Moving: Part God I’ve moved too many times

Dedicated Seinfield fans will understand that, between guys, asking a friend to help you move is like going all the way – there’s no bigger commitment than that. There’s heavy lifting, lots of grunting and maneuvering, and endless categorization on both sides of the move. It is, to put it lightly, a pain in the ass. I’ve talked about this before.

But yesterday, when Bryan needed my help moving all his worldly possessions six blocks away, I agreed. That’s what bros are for, you know? I’d go all the way with Bryan any day of the week, man. Metaphorically. Anyway.

Bryan has the same problem I do: he can’t bear to throw away even the most trivial junk. I don’t envy him the Sisyphean task of sorting through the knickknacks sprinkled liberally throughout every box, bag, and spare cranny. It is how he is undoubtedly spending his time as I write this. He had his clothing packed away into garbage bags (despite my protests that doing so was undeniably slutty) and a couple boxes filled with books when Gabe and I arrived to help him schlep, but other than that his little basement room was still in its usual condition. We packed as we moved, tearing posters off the wall and stuffing them into spare bags, throwing a handful of thumb tacks into a random box, stuffing random bric-a-brac into whatever cavity was handy. There was literally no method to our madness, other than fitting everything into his little pickup truck. The goal was just to get everything in his old apartment safely into his new one in as few car loads as possible; it took us only two, so I’d say we succeeded.

Success is a relative term, though. True, all the things that used to be in his old room are now in his new apartment, but it will take some sort of miracle for him to find any of them ever again. The boxes, bags, and random containers are stacked as tall as the eye can see, in ranks and files stretching back nigh unto the dawn of time. Good luck with that, Bryan. For his part, he fed Gabe and I a pork soup called pizola and gave us some beers for the hassle. He’s a swell guy.

Moving is always sad for me, even when it’s not my own place. When Marta abandoned her house on 17th Street that she lived in last summer, it nearly broke my heart. All the memories in that place, scattered as thick as the dust … we left them. I think I was more upset about it than she was. As for Bryan’s place: dank little basement though it was, I loved that room, and I’m going to miss it. He had to get out or risk losing his sanity but I wish, for my own selfish sake, that he had stayed.

Oh, the Daily published that article I was bitching about not getting published last week. The story is that they had less space than expected and held it until this week, and the mail server at the Daily offices was broken so word never reached me. As usual, I am histrionic.