Saturday was moving day. I cant drive and had never moved house by myself before so I hired a sketchy man-with-van outfit. Conscious of the $65 hourly charge, I schlepped all my boxes down to the curb under the gaze of the upstairs neighbors. The Ecuadorian drivers parked at the end of the street, strapped on weight-lifting belts and we began to load the rickety truck. The load looked pathetically small when wed finished.
You sure this is it, lady?
I begged them to let me ride in the truck with them to Queens. I was too cheap to spring for car service and certain they would never find my sisters house otherwise. There were only two seats, but finally they gave in and we squeezed in. We chatted about the World Cup. They asked where Id learned my prissy Castilian lisped Cs and Zs.
Irlanda? Del sur o del norte?
De la republica. Del sur.
Gravely, they congratulated me on Irelands victory draw against Germany. I wished them luck against Mexico.
In Astoria, we parked at the end of the road again and began to unload. They humored me as I gasped under tiny loads and overtook me carrying four times as much.
These boxes are all books? You read too much, said Carlos wiping away sweat.
In forty five minutes, everything I owned was in Claires apartment. Carlos looked around as he totted up the bill.
Well, he said in Spanish and shook his head. You had a beautiful apartment before, but I hope you will be happy here.