot women; you must have a horseshoe rammed up your ass. Hot women notice how men dress. Ugly and fat bitches don’t care how you dress because they’re just happy a dude is talking to them.” 

Sudden self-consciousness felt uncomfortable, but perhaps I needed his bluntness to break the wrongness or uselessness of my beliefs. In the past, fashion's shallowness inspired internal conflict and hatred for guys like Theo but now compelled listening since women formed a line waiting to fuck him.  

Armed with the start of a new wardrobe, we headed from the mall to the liquor store. Theo noticed me stopping to dig through bags for receipts on the walk to the Jeep. “You got everything?” 

“Yeah, man, clothes are expensive, and I can’t stand shopping even for myself.”  

We continued walking as Theo swung a shopping bag over his shoulder. “Dude, there’s nothing free in this world, especially not good-looking women. Don’t worry; you’ll feel better about shopping when you start fucking a bunch of new bitches.” 

“You’re right about that.” 

Arriving at the Jeep, Theo handed me a piece of paper. “So, here is what I need.” 

Case of Nasty Bo  

Bottle of Lightning Bird 

Bottle of the Royal Crowned Prince 

Shaking my head, I grunted a laugh. “Man, are you trying to get sclerosis of the liver? This booze is crap. This is not cool at all. Let me teach you something.” 

We drove to the liquor store, and I waved to for him to follow. “Come inside with me.” 

“Are you sure? I thought they won’t serve you if you were with someone underage?” 

“It’s cool, man. Just act normal. I come to this store all the time, so they know me.” 

We walked into the liquor store, stopping at the wine aisle, where I pointed to the booze on the shelf. “Notice how Lightning Bird is all the way at the bottom. That means that wine is bottom-shelf shit. Same goes for the beer. That’s for winos and bums. The wine is probably for your girl, assuming you don’t drink that crap.” I jerked my thumb upward. “What you want to buy is something closer to the top shelf. That way you'll impress the girl and not feel like shit the next day.” 

The liquor store owner’s son, Rod, joined the conversation. “Yeah, listen to what Vinnie is telling you. Girls come in here always asking for the top-shelf shit when their man is buying. I see it all the time. Motherfuckers who buy top-shelf fuck top-shelf bitches, and guys who drink bottom-shelf; well, they drink alone or with skanks.”  

Rod went to the front of the store to ring up a customer as I turned to Theo. “Good liquor also means a better drunk and less of a hangover. Volume isn’t everything.” 

“Damn.” Theo stared at the booze.  

“I know. There’s a lot of differences in booze and how they affect you. Here, take these bottles up to the counter and pay for them.” 

“He’ll card me.” 

“Maybe, but unlikely. You’ve been talking to him, so he’ll probably assume you’re twenty-one since you’re with me and since you’ve been standing in the store talking.” 

Theo stepped up to the counter, placing bottles on the counter, which started Rod working the register. “Good choice, man. Vinnie is right. Top shelf is the way to go. Bitches know good liquor better than we do, and if they don’t, you’ll seem like the man. Vinnie comes in here all the time with fine ass bitches. You’re gonna hit it hard tonight. That’ll be forty-five-sixty-four.” 

Leaving the store, I said to Theo, “Next time, I’ll show you how to make the perfect martini.” 

“Isn’t that something just in movies?” 

“No, my friend. Let me tell you about the three-martini lunch…” 

Dino would be proud as we entered the Jeep and drove away discussing the virtues of the martini. 

Wearing only a pair of my running shorts, Reins laid on the bed reading a magazine while I sorted new shirts trying to decide what to wear to the show at the Bayou Blues Café. “What do you think of these shirts?” 

She looked up, dropped the magazine on the bed, and stood on the mattress. Her tiny well-formed body enticed with thoughts of more pre-dinner sex as instinct drove hands to the handfuls of Heaven called breasts. Playfully brushing hands from her chest, she took the shirts and studied them, holding them to my chest. “They’re both nice but wear this one tonight. I like it better. Wear those jeans you got the other day with your black leather shoes. I guess I better start getting ready too.” 

She leaped from the bed and sprinted to the living room to retrieve her purse, and watching her move from the living room, past the bedroom door, and into the bathroom invoked curiosity. What does she see in me? The attraction started with Rēos, but many women possess a competitive streak making them want other women’s men. Men don’t share this competitiveness in the same way. Sure, guys fuck other men’s wives and girlfriends, but women exercise this competition in a more premeditated and vindictive manner like the way Reins knew I dated Rēos, but rather than playing it cool, she left hair scrunchies on the Jeep’s gearshift or underwear on the dresser. These frustrating acts forced constant inspection of the apartment and Jeep for hidden fuck-you gifts. Finding the gifts, hiding them, and returning them to their original locations before Reins returned required much effort. Pissing on the dashboard or nightstand to mark her territory might have made life easier. Not understanding this competition and likening interference with breaking up a shark fight with a bloody hand, I avoided involvement and conversation topics concerning other women while continuing to collect and hide Reins’ territorial markers to keep sex drama free. 

So, competition helped drive the attraction, and surely, the Jeep helped with first impressions, but something still escaped understanding. Reins stood at the bathroom mirror sorting her makeup while I watched her from the hall. “Reins, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not getting all sappy on you, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to rush you into a serious relationship, but I’m wondering why you’re dating me? I mean, I’m twenty-four and working a blue-collar job. You’re nineteen and in college. I’m sure a million college guys are banging down your door.” 

She stepped into the doorway and leaned against the jamb as the shower released steam rising along the curves of her legs to the towel barely covering her. “I like you because you’re older, dumbass. If I was out with some guy my age tonight, I wouldn’t be going to a blues show and having a nice dinner. Instead, we’d be drinking before or after we went to the restaurant because we can’t get served. Then we’d order the cheapest entrees on the menu because neither of us can afford better food. Screw that. I don’t want that high school shit.  

“With you, I get treated with respect because the servers know you’re paying, and they don’t want to screw up their tip. I’m also never embarrassed because you’re mature and don’t say stupid shit and act like an idiot — for the most part. I like being treated like an adult and with respect. You know what I’m saying?”  

“Yeah, that makes sense.” 

Reins turned her back to me and let her towel drop. She stepped into the shower with the same look over the shoulder that first captured me. “It also turns me on a bit when people stare. You know, forbidden love and all.” 

Her youthful appearance and womanhood combined in striking attractiveness. I stripped, following her into the water and steam that saturated and enveloped as we fucked in the heat of youth. 

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The rule, only date hot women, dictated, dating hot women opens the door to more hot women, and dating average looking women closes the door to fucking hot women. Six months of dating Rēos led to this rule’s implementation after dinner one night at Ruby Tuesday. 

Our server, who happened to be a sexy college girl, brought the entrées. “Here you go. Be careful, the plates are hot.” 

“Thanks.” Looking up, I noticed her name tag. “Reins is a cool name. Is that your real name?” 

“Yah, thanks.” Her horrible Boston accent stabbed my ears. 

As I began eating, Rēos pointed at her dinner. “Excuse me. I don’t think my steak is medium.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me get you another one.” Reins tilted her head in a fake smile.  

“How about now? Is now good for you?” Rēos snapped with a grin. 

“I’ll get right on that; I wouldn’t want you to starve.” 

Their exchange of snarky remarks almost went unnoticed along with Reins' advance when she delivered the bill. A phone number and little heart scrawled on the receipt drew attention to the five-foot girl looking over her shoulder with raised eyebrows as if to say, yes, I know you’re staring at my ass. Reins’ black jeans hugged each tempting curve revealing a perfect ass framed in an athletic musculature. Her face’s flawless porcelain skin appeared like fragile glass just before turning her head of jet-black hair and vanishing into the restaurant's kitchen. 

Rēos and I finished our date at the apartment, having hot, dreamy sex filled with thoughts of Reins’ perfect ass and sexy look. The next morning, Rēos spoke of work while applying makeup in the bathroom. Having no idea where she worked, I agreed while rummaging through pockets looking for Reins’ number. Rēos appeared at the bedroom door and blew a kiss with her hand. “I’ll call you. I’m late.” 

Finding the phone number as Rēos left, I called Reins and exchanged standard introductory information for determining lunacy and homicidal intentions, and upon normalcy confirmation, we made plans. Bad timing due to a family emergency postponed the date until she returned to town the following Sunday. Unsure of the truthfulness of this excuse, thinking she had second thoughts, I placed little faith in the date but remained somewhat hopeful. 

Friday before the date with Reins, discussions of women filled the truck returning from a job. Stan dealt with a relationship problem, and Sissy boasted meeting some supposedly hot girl while ways to improve my sex life churned in thought. We shared the occupation of a mover, but little else. I resided in the yuppie-populated White Marsh while Stan and Sissy lived in Essex, the armpit of the earth, brimming with drug addicts and drunks. Living in White Marsh resulted from learning a long time ago to spend more money on rent to avoid crackhead neighbors burglarizing or having a fistfight outside the front door, something they never learned, as evidenced by their constant complaints of neighborhood drama. 

Stan and Sissy appeared comfortable in Essex and with the women they met on Friday nights at titty bars or local dives, spending paychecks on rounds of drinks to play the big man. Bars sometimes held appeal, but never the absurdity of going to a titty bar to spend half a paycheck just to talk with a naked girl. Similarly, Stan and Sissy would never sit at home or in a coffee shop on a Friday night reading a book, and their idea of a date usually meant a local bar or a diner if they felt fancy. Personal preferences defined the real differences between us, and these preferences extended into women and relationships.  

The goodness of fucking hot women found universal agreement, but even this understanding held many nuances. Referring to a woman as hot always garnered Stan and Sissy’s agreement, but women they referred to as hot, I often considered beastly. The desire to fuck hot girls like Rēos and Reins necessitated further distancing from guys like Stan and Sissy, which presented a challenge since we all worked the same job for the same money. 

Transportation held a sensible solution since lack of a car stifled sex in the high cost of renting cars or hiring taxis and imposed the limitation of only dating women agreeable to dating a guy without a car. Meeting Rēos seemed anomalous and rare when considering the availability of hot, sexual dynamos willing to drive a guy around just to fuck him. These points overrode any lack of desire to own a vehicle. “Guys, I’m thinking about getting a car. What should I get?” 

Sissy leaned forward into the cab. “I’d get a Mustang if I were you. Those new ones are awesome looking.” 

Stan stuck his head into the cab. “Yeah, man, a mustang or maybe a truck like a Bronco or an Explorer.” 

Sherēm shook his head. “You should get something inexpensive and economical like a compact car. You see how gas prices are constantly changing. Those gas guzzlers they’re talking about will kill you in cost.” 

Later at the company, as I finished cleaning and locking Sherēm’s trailer, Diek, the assistant warehouse manager, drove by in his Jeep. With the Jeep’s top lowered and radio playing, the vehicle sparked a curiosity to follow Diek up the ramp into the warehouse. 

As ex-military, Diek seemed strict and task-oriented, but conversations revealed his humor and judicious nature as well as a source of good, practical advice. Although about the same age, efforts to connect with Diek mired in the difficulty of a work schedule that left little time beyond his live-in girlfriend, kid, and the occasional beer. 

Standing beside the Jeep, he unloaded supplies from the backseat and checked them against a list on a clipboard as I began studying the Jeep. “Diek, your Jeep is pretty cool. Can I ask you how it is on gas?”  

The pent waters of Jeep knowledge flowed. “Man, you should get a Jeep. It’s four-wheel-drive so you can travel in any weather. With a Jeep, you get the best of all vehicles. It’s sporty like a convertible and practical when you need to get somewhere in the snow. My girlfriend and daughter love it for taking a drive.” 

