Humping Furniture
Chapter 2. Book V ~ Edition II
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.