So the moving truck comes down my little street and it’s huge, built to hold about 45,000 tons. The drive only does long-haul relo-type jobs, and he’s got a crew of three guys who are packing demons.
They pack and load most of our household in one day, then hunker down in the truck to pass the night. The cab has two beds, a john, VCR, DVD, Playstation, and who knows what else.
It’s about 10 pm and my doorbell rings. I, of course, am junking out on episode 3 of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy(it’s getting old, fast).
Mr. Green Jeans, my retired neighbor with waayyy too much time on his hands, is at the door. He’s in his undershirt, which is frightening. “That truck, the motor’s running,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Do those guys need some light? I could get an extension cord and run it outside and rig up some Christmas tree lights so they have external light,” Mr G-J says.
“Is the truck bothering you?” I ask. “If it is, I can talk to them can ask them to turn it off.”
He squints at me. “You talk to them by cell phone?
“No, I’d go down to the truck.”
I spend the next 10 minutes politely demurring as he keeps offering to rig up a light source for them from the Christmas lights in his attic. At a certain point in the conversation, I start thinking, “I am moving tomorrow. This guy is a well-known meddler. Why am I listening politely like this all might make sense? Why don’t I just tell him to stuff it?” but I keep nodding, just going along, until the moment comes when I can slam the front door shut, and deadbolt the lock.
Sad irony: The moving truck is kinda noisy…I feel bad about how the noise must be bothering everyone on our street.
So the moving truck comes down my little street and it’s huge, built to hold about 45,000 tons. The drive only does long-haul relo-type jobs, and he’s got a crew of three guys who are packing demons.
They pack and load most of our household in one day, then hunker down in the truck to pass the night. The cab has two beds, a john, VCR, DVD, Playstation, and who knows what else.
It’s about 10 pm and my doorbell rings. I, of course, am junking out on episode 3 of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy(it’s getting old, fast).
Mr. Green Jeans, my retired neighbor with waayyy too much time on his hands, is at the door. He’s in his undershirt, which is frightening. “That truck, the motor’s running,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Do those guys need some light? I could get an extension cord and run it outside and rig up some Christmas tree lights so they have external light,” Mr G-J says.
“Is the truck bothering you?” I ask. “If it is, I can talk to them can ask them to turn it off.”
He squints at me. “You talk to them by cell phone?
“No, I’d go down to the truck.”
I spend the next 10 minutes politely demurring as he keeps offering to rig up a light source for them from the Christmas lights in his attic. At a certain point in the conversation, I start thinking, “I am moving tomorrow. This guy is a well-known meddler. Why am I listening politely like this all might make sense? Why don’t I just tell him to stuff it?” but I keep nodding, just going along, until the moment comes when I can slam the front door shut, and deadbolt the lock.
Sad irony: The moving truck is kinda noisy…I feel bad about how the noise must be bothering everyone on our street.