A glance outside the warehouse revealed all the office staff either owned Jeep Wranglers or four-door Jeeps adding support to his Jeep lecture. Avoiding the miserable experience of walking in the snow like I endured my first year also held great appeal. 

Thanking Diek for the information, I took a taxi to a local dealership to further investigate the Jeep. A walk around the Jeeps at the dealership revealed the unexpected issue of the new ones lacking the impressiveness of Diek’s Jeep. New Jeeps sat lower to the ground with none of the accouterments such as nice fender flairs and larger tires. The standard factory Jeep did not include those accessories, and outfitting the Jeep made her expensive. 

The need to buy a different vehicle festered disappointment until a salesman approached. Discussing the situation and relating the desire for something similar to Diek’s Jeep caused the skilled salesman to point his thumb to the dealership garage. “No problem. Follow me. We just got this one in today. It’s a repo, but it’s in awesome shape.” 

Behind the dealership's garage stood an impressive Jeep possessing all the accouterments that the prior owner added during a few months of ownership. She appeared more stylish than Diek’s Jeep, with a higher suspension lift and huge tires giving a monolithic look. The salesmen handed me the keys. “Hey, it’s a nice spring day; let’s take the top down so you can take her for a test drive.” 

Possessing no auto expertise, driving the Jeep added no information to the buying decision. After touring the surrounding area, I turned the vehicle around to return to the dealership at White Marsh Mall in front of Reins' Ruby Tuesday. On a slow pass of the mall entrance, a super-hot girl stood along the curb, and glancing at her, she beamed. “That’s a nice Jeep.” The smiling blonde and the Ruby Tuesday beyond combined with thoughts of the pending date with Reins, making clear the necessity to return to the dealership and purchase the Jeep. 

Sunday’s date with Reins arrived, and despite putting little faith in the date, the new Jeep inspired confidence. Parking outside Reins’ apartment building across from Towson University dispelled the suspicion her address might be fake when she emerged from the building. Exiting the driver's side, I assisted her climb in the passenger door, and while stepping inside, she looked around, confirming the wise decision to purchase the vehicle. “Nice Jeep.” 

We went to dinner, and over drinks, she related the death of a relative that delayed our first date, but all efforts to be sympathetic failed in the hotness produced from her stylish skirt and top. Lacking fashion sense did not deter noticing her savvy, metropolitan flair that belonged twirling in the neon of Time's Square. That look captivated me as the evening passed chatting about life's important things. 

“You know I hate your accent?” I removed the olives from my martini and placed them in hers.  

“What? This is the accent of the Kennedy’s. I’m like American royalty,” She laughed and stirred her martini with the swizzle of olives. 

“I don’t know. You sound more like Whitey Bulger ordering a hit on a rival gang member.” 

“Fuck you. Zooin' on me won’t get you fah.” 

“I have no idea what that means?” 

The stimulating conversation continued and turned to her childhood. 

I sipped my martini. “I’m impressed. You took ballet and played the violin. Why did you stop dance?”  

“There’s a certain point in ballet when you realize you’re not going to be a professional ballerina. By sixteen, I knew I wasn’t going any further with dance. That’s okay; I had fun.” 

“Tell me about the violin.” 

She smiled and leaned forward. “I’m no Grappelli, but I can play a little jazz. Would you like to hear me play?” 

“As long as you don’t sing with that accent.” 

The evening returned us to her apartment, where five college kids played video games and drank cheap beer in the living room. Reins spoke with her roommate in the kitchen for a minute and returned with a bottle of wine that she motioned, signaling me to follow her. Entering her room, I closed the door as she turned with a grin and handed me the bottle. With a push, she fell back on the tiny bed, laughing, “Open the bottle.” 

With the place of my knee on the bed, the twisting crack of the cheap wine’s cap mixed with Reins laughter as she fumbled with my pants and belt. “Now, let’s see what we have to work with…”  

Somewhere around four a.m., the need to go to work drove me from the bed to dress. While pulling on pants, the streetlight poured in the window, highlighting a nude, slumbering Reins whose perfect ass smiled and made leaving difficult. Stopping a moment watching Reins sleep brought a strange awareness, and bending over, I brushed her hair from her face as a mixed feeling of selling-out or fakeness overcame me. I kissed her cheek, then quietly exited her room to step with care over the drunk college kids littering the apartment, to hurry home, to shower, and to leave for work. 

The dread of going to work exhausted and coming off a drunk found some solace in knowing the desire for hot women necessitated sacrifice. Seeing Sissy walking down the street a short distance from work, I pulled over, and he climbed in when offered a ride. “Damn. You weren’t kidding when you said you were getting a new car. This is cool.” 

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m really digging this Jeep.” 

He looked around, noticing all the different Jeep features and finished his exploration looking down at the floor. “What do we have here.” 

Sissy held up a Ruby Tuesday’s name tag, which Reins likely dropped from her purse getting in the Jeep or left on purpose as a fuck-you gift for Rēos. He eyeballed the tag and squinted. “Is she that small dark-haired waitress?”  

“Yeah, do you know Reins?” I parked in front of Atlas. 

“Edo and I worked a half-day a few weeks ago and went to Ruby Tuesday for lunch. She was our waitress.” 

As we exited the vehicle, helpers and drivers gathered to inspect and judge the new Jeep and ask many questions, 

“How much?
“Six or four cylinders? 
“What kind of warranty?” 

As I answered questions, Sissy shouted, “Edo, remember a couple of weeks ago when we ate at Ruby Tuesday? Remember our waitress? Vinnie got a new Jeep and the waitress.” 

Edo ran over to Sissy, who held up the name tag, which made Edo turn to me. “Damn man, you fucking that fine-ass girl? I got to get me a Jeep. Shawty is sweet.” 

The Jeep also made Diek happy, and after work, he made me bring it inside the warehouse to impart many Jeep lessons. “So remember, if you’re driving down the road, and you pass someone in a Jeep, you’ll need to wave to them. It’s proper Jeep etiquette. Now, if you are going to take this four-wheeling, there are some improvements you need to make…” 

Buying the Jeep had a far more beneficial impact on life than expected as people began acting differently. Although they would never admit it, the guys at work gave me more respect because of the Jeep and dating two girls, especially Reins, who inspired many questions.  

“Vinnie, how’s that girl of yours?” 
“Wassup Vinnie, you still dating that fine waitress?” 
“Yo Vinnie, why is shawty dating an ugly fucker like you?” 

The bosses also treated me better than other helpers, and this new elevation in status seemed almost unbelievable since nothing about me improved. The mixed feelings of selling out and fakeness returned strong, conflated with foolishness for not recognizing the classist, shallow behavior I despised vehemently held the key to success. 

Working in the warehouse, organizing equipment with Raimo held the pleasure of the diligent worker who never complained, unlike the careless, lazy crackheads who felt the need to verbalize every thought. Mentally challenged guys like Raimo, evoked sympathy for the isolation suffered by their limited conversation’s about work or misquoting things heard in church or other places. The unknown quantities of life passed him in unawareness of his position, making him appear happy and undisturbed by job and relationships. Perhaps Raimo’s incognizance provided some bliss, but ignorance could be a curse like a person born in slavery who never knows freedom and only hardship. Certainly, a slave not knowing freedom is not living in bliss. 

While cleaning storage crates and folding pads, Raimo inquired in his broken communication, “Them guys was saying you got a new pretty girl.” 

“Yeah, she’s cool.” 

He lifted a pad and folded. “The calculation can’t be made. Love sacrifices must be paid. God’s truth goes deep to the marrow. Arrow piercing straight and narrow. Cannot love be formulated. Be it known that love is fated. Subdued not in math provisions. Rationally free intentions.” 

While absently agreeing with Raimo, thoughts of Reins and Rēos began an erroneous comparison as if involved in a relationship. The more time spent with Reins, the more the need to stop dating Rēos increased. My relationship with Reins was as casual as the relationship with Rēos and differed only by having more in common with Reins. 

Natural gravitation to Reins occurred in the shared interest of reading and discussing literature. The confident, smart, scrappy Southie also understood the rules and traditions imparted by old, tough cities and argued fiercely with the Baltimorons. Raised in families that grew from working-class to upper-middle-class, we shared many of the same experiences. We also shared the curse of shitty accents, and although I despised that Boston accent, I liked it when she spoke. 

 Raimo placed some tools in a box. “The Sun God’s love to her was sent. Laurel tree away from him bent. Tree of woman that bore no fruit. Bends away on the purest root.” 

Contemplations of Reins and Rēos became a programmatic error forcing repetitive thoughts of needing to break up with Rēos while mindlessly agreeing with Raimo’s warped, religious mutterings. 

“The Sun knows this tale is love’s way. Sun knows logics cannot hearts sway. God’s wagering is pointless play. Will of the fates create the day. Emotionally beats love’s play.” 

Parting with Raimo and walking to my Jeep at the end of the day, the mulling of ways to stop dating Rēos ceased, deducing the situation required no action other than to stop calling her. Implementing this measure ended the dating after Rēos called a couple of times then stopped when brushed off with excuses. Noncommitment simplified dating and removed the undesirable aspects of crying or arguing.  

Everything went well for about a month until the sexual deficit came to light when Reins went home for the week of the Fourth of July, and the emptiness of the apartment became apparent. Self-inflicted celibacy and her plans to go home in August for a week inspired a rule: never stop fucking a girl unless you’re completely sick of her. 

The language of Massachusetts, Reins’ first language, challenged my understanding, and like me taming the inner Baltimoron, she tried to control the Southie, but that accent clearly resonated, and sometimes, her native tongue broke free in conversation.  

“Your Jeeps a wicked fahkin pissa.” Reins watched me drop the top for our drive. 

I stopped for a moment. “Are you calling my Jeep an old man’s dick?” 

“Whoa, what?” 

“A pisser is what old men call their dicks; Hon, I was crabbin’ and got my pisser pinched.” 

“Pissa, not pisser. What’s crabbin’?” She frowned and laughed. 

“I’ll tell you when we buy crabs.” 

Helping her into the Jeep her shorts revealed dancer’s legs that distracted tremendously from driving. She donned her dark sunglasses giving her a mysterious, sexy quality. “Are you sure you don’t mind going to the outlets? I want to get some new clothes, but the mall is so expensive.” 

“Nah, not at all. I like taking road trips. It’s good to let my Baltimoron out occasionally.” We drove from the apartment’s parking lot headed for the highway to the retail outlets in Pennsylvania. 

“Why do you say Baltimoron? Don’t you like Baltimore?” she called above the wind. 

“I didn’t for a long time, but I don’t feel that way anymore. Baltimoron is my term of endearment as well as a jab.” 

Her eyebrows curiously lifted above her sunglass rims. 

Merging onto the highway, I shifted into high gear. “Okay, Baltimorons are tough, hard-working people, but they can also be pigheaded and fight for no reason. They turned crabs into local cuisine, yet crabs are bottom feeders that eat anything from corpses to crap. There’s a duality in the people, and you kind of love them and hate them.” 

She smiled thoughtfully and removed one of her scrunchies from the gearshift as the wind blew her hair in random directions. “I’m not sure I want to try crabs now.” 

“You’ll like them. You get to eat with a mallet and a nutcracker while drinking beer. What’s not to like?” 

She laughed and finished making a ponytail. “Everyone is that way, you know?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Two-sided like a coin. I think everyone exists in a duality of opposing forces. It’s something I learned when I was a kid on First Night.” 

Glancing her direction. “What’s that?” 

Her right hand hung in the air, moving up and down, riding a wave of passing wind. “In Boston, the New Year’s event is called First Night, and you can see lots of different shows, and there’s tons of food. There’re also ice sculptures. I like going just to see the ice sculptures.  

