Bit Lips and Polish on His Toe Nails
The nights that I had bit my lip. That raucous party noise from the end-unit townhouse, just up the street, with their close-quartered driveway parties.
But hey! I didn’t need the sleep anyway.
But today . . . a scene change.
In my obstinate individualism, I have packed and am loading all of my precious stuff, by myself, into the rental truck. Three hundred and 30 boxes, 25 pieces of Early Goodwill furniture.
But that refrigerator/freezer with an avoirdupois about equal to mine just would not go up that ramp into the truck. I simply could not do it by myself.
But up the street.
End townhouse, with party chairs on the driveway.
A man playing catch with a third of a dozen assorted little kids.
My bit lip and I realized what I needed to realize. I needed help.
I left that refrigerator, strapped to the hand-truck at the foot of the loading ramp, and walked up to an end-unit town house just up the street.
When it appeared to the man throwing the ball for youngsters to retrieve that I was starting to encroach on their space, he looked up.
“I wonder if you would help me with that refrigerator?” Pointing down to the truck in front of my place. “I simply cannot get that thing up the ramp by myself.”
“See my finger? It hurts!” From a little girl with pigtails and bright ribbons.
“An ouhwie?” I sympathized. I bent over to look. “I think it will get better.”
“Sure,” the man responded.
And our little herd wandered down to the loading ramp of that truck.
Today was a holiday in United States. I suppose he might have had a government job and he was the one home with the kids.
We didn’t talk.
He was barefoot, dressed in a Redskins tank-top, shorts, diamond stud in his right ear, vestiges of nail polish on his toe nails.
He had been patiently playing catch with three little kids . . . no preschool or kindergarten on this holiday.
With his leaning into the hand-truck and his help in pushing, that dead-weight of a refrigerator was levitated to the cavernous inside of that rental truck.
“Thank you, thank you.” I told him as I let the hand-truck come to an upright stop. “I simply could not have done this without you.”
“No problem, bro!”
And with a quick about face, the placing of a big black hand around the ouhwie fingered little hand of a little black girl, they headed back to that now noiseless end unit town house just up the street.
I am so thankful, that on those noisy nights, my lip had been bit.
Yes, we live in a close space . . . understanding and tolerance is the WD-40 and duct tape that makes stuff go and keeps stuff still in human relationships.
But now, the need is different. It isn’t the bit lip that hurts. I simply need some gay guy named Ben to rub that odiferous burning cream into a loudly protesting anatomy.
The Refectory Manager
But hey! I didn’t need the sleep anyway.
But today . . . a scene change.
In my obstinate individualism, I have packed and am loading all of my precious stuff, by myself, into the rental truck. Three hundred and 30 boxes, 25 pieces of Early Goodwill furniture.
But that refrigerator/freezer with an avoirdupois about equal to mine just would not go up that ramp into the truck. I simply could not do it by myself.
But up the street.
End townhouse, with party chairs on the driveway.
A man playing catch with a third of a dozen assorted little kids.
My bit lip and I realized what I needed to realize. I needed help.
I left that refrigerator, strapped to the hand-truck at the foot of the loading ramp, and walked up to an end-unit town house just up the street.
When it appeared to the man throwing the ball for youngsters to retrieve that I was starting to encroach on their space, he looked up.
“I wonder if you would help me with that refrigerator?” Pointing down to the truck in front of my place. “I simply cannot get that thing up the ramp by myself.”
“See my finger? It hurts!” From a little girl with pigtails and bright ribbons.
“An ouhwie?” I sympathized. I bent over to look. “I think it will get better.”
“Sure,” the man responded.
And our little herd wandered down to the loading ramp of that truck.
Today was a holiday in United States. I suppose he might have had a government job and he was the one home with the kids.
We didn’t talk.
He was barefoot, dressed in a Redskins tank-top, shorts, diamond stud in his right ear, vestiges of nail polish on his toe nails.
He had been patiently playing catch with three little kids . . . no preschool or kindergarten on this holiday.
With his leaning into the hand-truck and his help in pushing, that dead-weight of a refrigerator was levitated to the cavernous inside of that rental truck.
“Thank you, thank you.” I told him as I let the hand-truck come to an upright stop. “I simply could not have done this without you.”
“No problem, bro!”
And with a quick about face, the placing of a big black hand around the ouhwie fingered little hand of a little black girl, they headed back to that now noiseless end unit town house just up the street.
I am so thankful, that on those noisy nights, my lip had been bit.
Yes, we live in a close space . . . understanding and tolerance is the WD-40 and duct tape that makes stuff go and keeps stuff still in human relationships.
But now, the need is different. It isn’t the bit lip that hurts. I simply need some gay guy named Ben to rub that odiferous burning cream into a loudly protesting anatomy.
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 9:44 PM
1 Comments:
Talk about a twist! :)
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