My dad has a hernia and was told not to lift Heavy objects by his doctor.  But he helped with some of the less-bulky items and organized everything into the truck, Tetris-style.  Opening the truck, we revel in what an amazing job he did to make it all fit. 

Looking upon everything I own, stuffed in a truck, I want to take a picture.  I am so exhausted and sore that it is actually a struggle to take my cell phone out of my pocket, and my fingers prove to be dumb as I labor to snap a shot.

It's pathetic.  And it gets more and more pathetic as we go on, moving from the small and fluffy things which were last to go in to the large and heavy things which are deepest inside the truck.  Maybe my dad isn't so big of a genius after all.

*   *   *

Back in PA, it was my brother-in-law who was my counterpart for the lifting of the big-ticket items.  Like me, he was very sweaty and exhausted by the end.  As I stare at my behemoth of a couch, I can't help but be jealous as I envision him lying on his own couch at this very moment.

My arms are dead and useless, as are my hands.  Moments ago, I struggled to get my fingers to cooperate enough to turn a doorknob, so it is a wonder that I am able to use them underneath the side of a couch.

My fingers don't last long.  We are barely down the ramp of the truck before I have to push my hands down the underside of the couch, using my forearms to take most of the weight.

My forearms don't last long either.

By the time we make it to the door of the complex, I need to ask for a break.

We need to go up three flights of stairs, so naturally there are three more breaks in store for us.  The breaks last way longer than they should, and I utilize the time by wiping the stream of sweat from my brow, attempting to catch my breath, and muttering phrases like "Fuck me" and "Oh sweet Jesus why?" over and over, all while Jeremy looks down sadly upon me, a couch-length up the stairs.

By the final flight of stairs, I am actually using my face to help push the couch up the remaining steps.  With a bit of rotation, we get it through my door and plop it down along the wall and I collapse onto it, vowing to ensure that this is its final resting place.  If I move away in a year, this is where the couch will remain.

*   *   *

I'm back in the truck.  There are only a few things left, and most of them are boxes of books.  They vary in degrees of heaviness, and I am trying to judge which one is the least heavy without having to expend any energy by actually lifting it.

Before I can make my selection, a woman's voice disrupts me from outside the truck.

"Comin' or goin?" she asks.

She looks like she is 80-years-old, but if I had to guess, I would say she is no older than 40.  She looks up at me with an indirect gaze and a sway to her stance, as if she is trying to compensate for the rotation of the Earth.

If I were a betting man, I'd wager all of my earthly possessions (which I just moved) on the fact that this woman likes cocaine.  A lot.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"You movin' in or out?" she clarifies, kinda drunkenly.

"Moving in!" I say, cheerfully.

"Your Girlfriend helping you?" she asks, pointing to my wrist.

"Yea she's in there," I say, pointing to the apartment, where Jess has been organizing for ten minutes.

"That's a shame," she says, and walks away.

I am really excited.

A real-life crack head, right here in Glen Burnie!  Talking to me!  Hitting on me!  And what an observant crackhead.  She surmised that I had a girlfriend, not by seeing my girlfriend, but by seeing her hair band on my wrist!  And it was all business with this woman: once it was confirmed that I did, in fact, have a girlfriend, she just went on her way without even saying goodbye!

I look up to my apartment, praying that my dad, Jess, or Jeremy saw what just happened and are standing in the window, laughing their asses off.  But they are not.

As I watch her shuffle away, I am saddened by the fact that nobody saw her.

What's even more sad is that I somehow feel accomplished.  Like I am some sort of hunk, the likes of which horny crack-whores have never seen. 

But perhaps the saddest thing is the fact that I feel lucky that I picked this day to move in because I was able to meet a crackhead.  As if this will be an isolated incident.

As if meeting unsavory characters in Glen Burnie is a rare event.

-Youngman Brown