“Once, my parents took me when I was little, and I saw a ballerina sculpted in the ice. She was so beautiful; she might have been my motivation to dance. She stood perfectly balanced on one toe with hands stretched as if effortlessly holding all the weight of the dark sky.” Reins looked up, holding open hands to the sky. “The light refracting off her in the icy air made her seem unbreakable.” She dropped her hands in her lap and looked my way. “A short while later, some idiots throwing ice balls cracked off her left hand, and she wasn’t the same. That small damage stole her strength and symmetry, and that image of the broken ballerina stayed with me. Maybe, everything beautiful is fragile.” 

I silently stared at her, and she pointed at herself. “What? I’m more than just a pretty face. I’m going to be a lawyer, you know.” 

Laughter broke the silence as we turned off the highway to find a lonely gas station not far from the exit ramp and parked under the awning guarding the lanes. A storm neared as Reins jumped from the Jeep and dashed for the store while I pumped gas. “Hey, grab me a coke or pop or whatever the hell you call soda.”  

She turned and playfully gave me the finger. When she returned, the rain began falling as I finished pumping gas. “I’ll put the top up.” 

She climbed and sat on the hood. “Don’t bother. It’s just summer rain. It’ll pass. Here’s your soda.” 

I opened my soda and eyeballed her drink. “What did you get?” 

“A frappe with jimmies.” She lifted a spoonful of ice cream. 

I squeezed between her strong ballerina legs as she gave me a bite of her frappe. Dotting my nose with some ice cream, she giggled, kissing it away. I didn’t always understand what she said, but I perfectly understood the language she spoke when she traded bites of her frappe for kisses. 

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Not owning a television between 1993 and 1996 occurred from believing the denial of this entertainment would force reading and writing effort. This belief was wrong. 

The one book I wrote since the age of eighteen, Memories of Emily, rested in the desk drawer amongst piles of notebooks filled with crap poetry. The book, a fictionalized version of life, focused on suffering physical and sexual abuse as a kid. The book attempted to illustrate different themes concerning love, truth, and beauty related through the protagonist’s relationship with an imaginary girl named Emily. 

Emily became a point of internal contention and madness, rising from an overinvestment of childhood and the start of adulthood into this character. Too much time spent hoping this character would someday manifest in life led to a belief of inevitably meeting her or some semblance of her. Unresolved issues with childhood abuse drove this delusion, and somewhere along the way, the line separating fiction from reality blurred. Believing in this girl of dreams led to some awful decision-making, such as dating the wrong people and getting married, but fighting free of this lie and finally overcoming the pain of abuse, I vowed never again to cross that line of fantasy for fear of insanity. 

Beyond the emotional over-investment in the character and book, the book held a lot of truth, and believing this honesty gave the story weight needed to carry it through the world of publishing proved wrong. Three years of publishing attempts ended in a declaration of the book's failure. 

Many abandoned drafts of other books littered binders and notepads in a struggle to write anything substantive. The frustration of futile writing only increased in the lack of TV. Worse yet, the lack of television did not go unnoticed. 

Most people found the choice to abstain from TV strange, and this opinion showed in their reactions to my ignorance of television. Usually, this occurred when someone referenced a popular show or commercial, and my witless look caused the person to explain the reference before walking away with a frown of disbelief. 

Movers who found time to watch television or do anything requiring hours of daily free time baffled me since the job required forty to fifty hours per week. Working as a subcontractor meant taking any available work, and most days started by five or six a.m. and didn’t end until sometime after five p.m. Going to bed shortly after getting home left enough time to read a few pages before succumbing to sleep.  

By the end of 1993, the struggle to be creative soon surrendered to far more fulfilling activities. If precious time was to be wasted, then it needed to be wasted with hot women, not writing bad literature or watching television. 

Months of struggle to find a place to live and a decent job led to a stable, sustainable place in life with some leisure time which catalyzed the divorce into a slight resentment of women, leading to serial dating. Serial dating started by accident but soon routinized in a strategy of rules for fucking hot chicks. Dino would be proud as life settled into boozing and fucking. 

Diligent and reliable work practice opened the dating door with an illusion of success fallaciously associated with good boyfriend or husband stock. As luck should have it, one of the guys at work believed this fallacy. 

On Sherēm’s days off, when unable to find work with other drivers, I worked in the Atlas warehouse. The first time working in the warehouse, I worked with AX and the warehouseman, Taco Slurps. While unloading a trailer, AX stopped working a moment, seeing Taco walk by the truck. “Yo man, I’m all out of tacos, but I got some burritos.” 

“Fuck you, man.” Taco walked away laughing. 

AX nudged me. “Vinnie, I was on a job with Taco back when he was seventeen. He was running late for work and didn’t eat breakfast. When lunch came, the customer bought the crew like fifty tacos. Taco was so hungry he ate twelve tacos in two minutes — I swear. He ate them tacos making all this noise like he was suckin’ them through a straw. The driver said, ‘Yo, quit slurping them tacos: that’s nasty.’”  

Taco Slurps, soon shortened to Taco, and providing no one stood between him and food, Taco was a good guy. We got along since my work performance impressed him, and at the end of the day, he presented an offer. “Dude, my wife has a friend named Rēos. She’s hot and single. She did just have a kid a couple of months ago, but the father is not in the picture. She is a few years younger than us but has a decent job and tries to be a good mom. You seem like a standup dude; do you think you want to go out with her?” 

The offer to introduce his wife’s friend seemed odd in the usual expectation of a double date with Taco and his wife introducing Rēos. Having learned to always fuck first and ask questions later, the accepted offer resulted in Taco passing Rēos' phone number to me three days later, which led to a date on the next Friday. 

The great struggle to remain unattached came from an upbringing that indirectly taught many bad ideas about relationships, which caused much inner turmoil. When Rēos and I met the war against relationships continued in an ongoing struggle to disbelieve fate or cosmic purpose caused them, but more specifically, to relinquish the idea that some specific person awaited meeting in the great narrative. The failed marriage taught the need to avoid falling prey to these stupid ideas reinforced by a strong desire to avoid more bad relationships. Firmly holding to the belief that relationships were bullshit, and the only thing good about dating was fucking, my efforts found reward in Rēos. 

Rēos’ attractiveness pleasantly surprised as Taco’s description poorly portrayed her. Her dark hair and tan complexion enticingly combined with a petite and nicely proportioned frame. Petite meaning short: standing five-foot-two made her highly desirable, not that dating taller girls held no appeal, just preferring small women. The preference for girls around five-feet tall mystified me and couldn’t be explained any better than a man who liked women with long legs. This preference for petite women sometimes drew attention from strangers because, at six-foot-one and two-hundred-twenty-pounds, I appeared like a giant next to girls like Rēos. 

Worries over not owning a vehicle proved unfounded when she agreed to drive and meet me at a nearby mall. After a quick introduction, we headed downtown per my simple dating formula,  

(Go to decent restaurant + Entertaining show) / (Don’t talk much * Pretend to be interested in whatever she says) = Hopefully Get Laid. 

Dinner at the Inner Harbor in Baltimore went well, and with time before a late comedy show, we drank and conversed. “How long have you been working with Taco?” She stirred her drink. 

“I guess about the better part of a year.” 

“Taco complains that the job is a lot of hard work. Do you like it?” Her foot rubbed against my leg. 

“The job’s hard, but it’s alright for now.” 

“Yeah, it sounds hard, but you’re big and strong. I think you can handle it.” Her barefoot inched my leg. 

“Thanks, I guess I do alright. Do you want another drink?” 

“Please. Now, don’t go getting me drunk?” 

“Could we get another round, please? A double.” 

She found my crotch with her foot, giving me her naughtiest smile, and cocktails ended with us going back to my apartment. Rēos’ voracious sexual appetite revealed when entering the front door started a grapple to remove clothes while moving across the room entangled in kissing. Her firm, tight, and large-enough-to-fill-my-hands breasts hypnotically enticed. Ready to gush the milk filling them, our fall to the couch kissing made them leak on my chest, and seeing my stare at the lactation, she gnawed my neck. “You like them like that, don’t you?”  

“Yeah.” 

Answering her tits spurred her to cup a breast in hand and squeeze a stream of milk in my face.  

“You are a bad girl.” I pounded as hard as possible while she laughed, still shooting milk, and soon, her face turned dark red with body shuddering before relaxing. In quiet exhaustion, Rēos kissed and pulled at me. “That was good.” 

I shook my head. “Damn.” 

Finding the bed later, Rēos slept soundly in alcohol and sexual exhaustion as my gears of thought turned events trying to ascertain what actions or environmental factors caused this magical night until surrendering to the same slumber. 

Monday morning, AX, Lil, and Edo worked with Stan, Sissy, and I preparing for a large job in Sherēm’s trailer. The trailer quieted as Taco entered from the warehouse and approached me. “How did the date go?” 

I turned to Taco. “Holy shit, man. Rēos is crazy. She’s like a porn star. I’m not even sure I want to tell you the stuff she did.” 

Taco looked confused. “Really? That doesn’t seem like her. What happened?” 

A flabbergasted Taco listened as the other guys laughed at the tale of Rēos advances at dinner and breast milk adventure. His genuine surprise that Rēos acted this way made me curious about what bullshit his wife and Rēos told him about their activities. Almost from the initial meeting of Rēos, her sexuality effused abundantly, and him not knowing this seemed unbelievable. 

He shrugged but looked a bit disturbed as he walked off the truck. “Well, she must really like you. That is so unlike her.” 

“Maybe.” 

As Taco left the truck, Edo stepped to the truck's rear to check if Taco was out of earshot then turned to me. “Yo, man. Have you seen Taco’s wife?” 

“No.” 

Edo held up his hand. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so let me just say: a motherfucker would have to be gay to not fuck her, and even then, he might still want a crack at it.” 

Everyone laughed, and AX said, “Vinnie, me and Lil met her last year at the company party, and I swear to god she made eyes for everyone there.”   

Lil nodded emphatically. “Yeah, man.” 

I frowned and pointed my finger in the direction Taco departed. “That explains a lot. I thought it was weird he set me up with his wife’s friend.” I whispered, “I think he wants someone dating Rēos so he and his wife can double date because he’s worried about her cheating, but me fucking his wife’s friend is not going to stop his wife from cheating, especially if she’s anything like Rēos.” 

Everyone laughed, and after work, the phone rang while walking through the front door and answering led to a second date with Rēos. 

The second date with Rēos provided the opportunity to meet Taco’s wife and witness firsthand Taco’s fears of infidelity. We attended a party held by someone known to Taco and entering the house, Rēos and I navigated towards Taco through people drinking and talking as music blared. Taco’s wife stepped from his group and shocked me with a stunning, perfect exotic blend of unknown races. Her rocking body formed a sculpture of tight breasts and a shapely ass, which made marriage to Taco seem an absurd accident as if she drank too much on the wedding day and married Taco instead of the movie star. This attractiveness and outgoing nature tested the bounds of marital propriety with a rubbing of breasts against me when introduced to her. As she asked questions, I answered while a fantasy of fucking her in the bathroom flashed to mind. She introduced her tits to many different people as Taco watched in complete obliviousness to the flirting while an equally flirtatious Rēos also introduced her breasts to men. 

The night wore on as the large party consumed most of a two-story home, and while drinking a beer and talking to Taco, I noticed his wife and Rēos talking to some guys. Taco spoke of work-related things while his wife disappeared with one of the men, and when she returned, Rēos vanished with the other man. The only thing more surprising than the girls switching sexual partners during a second trip to the bathroom was Taco’s naivety. I shook my head feeling sympathy for Taco’s situation, confirming my view of relationships. Taco’s nice, husbandly nature forced him to see a good faithful wife yet haunted him with suspicion. Only an irrational belief in the absolutism of love could turn someone into such a contradiction. 

