Friday, October 15, 2010

Charlie listed our moving boxes on Craig's List, "Free." I counted about 100 flattened in our garage and we wanted someone who would come and get all of them at once. He's been corresponding all week with people who only want some. People who ask him how many will fit in THEIR car. People who want our address to come by and look before they'll commit.

Today Charlie asked me if I'd be home at 1 p.m. because some guy said he'd come and get them all. "No, I have yoga at 1:30," I said. (It's my third week of attempting to make Buffalo a transformative experience for my bod, too.) Nevertheless, the bell rang at 12:55 p.m. and they guy was here and Charlie was not. So, I go stand in the garage and watch the guy load up his mini-van. "You got a pool back there?" "Yup," I say." "How big is it?" "I dunno," I say. "It's rectangular." "You're just like my wife," he says. "She doesn't know the dimensions of anything either. She doesn't even know what 12 inches is."

I know where this is going. I look down, I walk around to look around for garbage to throw out, turning my back to the giant sized man. (His dimensions, I can judge.) Besides, earlier in our meeting he already told me, as if I was wondering silently, that he weighs 225 and is over 6 feet.

The large man continues, he has a kind of Rodney Dangerfield delivery, he twitches and pinches his crotch just a little, through his shiny sweat pants. "I tell her, you know what you're getting from me once a week? It's not 12 inches."

I stare blankly at him. Charlie arrives in the garage doorway. It's 1:28 p.m. I've missed yoga.