When Taco’s wife disappeared for a second time, Taco approached Rēos to ask where his wife went, and she answered with a lie. After answering Taco, Rēos shot me a fuck-me-look, filling with excitement for hot bathroom-sex. 

While patiently waiting a turn to fuck Rēos in the bathroom, the party entered the dangerous hours of deep inebriation where inhibitions are lost, and the truth becomes meaningful in fits of crying. Some do-gooder must’ve told the girlfriend of the first guy Rēos fucked about the indiscretion because the girlfriend appeared before me in a drunken craze. “Your whore fucked my boyfriend!” 

Taken off guard, I looked at Rēos, who just returned from a second bathroom rendezvous, and back at the drunk girl. “And?” 

The drunk girl appeared confused and disturbed and rephrased the exclamation for clarity or to anger. “Your girlfriend fucked my boyfriend in the bathroom!”  

The room grew silent, watching the spectacle, and being a little drunk and not wanting to be involved in this situation, I pointed a beer at her. “Look, it’s not like they were hiding what they were doing. I saw them go into the bathroom. If she wants to fuck someone, that’s her business. As long as I’m getting a slice of the pie, I don’t give a fuck what she does.” 

The room erupted in laughter, and Rēos became slightly embarrassed while the drunk girl shook her head in confusion. My tactic proved unwise when the drunk girl turned in frustration to Taco. “I don’t know what you’re laughing about? Your wife fucked a guy in the bathroom too.” 

From the time the rant started, a mortified grin fixed on Taco’s face mistook for amusement by the drunk girl. Now, the shocked grin framed in reddening anger as the crowd turned attention to him, his wife, drunk girl, and another couple screaming en masse. Slipping out of the room and exiting the house, I turned in surprise, hearing Rēos’ voice. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

Driving away, a stupid question about bathroom sex came to mind, but her breasts killed this curiosity by beckoning an uncontrollable play of hands she brushed away in laughter to keep from wrecking the car. We indulged in another night of hot, drunken sex, complete with a lactation shower. 

In the morning after Rēos left, memories of the night rose a laugh when questioning the wisdom of dating Rēos. Still clinging to deluded ideas, the thought of poor Taco arguing and screaming all night dispelled the delusion of a relationship. The following Monday reinforced the resolve to abandon relationships when an exhausted Taco approached me in Sherēm’s trailer, where I worked alongside Sissy and Stan. “Man, sorry shit went down like it did on Friday.”  

“No problem, Taco. Rēos and I got out of there to defuse the situation. I feel bad because I left you dealing with that hostile situation.” 

“You’re still with her after she fucked some dude in the bathroom?” 

Sissy and Stan moved closer, taking an interest in the conversation, as I continued, “Yeah, I’ve only seen her twice, and she’s hot in bed. It’s not like I’m planning to marry her.” 

Stan and Sissy laughed as Taco became confused. “You’re okay with your girl fucking other guys? I’m getting a divorce.” 

“Look, man, I’m not the only meat on the menu, but I’m certainly willing to be on the menu.” 

“What? How can you say that?” Taco shook his head. 

“Dude, you might be thinking about this situation all wrong. You think love is like this forever thing, and marriage is a contract that seals the deal, but man, you’re wrong. Everything is sort of backward from what we’re taught.” 

“What’re you saying?” 

I held my hands up. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Your wife is hot and probably superb in the sack, but she didn’t get that way fucking just you. Just let her do her thing. If you don’t, then you’re certain of divorce.”  

Taco’s face twisted in disbelief. “What?” 

“All I’m saying is if you want to save your marriage, you both need to start cheating. You should both be fucking other people because it’ll make you both happy.”  

Stan and Sissy laughed, and Stan said, “Yeah, Vinnie is nuts.” 

Taco turned, walking away. “You’re crazy, man. I’m not going to be married to some whore who’s fucking everyone.”  

“Do what you want.” I shrugged as Taco left the truck while Sissy and Stan continued cackling.  

A short time later, silence filled the cab, making the rumble of the diesel engine noticeable. Sherēm drove the truck out of the yard, and within a few minutes, the rig rolled down the highway. Sherēm looked over at me and yelled into the sleeper berth, “What the hell is going on? You assholes are never this quiet.” 

Stan immediately leaned forward. “Vinnie is dating some whore and doesn’t care she’s fucking other dudes.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Stan.” I turned to look at him. 

Sissy craned his head into the front of the cab. “Ew, man. That’s nasty. She might have herpes or some other disease. Did you fuck her the same night?”  

“Fuck yeah.” 

“Did you at least wear a condom?” Stan asked with a frown. 

“Hell no. You don’t jerk off in a condom, do you?” 

“Ew!” exclaimed all three of them. 

“Is this all true?” Sherēm shot a glance while driving. 

“Damn, I’ve only gone out with this chick twice. It’s not like we’re going steady.” 

Sissy shook his head. “She fucked a dude in the bathroom while out on a date with you. Don’t you think that is just a little fucked up?”  

“Two dudes, and no, I don’t. Look, relationships are bullshit. Marrying someone and believing you are going to be with that person forever is ridiculous. Seriously, true love? No such thing. Relationships are a waste of time, and chicks like Rēos are a goldmine. I’m not the baby daddy. I have no responsibilities beyond buying dinner and a movie, and I get the hottest sex ever. I don’t care what she does.” 

The three of them laughed as I pointed to them. “You all laugh but think about this; if you want some hot chick to give up sex for you, then you need to offer something pretty big in return. Taco tried to be a good husband, and look at what that got him?” 

Sissy’s face crinkled. “Yeah, but that’s just him and his wife.”  

“All I’m saying is Taco is about to give up a smoking, hot piece of ass and take on child support. For what? Because his wife wants to fuck someone else? If he played the game, he could be fucking his wife and lots of other chicks. Hell, he could be fucking Rēos if he played his cards right. Of course, he has to share her with me.” 

Everyone laughed, and Sherēm shook his head. “I’m going to pray for you, man.” 

Between work and home, a bar attracted the movers. There were other bars in the area, but the convenience of Eli-Sue’s between Atlas, the bus lines, and the beltway brought the movers. Convenience didn’t provide the only enticement as Eli-Sue’s provided a peaceful end to the workday, unlike the rowdier titty bars and dives near the industrial complex. Much knowledge about a person derived from knowing the bars he inhabited. Stan, Sissy, other people in recovery, the scabs, drunks, and crackheads all migrated to the titty bars while Eli-Sue’s filled with the working class. 

Perhaps more than the bar itself, the patron seating spoke much of the man. All bars have a section reserved for the lonely, desperate, and socially moronic; a place called desperation row. Men line the row drinking and staring into their beers, hoping some woman might speak to them and whisk them away into a new life. It is a very sad place filled with divorcees, out of shape men, and often the lost. My bisexualism afforded no insight into the gay or female equivalent of desperation row, which for sure existed. 

When living in Florida, the workers at my old job frequented a similar establishment, and I often found myself in that place sitting on desperation row. That time seemed far away along with that pathetic person struggling to find place in a world of heteros and homos. The great lie of love, promising so much, earned only a seat on desperation row, a costly divorce, and the truth that I alone owned my identity, not requiring self-identification by the placement of my dick nor judgment of myself or anyone by the same measure. The divorce further highlighted the truth of love, perhaps always known, making clear the impossibility of hetero or homo love, at least for me, and that’s okay. Perhaps experiences cheated me out of love but not sex. 

Huddling tables, playing dart boards, and sharing pitchers of beer, the crowds of workers mingled as I moved through them to where AX, Lil, Diek, Sherēm, and other coworkers sat. Lil animated a story about the job as I approached signaling the waitress who appeared and took my order for a beer and another round. Lil’s storytelling caught my attention with the mention of my name, 

“…you wouldn’t know this cat, Vinnie; he was before your time, but trust me when I say the dude was off the hook. The company had an annual picnic, and there were about a hundred people there, and this guy was so nuts, he came racing up behind us and grabbed Edo by his running shorts and just pulled them down in front of everyone.” 

Everyone laughed and Edo began talking about the incident as I glanced around in the slowing-motion of the bar that framed the moment in an ever-increasing pace of a film. In that single frame, a realization of change occurred and the construct of a married man and soldier no longer existed as the reel turned a new scene of the single working man, inducing a sense of a happy ghost unknowingly trapped floating in life’s ether.     

Move Chapters

Lacking an intimate understanding of the job, people wrongly categorized moving and storage workers as unskilled laborers. The wrongness of their assumption became apparent when a simple one-day job for the mover turned into a costly week of damaged belongings for a homeowner. The same lack of skill driving customers to call the movers equally frustrated the veteran workers trying to find quality labor. 

New workers underestimated the physicality needed to perform the job or assumed muscled effort could complete the task without learning techniques. Not knowing how to lift and carry furniture made newbies easy to identify. They carried boxes against the chest instead of their back or removed drawers from dressers making more trips to and from the truck, exhausting them quickly. The most identifiable amateur trait was the lack of skill with the hump strap. Movers used the hump strap, a piece of nylon or burlap strap, to carry a few small boxes or one large item on their back along with objects in their hands. Transporting objects in this manner reduced the number of trips in and out of the house, and movers referred to the practice as humping furniture. Unsure of the etymology, most believed humping furniture derived from the idea of a camel. A person could hump furniture and boxes all day with a strap and knowing how to lift correctly. 

Veteran movers feared rookies due to causing accidents, hurting people, and blowing tips. Earning tips was one of the first things learned in the moving business, and this knowledge immediately transferred from a veteran mover to the newbie, usually in the vein of, “Don’t break anything and fuck up my tip.” 

Despite being educated about tips on the first day, newbies still acted stupid and cost crews tips. Newbies carelessly moved furniture or tried to use hand-trucks or four-wheel dollies inside homes, making floors and walls casualties as well as furniture. In time, Larry’s initial reaction to my presence clarified in a learned fear of the amateur. Luckily, during the first few months in the business, I joined a steady crew that provided consistent work and insulation from newbies. 

Not breaking things, punctuality, and sobriety earned me a helper position with Sherēm, a veteran truck driver and mover. Ten years older than me, he possessed a degree in business and tremendous work experience, having been in the business for most of his life. Being educated made Sherēm sort of an oddity in the moving and storage industry, and although well-liked, people thought him uppity or a show-off because he spoke proper English. 

Sherēm provided training and work to many guys from his neighborhood, but this niceness and generosity made for character flaws that cost him a lot of money sometimes. He took chances on new people and hired guys recovering from addiction, believing everyone deserved a chance. In those early years, I also thought addicts and drunks could recover from addiction by attending twelve-step meetings but felt unsure if they were worth the risk. We disagreed on this point, but I accepted it because he owned the truck, and that made him the boss. 

Sherēm’s religious faith drove a motivation to give people opportunities but being a Christian in a business filled with heathens and indulgent-personalities sometimes tested this faith. Although we differed philosophically, we still held friendly discussions because he never looked down on anyone and always entertained different viewpoints. We shared many meals discussing aspects of religion and life. As true a Christian as possible, Sherēm led by example and never forced faith or religion on anyone. 

Sherēm’s faith led to hiring Sissy, an ex-crackhead and alcoholic, who appeared to be improving life by going to twelve-step meetings. I remained skeptical, but Sissy’s abstinence and honesty about having a drug problem seemed to indicate a good hireling. 

Skepticism of Sissy came from his desire for booze and cocaine that proved a continuous failure as evidenced by broken and missing teeth, along with missing patches of hair, all signs of advanced drug use. These attributes, combined with a lack of bathing, bony frame, and zit-covered face, gave a deathly look. 

If these traits weren’t bad enough, he earned the nickname Sissy after a box hit his foot on the job’s first day, causing him to hop around whining about the injury. The guys never let him forget this namby-pamby reaction by naming him Sissy Hops, which quickly shortened to Sissy, and although he disliked the name, he lacked the fighting prowess to argue with the guys who awarded him the moniker. 

He was ugly and annoyingly smart, which grated my nerves when he spoke to impress people rather than saying something meaningful. He described concepts using pseudo-religious-philosophic jargon that he believed no one understood. “Vince, I cannot fathom your resistance to belief in God when intelligent design proves God’s existence. Complexity and order in the universe could not possibly occur spontaneously or originate endogenously, and therefore, must be the result of intelligence. Human biological systems are proof of intelligent design. How could such complex functioning organs as your eye randomly evolve?”  

“All I’m saying, Sissy, is complexity and order don’t equal intelligence. Your sex organs are just as complicated as your eye, yet we piss out the same organs we use to procreate. Think about all the diseases and problems caused by sex organs sharing the excretory system. Wouldn’t it have made more sense for God to separate them?” 

“You can’t understand the complexity of God’s Will.”  

“Whatever.” 

Our fellow movers saw him as uppity, and I considered him a phony, but Sissy managed to stay sober, and to my disappointment, proved a skilled mover and essential member of our work crew for a time. 

Sherēm hired Stan Taul shortly after Sissy because Stan possessed the skills needed, but Stan also happened to be an annoying ex-crackhead, and he and Sissy often shared adages and slogans rejoicing sobriety, yet Stan’s sobriety remained questionable. The most questionable aspect of his drug and alcohol recovery stemmed from the fact that he drank. Stan went to Narcotics Anonymous, not Alcoholics Anonymous, and according to him, abstaining from crack made drinking permissible. Stan and Sissy held long-winded arguments over the finer points of good and bad sobriety, which sounded like a bunch of horse shit, but if it worked — so be it. 

Stan, Sissy, and other people in recovery bored me to death with recovery talk, which consisted of collections of slogans, affirmations, and adages. The recovery people claimed this jabber kept them sober, but this seemed doubtful since none stayed sober. Godly, abstinence-infused sayings aimed at convincing themselves or others of their wisdom and sobriety filled the truck daily, 

One day at a time, 

God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle, 

The truth will set you free, etc. 

Despite the dedication to religious, crack-abstaining wisdom, Stan struggled to tell the truth. The inclination to fictionalize life earned him the name Stan: The Man. Behind his back, people referred to him as Stan: The Man, and whenever he told stories, the guys said things like, “You the man, Stan.” Too stupid to realize, or unaware, Stan took no notice of this slur. 

He muddled conversations with conflicting statements while haphazardly juggling the truth. One time, he claimed to have worked as a cop before the crack dragged him into the gutter, but forgetting this lie, the next week, he claimed to have served serious jail time for drug dealing: as much hard time as possible for a twenty-three-year-old already released from prison. His habitual lying annoyed me, but I accepted it at the time. Experience dictated that people just lied. 

Everyone either bent the truth or told versions of the truth, and little could be done but call the asshole out when the truth stretched too far. If a person wanted to be the hero in a story by exaggerating his part, then more power to him, but if that person lied to hurt or make someone look bad, then he needed an ass-kicking. Assuming everyone lied saved a lot of time and disappointment. 

Stan appeared to be a bad liar but not malevolent, and often, his lying proved entertaining. He droned on and on about meeting famous people or fighting large adversaries and multiple opponents. Once, while returning from a job in New York, Stan told a whopper of a lie, and normally, Sherēm endured the lying, but on this occasion, he lost his cool. The story went, “Yeah, so I was at this party in New York. It was in a house kind of like the one we just loaded. I got invited cuz my friend is in a band that covers for groups like Aerosmith and he knows tons of people. Anyhow, I was up in this house gettin’ hammered when I noticed this blonde giving me the eye. She was stacked with tits and had a nice bod. One thing led to another, and we were makin’ out in one of the bedrooms. You’ll never believe who it was: Morgan Fairchild. I was gettin’ all up in her when-” 

Sherēm smacked the steering wheel. “That’s a load of BS. You did not fuck around with Morgan Fairchild.” 

“Yes, I did.” Stan turned red.  

Sherēm banged the wheel again in frustration. “Dammit. I’m calling bullshit on your story. You need to prove to us what you’re saying. You need a witness, a picture, something. I can’t imagine a world where you and Morgan Fairchild are in the same room unless you’re packing her kitchen to move. Even that scenario is difficult to believe.” 

Stan leaned forward into the truck’s cab. “Fine. Tomorrow, before we leave the company, I’ll call my friend who took me to the party. He can verify the story for you. You’ll see it’s true.” 

Sherēm downshifted the truck and decelerated into a rolling traffic backup. “Yeah, we’ll see.”  

Poor Sherēm believed truth a meaningful concept because the trap of religion and faith dictated truth mattered. He measured people in terms of their honesty, considering truthfulness a good character trait, which led to long hours fighting and dealing with people like Stan. Just a waste of time. 

Stan probably lied to impress us, god knows why, but this reason made Stan like everyone else in the world. Whether to save face, impress someone, or just to spare someone’s feelings, everyone lied for a reason. Believing the true measure of character resided in the intentions and outcomes of someone’s lies, I found no compelling reason to care about Stan’s lies unless they hurt someone or caused problems. 

Sherēm came to his senses the next day and didn’t mention the lie, likely realizing the battle's futility. In return for not exposing the lie, Stan never crossed the proverbial Morgan Fairchild Line of Tall Tales, for fear of disturbing the balance of acceptable truth. Conversations in the truck continued, complete with Stan’s lies. 

Performing hundreds of moves annually, we moved people from different nations, cultures, and careers: including, FBI agents, military, corporate transfers, retirement home residents, and estates. Whether people started or ended life, we were there to move their belongings. 

Customers could be interesting, but after a while, they blended in a faceless manner, becoming lost in ongoing work, making memorable the interactions of the crew. To get through the monotony of carrying objects all day, movers sometimes wagered who could carry the most boxes or the heaviest item on their back. In an amazing feat of balance and strength, Sherēm once used a hump strap to carry a wood stove out of a home and onto the truck. 

Of equal importance to the mover’s skills were the voluminous informal rules of the moving business, stretching in an oral tradition to the trade’s beginning. The rules dictated everything from moving methods to proper behavior and united workers by making the crackheads manageable and the job bearable. Examples of the rules included things like, don’t steal another mover’s tip. Customers sometimes gave the crew’s tip to one person assuming he would split the money with coworkers, which only became a problem if the customer unwittingly placed the money in the hand of a newbie crackhead. Failure to inform the rest of the crew constituted stealing a tip and might get this man stabbed after work. 

Many rules existed, like don’t let your buddy struggle, which movers learned mostly through working examples. Once, I opened the door to Sherēm’s trailer and began cursing at the sight of pads and equipment carelessly tossed about the trailer. Cleaning the trailer consumed much time, and this problem occurred whenever a crappy driver or new helpers used the trailer. 

Turning on the boombox strapped to the wall, the folding of moving pads commenced, but unexpectedly, three of the regular guys from a different crew climbed in the trailer to help. AJ-AX climbed into the trailer first. “Don’t let Vinnie struggle with them pads.” 

Alvin Johnson was an enormous man who received the name AJ-AX after hitting a guy with the blunt end of an ax. Lil or Lil Ax, AJ-AX’s brother, related the story my second week on the job. “Look, man, you seem alright, so I just wanna let you know that AX is cool, but if you get jokin’ around with him, don’t talk no shit about our mom. He don’t play that way, yo.” 

I looked across the yard at AX. “No problem. I can’t think of a single reason I would ever talk about his mom.”  

“That’s good, man. That’s good cause AX got his name cause some fool was talkin’ shit bout our mom.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, this stupid motherfucker from the neighborhood was talking a bunch a smack, and when AX told him to shut the fuck up, this fool made a mom crack. Our mom died a year before, and AX was not havin’ that shit. AX went up the house and got an ax and came back down and went upside yo’s head with the blunt end.”  

“Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“Yeah, man. AX did two years in juvie till he aged out. But that motherfucker he busted up, slurs his words and talks out the sides of his head to this day. You know what I’m sayin’?” 

Staring a moment at AX across the yard, my attention returned to Lil Ax. “Man, there is no amount of money you could pay me to fight that fucker, ax or not.” 

No amount of money could compel a fight with the intimidating six-foot-six AX who weighed three hundred pounds of muscle. In contrast to this stature, he was a quiet guy who labored all day, making this one-man-furniture-moving-machine a blessing to have on a job. Once, he carried a four-hundred-pound safe on his back with little effort. He was a cool guy, providing no one joked about his mom.  

Following AX, Lil Ax climbed into the trailer and stood beside AX, contrasting any thought of a sibling relationship. A wiry young man, Lil Ax received his name by being the brother of AX, affording him a lot of respect in their neighborhood. A lively, humorous character, he joked often, and his strong outgoing personality provided a dual-edged sword of popularity that made him a playa in the neighborhood while earning him four kids. He played hard but worked hard to pay that child support. 

Following Lil Ax, a tall, fast-talking Edo Dimes entered the trailer. “What’s up! What’s up!” Referred to as either Edo or Dimes, Edo received his name because his family came from Edo, Nigeria, and despite having never visited Nigeria, he spoke of Edo as if he lived there since birth. A tireless salesman of dime bags of weed, Edo used these earnings to put himself through college. During the first week on the job, Edo approached me. “Vinnie, I was in class last night when I got paged from my man. Just got this weed straight off the boat from Edo…you know Nigeria leads the way in the science of hydroponics? …this hybrid weed is a blend of African Ganja and rare Kenyan Sativa that’ll make you so relaxed you’ll feel like you fell out your body. Think about it, man,” he said walking away. 

Ax nudged me as Edo left. “Vinnie, that’s just some homegrown shit.” 

Those guys helping clean the trailer that morning instilled a sense of belonging to something large and meaningful. No one paid those guys to help clean the trailer, and they did it out of a sense of brotherhood that no job prior held. Their assistance confirmed my acceptance as a mover, which elevated me from the crackheads and scabs. While folding the pads and organizing the trailer, everyone joked and laughed until AX turned up the radio. “Yo, shut the fuck up.”  

Mariah Carey sang “Dreamlover,” and the guys sang along until AX laughed and pointed. “Look y’all, Vinnie knows Mariah.” 

Lil Ax frowned. “He don’t know Mariah.” 

Turning around, I shook my ass. “Everyone knows Mariah.” 

AX stepped behind me. “It’s just like City Jail up in this motherfucker.” 

While twerking to AX’s rump humping, Sissy, Stan, and Sherēm arrived and added humor to the joking melee along with the effort to make the trailer’s disorganization quickly disappear. Everyone laughed and worked together: the way jobs should be performed. 

Move Chapters

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The return to Baltimore after an early Army discharge and ensuing divorce made life at twenty-three a mess. Closing the mailbox began the daily reading of junk letters and bills until an envelope from an attorney halted the sorting to mull the final divorce papers it contained.  

The ex-wife was a self-righteous whore whose whorishness rose not from promiscuity but from an unfounded entitlement to take what little belonged to me. Promiscuity only enflamed her whorish nature, but still, the blame for the divorce rested solely on me for marrying her in the foolish assumption of having found true love. The absurd belief of discovering true love conflated with the equally ridiculous notion of remaining true to one another. A mistake not to be made again. 

The walk between the mailbox and front door of the apartment building recalled a crazy girl met at a Grateful Dead concert many years prior. She worked the caravan of the Dead playing the part of a fortune-teller in a standard ruffled underskirt, tulle petticoat, sequined sash, and rhinestone-encrusted bandana. She ushered me into a tent where Cream sang “Tales of Great Ulysses” from an ancient Kenwood stereo, and a table held the standard tools of the trade: tarot cards, crystals, and of course, a crystal ball. 

She claimed to be psychic capable of foretelling my future for a mere ten dollars. Tripping on acid forced questioning of reality, watching her eyes roam in a crazy way while moaning in a fake indeterminate accent, “You’re writing a book, and that book will be the vehicle of your success. You will reinvent poetry, but no one will recognize the value until you’re dead. You cannot die except by your hand. You're destined to marry a rock star.” 

Her knowing I actively wrote a book inspired an odd feeling, and this clever guesswork inspired the occasional recall of the soothsayer’s fortunetelling to determine its truth. With an envelope stuffed with divorce papers in hand and a book rejected many times by publishers, resting in the desk in the living room, I laughed, “She has two more chances.” 

I entered the building and descended to the basement apartments but stopped when a voice echoed my name in the stairwell. Following the voice to the floor above revealed my neighbor, Dino, staring over the handrail. 

Like most Baltimorons, he went by a nickname or alias, and people called him Dino-Ol because his real name was unpronounceable, which over time shortened to Dino. An older man in his late forties, Dino looked the part of the college professor, complete with penny loafers, corduroy jacket, cheap Oxford shirt, and tie. Acting the part of the professor, Dino carried a trusty suitcase and sometimes a work briefcase to hide his self-indulgent purpose. Caught somewhere between serious-academic and captivating storyteller, Dino comfortably and recklessly walked literature’s tightrope of interpretation. He also believed in the craft of writing but strangely refused to write, making his many stories and literary references an entertainment paradox. His explanation for refusing to write only confounded this paradox. “Vince, when I think of something truly original, I’ll write it down.” 

We met the first week I moved into the apartment complex after he lost the battle for balance in the throes of a drunken bender. Rendered a stumblebum drunk, a drunk who walks into walls and does embarrassing things like falling asleep at a bar, he helplessly sprawled the hallway of the apartment building. Walking him to the front door of his apartment and into the care of his old lady inspired gratitude in the form of teaching me the finer points of drinking while discussing poetry and prose. 

Teaching night school at the local community college afforded Dino the benefit of teaching while intoxicated, and with little oversight, Dino exercised this benefit frequently. Drinking didn’t allow much advancement in academia, and Dino didn’t care about career success. 

He knew everything about culture, entertainment, literature, and most importantly — booze. A veteran mixologist, Dino concocted drinks the way an alchemist transmutes gold from base elements. If caught before becoming too wasted, he recited obscure stories or epic poems while extolling the virtues of the martini, likening drinking with Dino to Homer getting hammered in the living room. 

I called up the stairs, “Dino, what are you up to?” He patted his trusty suitcase and smiled as I answered the call to pleasure, “Come on down.” 

Dino descended the stairs. “Why the long face, my friend?” 

Entering the apartment and turning right into the kitchen, the envelope of legal papers dropped into the trash. “Just a bunch of bullshit. I still need a full-time job, and I just got the final divorce papers. I suppose I’m just disappointed with life.” 

Dino placed his suitcase on the kitchen table. “Ah, love and money. Two things that will destroy a man with certainty.” 

A launch into heroic verse seemed imminent, but Dino’s lack of drunkenness stifled the poetry but inspired the unlocking of his old and well-traveled suitcase. Travel stickers randomly decorated the case with the most prominent sticker, having nothing to do with travel, poised in the lid's center, Golf Stuff. 

Dino flipped the case on its short end and opened it like a display unit with one side containing golf tees secured in small sleeves and the other side containing golf balls in a layer of foam egg crate. A convincing disguise at first glance. With a tug, the tray of golf tees lifted from the suitcase, revealing a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and several small jars of olives and cherries. The removal of the egg crate of golf balls showed a shiny stainless-steel tumbler and stirrer. The near-perfect travel bar lacked only the ice he asked me to fetch. Cracking ice trays into a bowl, I turned to him. “How are you doing?” 

“Not bad. I got a new job teaching Greek Literature.” He mixed vodka and vermouth in the tumbler with precision. 

“Congratulations.” I set the bowl of ice before him on the table. 

“The job pays a little more than my current job, but we need to move to the other side of town.” 

“Well, I am glad you got a better job, but it sucks you’re moving.” 

“Thank you, Vince.” He handed me a martini. “Seems like yesterday when I found you drinking cheap vodka and piss for beer.” 

I found him, and that meeting occurred about eight weeks prior, but Dino had no sense of time. He took a sip of his martini. “You know Vince, I like you. I like you because you’re teachable. That’s important because humans are mostly unteachable creatures frittering precious time rather than trying to enhance themselves. Yes, you’re much wiser than when we met. Just remember, if you drink well, you’ll live well. There is no substitute for good booze, and good booze is the great elixir to life’s woes…” 

Most people likely felt bored or frustrated listening to his ramblings, but Dino’s talk distracted me from life and brought solace. Not a repetitive schmuck, he was one of the last great teachers from an era when professors advocated and argued causes. He was one of the last of the great teachers who shared a drink with students during a philosophic catharsis. He was one of the last great teachers who might sleep with a student, not for being slimy, but because passion erupted from the mixing of alcohol and dialectics. 

He held up the martini to examine. “…and Nietzsche was a sad bastard. Despite such profound musings, he took all his lessons to such dark places. Only Nietzsche could interpret the last words of Socrates to mean Socrates suffered from life. Like life is a disease to be cured. You see, life’s all about passion. If you surrender to passion’s fire, then you’ll fill with emotion, and your life will burn with intensity.” 

“What if life throws you a curveball of disaster or a terrible situation?” 

“Vince, the passion, fire, terror, horror, and sadness of existence are all elements of the great narrative. In those terrible times, when there’s no interpretation, no optimistic view, and no solution, only the warm comfort of booze will get you through the moment. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is drink.” 

With the raise of the glass to agree, a knock came from the door. Damn it. Always an interruption to a good night of drinking. Annoyance gave way to a pleasant surprise when opening the door revealed Opal Susy, Dino’s other half. Unmarried but together a long time, their relationship remained a mystery, having never heard the tale of how they met, but for sure, there had to be a tale like everything in the lives of Dino and Opal. 

Opal, a university philosophy teacher, maintained a positive career trajectory, probably resulting from not drinking the way Dino indulged. A reserved academic who followed the rules of her subject’s craft, she held a different and equally entertaining view of the world than the impassioned Dino. Whereas Dino might praise a pupil who wrote a poem without meter, Opal admonished the same student for breaking the rules of proper poetics. Their conversations generally centered on interpretations of epic stories, quandaries of good and evil, and other metaphysical topics. Like mixing salt and sugar, they balanced a recipe but ruined a dish if haphazardly used. They often balanced one another and sometimes ignited a room in philosophic conflict, but whether in agreement or not, Dino and Opal entertained and enlightened. 

Opal entered and scolded Dino. “I thought I might find you here corrupting the youth with your insane thinking.” 

“Silence, naysayer. You wouldn’t know passion if it lit you on fire.” 

Dino’s drunkenness readied an argument, and Opal’s sobriety held the sword of criticism to drive through his position. Opal sat at the table. “You shouldn’t bother Vince. He has enough going on without your mindless musings to add to his problems.” 

Dino pointed at Opal. “See, this is what I’m talking about. No zest for life, no passion, she will have you calculating solutions to problems the way a mathematician solves formulas on a chalkboard. No heart, I tell you.” 

“I suppose he is better off stumbling drunk through life and walking into walls of problems? You act as though living rationally somehow makes life worse.” 

Dino nudged me. “See? See the lack of passion?” 

She frowned in confidence. “Fine, I wager reason will provide Vince happiness and love before passion and emotional indulgence.” 

“I’ll take that bet.” Dino moved forward in the chair. 

“Fine, what shall we wager?” 

“Hmmm, an epic narrative calls for a large wager.” 

“Agreed.” 

Leaning back in the chair listening to the ramblings of the mad professors, their heated arguments went back and forth, determining the rules for the great wager. Dino promised love and happiness wrought from life’s passion, fortune, and misfortune while Opal interrupted making promises of true love resulting from a commitment to a rational strategy and practical decision-making based on human nature. Booze flowed in a raving discourse that lulled into a peaceful sleep. 

The early morning light entered the bedroom, bringing a need to rise from bed. Dino and Opal’s moving in the prior week vanished them in the vapor of life’s acquaintances and left an emptiness combined with envy for their literature knowledge. The constant struggle with the basic mechanics of writing amplified the feeling of failure when seeing the ease at which Dino and Opal wielded the knowledge of literature. 

The close of eyes in procrastination allowed sadness for Dino and Opal’s leaving to fuel the dismay felt for returning to Baltimore. Departure from Baltimore at eighteen occurred, feeling a need to escape the town’s hostility and many negative experiences, something I no longer felt. 

The reluctance to go job hunting and memories of youth rolled me on my side, staring into a pillow. Appearing as a distant place, twenty-seventh street in Remington, Baltimore, where I was born in 1970, felt almost foreign, along with the rules of toughness learned in upbringing. Stand up for yourself, never hit girls, don’t take disrespect, blood is thicker than water, ad infinitum. Today, the rules held greater acceptance but still confounded in the oldest memories of parents proving family or blood had no special meaning. My biological father, a gambler named Vito, spent life at the track betting on horses. No recollection and little knowledge of him beyond, sort of, sharing the same name did not stop him from haunting my life. Despite never raising any children, my father decided to name all his son’s Vito, and although never confirmed, I had at least two or three brothers from what extended family told me. My mother divorced the gambler and rearranged my name, changing my first name to Vincent, making my middle name Vito. She didn’t make this change out of kindness but as a means of not embarrassing my stepfather. 

Sitting up in bed inspired no motivation and instead dropped my head in a sigh, recalling the prominent businessman my mother married after Vito left. The stepfather wanted nothing to do with me or my mother’s trashy Baltimoron family and moved us to rural Westminster, Maryland. A daily reminder of the despised Baltimorons, he referred to me as the Guido that came with the marriage. While he might have felt trapped in the country with me, life in the country trapped me with a neighbor who sexually abused me until he went to college, and I started first grade. Rape soon morphed into schoolyard bullying, and combined with beatings from parents, the Baltimoron culture of toughness seemed to mosaic childhood in violence. 

Stretching and yawning brought to mind the day I left Baltimore and the clarity held before leaving. Reasons for leaving seemed simple, wanting to avoid the conflicting rules like don’t be a sissy and stand up for yourself, only girls cry, and man up that formed the Baltimoron culture of toughness. While meant to impart strength, those values also reinforced the violence, abuse, and constant provocation I desired to escape. In the past, the Baltimoron became the focus of blame for abuse and violence, or at least, worsening them. This blame still held some merit because in the culture of toughness, the undiscerning-strong attack the wounded, mistaking them for the weak. 

Shrugging off the past, the new day’s plan entailed a job search and a new perspective. A few years away eroded misplaced blame of the Baltimoron, allowing a comfortable feeling in Maryland. The true dismay in coming back to Baltimore took root in returning as a failed writer, soldier, and husband. The ex-wife’s thoroughness in the divorce left little money, a lot of anger, and no choice but to return to Baltimore for knowing the town and job opportunities available. 

Turning and sitting on the edge of the bed, thoughts of places to get a job stirred with possibilities. Qualified for the plentiful undesirable jobs in Baltimore due to lack of education and qualifications, I considered returning to college. The dream of earning the stamp of job-worthy faded in current debt and deep-rooted resentments towards academia. Memories of uncaring teachers watching kids bullied and sometimes performing the bullying still haunted. Dino and Opal gave pause to the hostility held for teachers, but returning to school still lacked appeal and relegated me to the crap jobs. 

No phone calls from the temp agency the night before or in the morning cleared the day for job hunting. The temp agency called most days because I showed up and worked, but the pay sucked. Needing steady work impelled a personal search of an industrial park about a mile from the apartment instead of relying on newspaper classifieds. 

A shower and cup of coffee launched a short walk to the industrial park, which seemed worth the effort when the first building encountered displayed a now-hiring sign, but on entering, one of six guys sitting outside waved a hand to stop me. “Man, you don’t want to work here.” 

“What’s wrong with the place?” 

The men responded by a lift of hands, revealing an assortment of old injuries, mainly traumatic amputations of digits. The man who stopped me pointed half an index finger to the road running into the industrial park. “Go up the street, yo. There’s a moving company ‘bout a block up, and you’ll find work there. You too late now, but go there tomorrow morning, like five a.m., and ask if they got work. They always got work because the job sucks. They’ll give you ten an hour cash, but they’ll try to get you for eight.” 

“Thanks.” I nodded and took the advice, returning home to leave the next day at four-thirty a.m. The predawn walk to the moving company recalled the military and working in restaurants as a kid, confirming that all crappy jobs started at five a.m. or earlier. Believing the military would end job frustrations made the service a tremendous disappointment. Preconceived notions that the Army supported camaraderie and loyalty proved false when the Army offered nothing more than a fast-food occupation that treated an enlisted person like an indentured servant. Looking back, the only reasons for why the Army held some promise of a better life seemed to reside in a brief experience with military school and some family connections with the service. Slight desperation also drove my enlistment as life in Florida devolved from a hopeful struggle to be a writer to endless daily work doldrums. 

Turning and walking into the industrial park brought many negative thoughts of work. In many ways, work’s unfairness just naturally extended from other parts of life. Ushered along by coaches and teachers from one point of life to the next, little leaguers became varsity, then college players, then onto good jobs or managers while most people earned their way. Even average people went from high school to college or a job and exerted effort, earned raises, and as long as they didn’t mind living the life patterned for them, they lived in relative peace. The outcast didn’t have this option, and the push towards the bottom of life once haunted me with the questions of why this is happening and why I am not normal? Why I wasn’t normal once disturbed me to nightmares. Realizing the reality of normal, eventually, ended inner conflict but produced a fatalist understanding of life's futile endeavor. Had my birth occurred in a caring family, falling victim to sexual assault might never have occurred, smoothening life's journey in a well-adjusted, compliant state, providing more friends, ignoring the internal confrontation with bisexuality, earning possibly a sentence to Jesus Camp for Queers to learn to emulate the good people who played sports and bullied the ugly kids and fags, but none of this happened. 

I stopped walking and looked back to make sure I didn't pass the moving company, and looking ahead in the darkness, lights from a yard filled with trucks appeared the likely destination. Continuing to walk towards the undesired job held the ironic truth. From the moment of birth, life forged a path to this job, and the question of why held the disturbing answer that the pattern of life chooses winners and losers from one generation to the next using affluence, attractiveness, wealth, race, sex, gender, and a hoard of other factors. This truth appeared obvious when young, upper-middle-class, white kids went missing, mobilizing police and media to find them with a force that occurs for no one else. 

Yet, learning this truth neared impossible except in a meaningless academic manner or thrust into the outcast role. Even the outcast struggled to understand since pervasive inequality mired in the difficulty of constant blame for one's injustice. The language of the oppressor underlies the mundane, daily, thoughtless discussions and rules, claiming it’s your fault you’re poor, and people choose to be victims. Whatever inequality or disposition suffered, society tells you it’s your fault, and this circular blame wraps in religion, faith, norms, and every part of life, making it impossible to separate much less fight. Rebelling led to futile dreams and bad relationships, but more than that, hypocrisy. Even if I knew how to be a bisexual, there was no talking about it or being open with people. I learned a long time ago, listening to bosses and fellow workers speak in epithets, that any declaration of honesty meant opening life to more ridicule and threats to an already meager living thrust upon me. Any belief held for winning the unwinnable battle disappeared in the Army and divorce. Since the age of eighteen, fighting taught nothing other than relationships suck, and the only thing good about a job is getting paid. The only real aspirations remaining centered on writing, hopefully getting published, and maybe having a successful book. 

Thoughts of bad jobs continued to grow, nearing the massive Atlas Movers’ sign displaying a man holding the planet on his back with the words printed on the logo’s earth, 

Rows and rows of eighteen-wheelers lined the yard with the same logo while gathering workers moved in between trucks and the building as the awakening titan prepared to move the world. With a sigh of reluctance, I walked through the yard of trucks to the building. Behind the counter in the dispatch area, the dispatcher, a short man in stature and tone, barked, “What do you want?” 

“I heard you needed help.” 

“You got any experience?” 

“No.” 

He pointed to a clipboard on the counter. “Sign your name and take a seat in the driver’s lounge. You’ll work as a driver’s helper on a truck, and the driver will pay you as a subcontractor. I’ll call your name if a driver needs to hire someone.” 

Confident of receiving work, I signed the clipboard. The moving and storage industry seemed no different than other undesirable, manual labor jobs that dictated success based on good attendance due to a lack of manpower; not that success concerned me since the job provided only a temporary means to a goal. 

In the driver’s lounge, the television blared the news as I ruminated my loose-knit career plan. In the past, the plan focused on obtaining a job that allowed comfortable living while writing books and finding an agent or publisher. The plan began at age eighteen after writing my first book and entailed escaping Baltimore to Florida to become a full-time author. A few expensive years of writing and mailing manuscripts and queries failed to publish. 

In retrospect, the plan failed from not writing, the bane of any author. The problem lacked complexity: one can’t publish what’s not written. Modifications to the plan included practical goals such as actually writing and actually trying to publish. While hopeful of the future, experience stole a lot of faith from the plan and its ability to accomplish goals. 

Interrupting thoughts of life’s great narrative, a tall, slender, elderly man entered the room and opened a plastic trash bag to empty the room’s waste bin while asking if I was trying to get a job. 

I nodded. “Yeah, trying.” 

He worked a new bag into the can. “This is where you’ll be movin’ real good. Is both redeemer and hangman’s hood. The day ends the same way that it starts. Beginning with heavy weight that smarts. And ending with the weight on the heart.” 

“Thanks.” I watched him work the janitor position and later learned his name was Raimo. Every company had a Raimo characterized by obvious mental deficiencies and the ability to be invisible to staff and customers. Raimos kept to themselves, and when they talked, they usually rambled in an odd, religious, nonsensical, or ambiguous manner. Their positions required little contact with customers and limited communication with the staff, making them desirable to bosses along with the pittance paid them to complete all the shitty, undesirable tasks. Raimo wiped the dirty tabletops. “The men still be movin’ good right now. End of the line for those who know how. The great ones have abandoned us all. Place of pain, we have no one to call. Where the dark one lives, enslaving us all.” 

Raimo served another integral purpose in the workplace hierarchy as the bottom rung on the great corporate ladder, allowing everyone above to feel good by shitting on the guy at the bottom. The secretary, irritated with the boss’s undesired sexual advances, released her frustrations by scolding Raimo about dirty bathrooms or trashcans overflowing. The boss, sitting in his office hoping for new business to magically appear, assigned Raimo new shitty projects that worked Raimo in a fantasy of management skill that feigned the creation of profit and productivity. Raimos never complained, worked diligently, and if not for their lack of mental ability, the bosses would fill the workforce with them. The ironic plight of the boss clarified in Raimo with the best employee lacking the ability to perform most jobs and could only go about the business of cleaning the business, muttering nonsensically, “The God of Plenty’s Will must provide. Unseen, he releases her with pride. Will we know the value of this play? Men who worked and slaved their lives away. Send us to wander the deepest Hell. To where my brothers and sisters dwell.” 

Watching Raimo work made clear he held the best job since he came and went unnoticed, and neither bosses nor staff bothered him beyond asking for trashcans to be emptied or occasionally rubbing him with the boner of authority. His job also had the most security because the guy paid minimum wage doesn’t worry about termination during economic downturns, not that he seemed to worry about such things as he worked and rambled, “Bear the weight; we weep and pray, ‘No more.’ The Gods give mercy to us no more. Massive unending torturous weight. Weight you will be forced to love and hate. Of those who can endure endless weight. The world to hold and move is their fate. 

“World is movin’ good, movin’ real straight. Into your fate, that’s nothing and great. Dark is the spring when it turns to bones. Shade will claim and take the souls it owns. They’re all waiting for you outside. Cast down but still standing side by side. And waiting for their eternal rest. Hurled into the task that they do best.” 

One rung above Raimo on the corporate ladder meant slightly higher pay and more responsibility, causing me to eye the janitor position in a new appeal until interrupted by a crowd of workers filling the room as the dispatcher called my name.  

In the office, the dispatcher argued with a driver who complained, “He’s new, and he’ll break shit.” 

The dispatcher pointed to me. “He’s fine. He fucking shows up on time, and he doesn’t smell like booze.” 

I neared the counter. “Hey man, I promise I won’t be a crackhead. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”  

“See, he’s all right.” The dispatcher returned to shuffling paperwork. 

The driver cast a worried look. “Okay, just be careful.” 

He motioned to follow and explained the day’s work on the way to the truck. “We’re going to be offloading about twenty-thousand pounds today. The house is not too far, just over the Virginia line, and if we leave now, we’ll beat the really bad traffic.” 

Stepping up and in the passenger side of the rig while he entered the driver’s side, the discussion continued. “Now look, you’re new, so just do everything I tell you, and you’ll be fine. You seem like a decent enough guy, and the dispatcher said you show up on time. That’s a big thing in this business. If you show up on time and you’re reliable, then you’ll be successful.”  

“That’s right!” A voice from the sleeper compartment shouted as a skinny young man with a fierce bedhead appeared from under a pile of blankets. “Me and Larry been doing this a long time. You new? Don’t worry; we’ll get you trained. Just follow what we do, and you’ll be fine. You don’t want to blow a tip, so…” 

Other than acting like moving furniture was a form of rocket science, the guys were cool, and the day went well, even a little fun. When the end of the day came, Larry completed the paperwork with the customer while Ned and I finished loading the equipment and trash. Larry exited the house and handed us our pay, including an extra fifty dollars each the customer tipped, which far exceeded the assumed earning of ten dollars an hour. Drivers paid good movers a dollar on the hundredweight or one dollar per hundred pounds and receiving two-hundred-fifty dollars for twelve hours of work felt shocking never earning this much from a job. 

After returning to Atlas at the end of the day, the walk home filled with a hope for life shifting in the right direction. The prospect of earning good money caused excitement for possibly fulfilling the plan to be a writer. The job sucked like most laborious jobs but would get me where I needed to go. 

Move Chapters

COPYRIGHT 

Copyright 2019-2020 by Vincent Triola 
Move Edition II ASIN: B084RS9MRN 
Registered with the Writers Guild of America West 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of Vincent Triola. 
For questions or concerns contact VincentTriola.com 
Move is purely fiction. 

DEDICATED TO

Tom Y. & Bruce H. for saving my life, 
Valerie A. for keeping my cats safe when I was sick, 
Alicia M., whose journeys inspired me,
Annie W. Y. for selflessly helping me while suffering her loss, 
Frank A., whose friendship gave me solace, rest in peace, 
All the Titans who moved the world one household at a time. 

Move is the fifth book in the Memories of Emily Hexalogy. You can read these books in any order. 

I know Move seems real, and you think a character might be you, but it really is just fiction, asshole. 

Friedrich, God is sleeping in our dreams. 

When the punks and liars speak, tell them to go fuck themselves. 

Prologue 

A murmur of voices increased as my eyes opened, revealing Miguel’s sleeping head cradled in his hand supported by an arm rooted in the desktop at the elbow. From his hanging jaw, drool slowly poured and pooled on the desk, causing a visceral turn of my attention to Capt. Chinetti's lecture. “…and the Gods were similar to mortals. They shared human physical appearance, mated with humans, and had the same emotions. The Greek deities differed from the Christian God in other ways, like their propensity for jealousy, anger, greed, and other human vices. When Zeus intervenes to help the mortals, he acts not out of kindness or empathy but out of vanity. Zeus and the other Gods save humanity so they can continue receiving offerings and sacrifices. What does this say about the Gods?” 

I raised a hand and replied when recognized. “Maybe the Gods were corrupted by their power. Maybe the mythology is a larger lesson showing how anyone given power is prone to selfishness, anger, and other vices. This story also shows the Gods are hypocritical since they pass judgment on humans despite their failings.”  

“That’s good, Vince, but take your thoughts a step further. Perhaps the Gods were meant to be just like us but with extraordinary powers. Perhaps they are reflections of us. They may not reflect good or bad but instead show the complexity and frailty of the human condition. Not all Gods were malevolent towards humans, and many acts of kindness occur in the stories. In the Iliad, Hermes escorts Priam through the Greek camp to claim Hector’s body. In the Odyssey, Odysseus receives help from several gods on his journey. Perhaps the religion evolved this way from the belief that Gods are everywhere and helping and punishing humans. How are the Olympians further differentiated from the Abrahamic God?” 

A glance at the textbook jarred memories from reading. “Maybe they're not so different, at least in the way they’re perceived. The Christian God is discussed often in terms of omnipresence like God is love or God is everywhere. The Olympians share this quality in the way they explain the nature of things. Apollo riding his chariot is the rising and setting of the sun. Demeter causes spring to emerge from the winter. Persephone is the harvest or spring coming to life from death or Hades.” 

“Interesting, Vince. Can anyone else think of other examples of these similarities or differences?” Capt. Chinetti's voice faded into the background as dreams of Olympians and Titans mixed with considerations of life. Is my life mine? Am I directed by the unseen one or ones? Is someone out there helping or punishing me? Perhaps something led me, perhaps not, but I only depended on the girl of dreams and prayed for her in the surrender to my lie. 

~From The Forge

Fragments

Dumbass

We often ordered from a Chinese restaurant not far from the apartment and window-shopped the strip mall’s neighboring stores while awaiting the order. Once, walking along the storefronts, we jostled in light banter, and amidst the laughter, Farrah called me an asshole, and I returned the jab, which accidentally resonated cold and sharp in a slow-motion for knowing the wrongness but being powerless to stop the thoughtless words’ escape from my mouth. “You fat-ass.” 

Trying to cover the mistake produced jovial words to deflect attention from the utterance, which she ignored, stopped walking, and glared, curling her lip. She said nothing and resumed walking to the restaurant as I issued apologies behind her. 

A thick, heavy silence hung in the Jeep ride home then filled the apartment upon entering. While unpacking the food, the silence persisted, which I tried to break by extending a bag of egg rolls to her. She spooned rice from a carton, appearing to take no notice of the offering, raising eyebrows and sighing, “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to make my big, fat ass any larger.” 

The silence continued into the evening and into bed, where she curled with an unusual distance between us. Thinking affection might cure the situation, I tried to place an arm across her, instigating an elbow deflection that caught my forearm, striking the muscle deep. “Ow!” 

She lifted her head, not looking in my direction. “Oh, did the massive weight of my fat ass get away from me? Sometimes I lose control of the momentum. I’m sorry.” 

I stared at the ceiling for some time. It’s Sunday. I’ll go to work tomorrow and let all this blow over. 

Confident in time’s curative power, I gave her the night and the next day to forgive and forget. Upon entering the apartment Monday evening, I found her on the sofa watching TV, and while kicking off shoes by the door, I tested the situation, “Hey, what’s up?” 

She turned and stared with the same glare unwithered by the day. Impatience stole my senses. “Alright, I’m sorry. I really meant to be funny, and it came out all wrong, and the moment I said it, I knew I fucked up. That’s why I apologized right away; it was a stupid thing to say.” 

“I don’t say things I know you find hurtful.” She raised her eyebrows. 

As if a chasm opened from dumb’s Tartarus beneath, and specters of stupid possessed my reply, “I’m sorry, but you know you’re not fat. You know you’re hot.” 

She stood. “Had I known living with a geek would be this hard, I would’ve stuck with the assholes. Are you really this much of a dumbass?” 

Not knowing what to say caused retreat. “I’m sorry.” 

She folded her arms, scowling. “How can you read a new book every other day, write constantly, and still be an idiot?” 

I folded my arms, looking down, not understanding. 

“Me and every other girl, probably in the universe, worry about our weight and every other thing about us because everyone’s always judging. Whether I know I’m hot or not doesn’t matter because it’s the judgment behind what you said that came through loud and clear in your mean tone. Look, can we be honest?” 

I nodded. 

“I know I’m attractive. I feel the stares, but I would be nothing more than the object of those stares if I didn’t recognize the ignored girl, or worse yet, the girl sitting alone, catching stares because she feels unattractive. If I call you a dumbass, you know it’s not true because everyone isn’t telling you how stupid you are every day. Every day every girl walks out of her house and feels the stares: good, bad, or absent. You told me you know that girl? That you felt that stare when people ridiculed you as a kid. I believed you, but the way you said fat ass made you sound like another phony only interested in a piece of ass. You know me and how I hate phonies. Please don’t be a phony.” 

I looked up. “I know that stare. I do. I love you, and I don’t know why I said it so mean, but I would never hurt you on purpose. Maybe I need to exercise more understanding and not be such a hypocrite. I’m sorry.” 

She nodded, and we stood a moment until she shrugged, rolling her eyes. “You can hug me now, dumbass.” 

We laughed and hugged a short time before she looked up. “You need to heat up the leftover Chinese.” She pointed to her face. “This beauty needs sustenance.” 

2000

Entering the liquor store, I waved to the owner, and his head turned in a slight nod, then returned to some sport blaring from the small television on the counter he sat behind. Visiting the store since ninety-three meant nothing to this new owner. The previous owner and son knew me, and we often joked and discussed life’s trivialities. They knew Farrah and kept a bottle of Sterling dark red behind the counter, knowing she purchased the brand once a week. Those owners were good people, but this guy rode the nerves with an uncaring attitude complimented by a shitty Baltimoron accent, probably from Essex. 

Grabbing a vodka bottle from the shelf, I paused at the adjacent wine aisle, considering a purchase of Sterling but remembered one rested on the kitchen counter. A slight laugh rose stifled by half a smile, imagining her on the sofa listening to music while reading a magazine with the Sterling, a pint of vodka, and a half-filled glass resting on the coffee table. Entering the apartment late on Friday evenings routinely caused her to abandon the magazine and launch into a myriad of topics that followed me into the bedroom, provoking “yeses” and “rights” as I changed. I emerged plopping next to her on the sofa for wine and chips. Not a sommelier, she haphazardly tossed a half-shot of vodka into the wine glass, stirring with a corn chip while talking. Stopping abruptly to swat my arm as I shook my head, she laughed, “Hey, it relaxes me.” 

Those were awesome, fleeting Fridays disappearing into longer days for me and second shifts for her. Life was supposed to get easier after we moved, supplying more time for our marriage, but all Fridays disappeared instead, leaving only the job. 

Returning to the front of the store to pay, I waited at the counter as the new owner lazily stood, lifting the chiming cell phone from the counter, pulling the antenna. “What?” 

Rude piece of shit. I peeled a twenty from a handful of wadded bills, placing it on the counter as thoughts of the old owner and son drifted in the curiosity of why they sold the store. When was the last time I saw them? The inability to remember fragmented their meaningfulness into fleeting moments of quick conversations and purchases. The new owner continued arguing into the cellphone, tossing the change on the counter, which I snatched with the bottle and left. 

Stepping outside into the evening’s cold air, I stopped. The winter never seemed to end. What month is it? I knew it earlier because I wrote the date on freight bills at work. The realization of March-second struck me, as did the foreignness of the year. Time’s rapid shift from 1995 to 2000 left me somewhere between. A woman in the dimness of her car talking on a phone seemed to evidence the change from age twenty-five to thirty. In that time, computers like the behemoth haunting our desk at home evolved into a common sight of people lugging laptops while talking on cell phones that fast replaced the pager haunting my pocket. Images of Farrah struggling with the computer while paging her friend to ask about some digital function evoked a laugh. Many times, she curled her lip, baring teeth at the monitor. 

Laughing while climbing in the Jeep, the drive home ended in a minute, realizing the mistake of navigating to the old apartment instead of our new place, issuing a smack to the wheel. “Shit! I’m so fucking tired.” Eli-Sue’s approached on the left, and entering the bar’s parking lot to turn around, the empty lot and building’s darkness halted the Jeep. I exited the Jeep and walked to the glass doors, and from the darkness within peered the vacant room containing only the barren bar and glass shelves beyond. When had the place closed? I just saw some of her old coworkers at the reception on the twenty-ninth of December, but with everything rushed around the holidays, I likely forgot someone told me. 

Cupping eyes with hands to see past the window’s twilight glare provided no clue to the bar’s closing. When was the last time we were here? Ninety-eight, maybe ninety-nine? Yes, we came here for her graduation celebration after the clinic hired her in ninety-eight. Lisa, classmates, coworkers, Sharem, Diek, Lil, AX, and even some of her friends from Meals on Wheels filled the five tables pushed together. There were shots, sex-on-the-beaches, and much laughter. That was a great night. She was so happy to have finally finished her degree. 

She squeezed against me, sharing the table’s side, talking into the sea of conversation that crashed between people before ebbing back into separate pools of friends murmuring. In the calm of talk, she turned to me and smashed her right eye closed, clenching forehead and cheek unable to wink properly, drawing my laugh. She threw an elbow to my chest while raising a cheek, demanding a kiss as a tribute for the indiscretion. Satisfied with a kiss, she returned to the conversation’s tempest, leaving me to watch her antics. 

The light’s soft glow refracted her movement, highlighting subtle lines, revealing the face and form of a different person. The lost girl who accidentally dated cheating assholes while serving drinks and fake smiles to drunks to pay for school blossomed into a career-oriented graduate with big plans to help other people. I rubbed her back, reminded of a time not so long before in this same bar when I became a working, confirmed bachelor born from divorce and failed careers. Now, born again, a loyal, struggling-author boyfriend seeking more than just a “big publishing break” but an honest, self-articulation in words, made only possible by her. 

She resolved the prior life’s conflict, confusion, aesthetic mirage, and impossibility to know beauty: something all philosophy books failed to solve in her playful, silly wink that reconstructed life on new terms. The broken, goofy wink compelled into aspirations once flighty dreams, even once laughable marriage dreams. The wink clarified beauty’s power that commanded me to be different and better than I or anyone believed possible. 

Stepping back from the glass, the bar’s darkness focused, shutting the memory as quickly as it appeared. The life’s resurgence washed over in the job’s grinding exhaustion still stealing our time as it had from the day we met, breaking life into mirror fragments reflecting us. Stepping back, closing eyes, warm tears rolled against my cold cheeks as I laughed, “You really can’t wink at all.”