How About Giving Me a C-Note?

I took the Tuesday and Wednesday after Labor Day off work so I could assist with last-minute tasks at David and Lisa’s place in North Beach. I was in charge of bubble wrap (“Do you just want it covered or do you want it like Fort Knox?”), helping David wrap up the TV, and running errands (“Sure, I’ll go to Walgreens for more tape. Can I have a c-note?”)

I got to know their neighborhood, which is wonderful, better in those 24 or so hours than in my previous 25 years in San Francisco.

Their apartment, not to induce any regrets at this point, was absolutely enormous, which of course is that much more stuff to move, recycle, sell, or bestow on someone else. I personally scored a sturdy kitchen table and a microwave (formerly Lisa’s parents’) that fits under said table.

They had another errand to do that day, so they dropped the table and microwave off at my place, and then David joked that I had been smart in choosing to go to their place to help after everything would be done. He pretended to be me saying, “Are you sure there’s nothing at all I can do? Say, can I have some more apple juice?”

These items were offered first to Tom, who declined because he didn’t have room for them. Our apartments are identical in layout, so when he saw them in my place, he said with a faintly gloomy air, “Oh, I didn’t think of that spot.” I had to move a bicycle; he has a bicycle in the same place in his apartment.

I called my mother and said, “I’m a real person now! Tengo un microwevo. I made that last word up.”

“Great,” grumbled my mother. “It’s hard enough to learn Spanish without people making up new words on the spot.”

Besides being capacious, the ex-apartment of Lisa and David afforded splendid views. From the comfy chair in David’s ex-bay windows, you could see Coit Tower close at hand in one direction, and the spires of St. Peter and Paul church in Washington Square Park in another.

Once ensconced at their place—the comfy chair was quite a good spot to sit while awaiting assignments—I further acquired some pens, a bizarre crimping implement, and a crystal, over which we did a brief ceremony to imbue it with lucky powers. David performed the incantation while the three of us held hands.

There was a stipulation, however. David said, “If we start having bad luck in Seattle, you have to send it to us.”

“Fair enough; will do.”

“And if you start having bad luck, you can pass it on to someone else.”

“Oh, good idea.”

In the afternoon, David and Lisa went to fetch the truck, a dauntingly large 22-foot rental. David had arranged for a permit to park it in front of their apartment. He’s a great organizer; he thinks of everything.

We were up until 1:30 a.m. on Tuesday night and on duty again at 5:30 a.m. Wednesday. At 8 a.m., the two Irish movers arrived. When David called the day before to confirm they’d be there, the proprietor said, “Sure, they’ll be there—that’s when the bar closes.” Or at least that’s what David said he said.

The movers spent about three hours putting everything into the truck. Lisa and I walked to Liguria Bakery for focaccia, including pizza flavor, which was fantastic. Liguria is a historic bakery kitty-corner from the northeast corner of Washington Square Park. It was extremely civilized to sit down and have focaccia the very day of moving.

About then, it hit me that Lisa and David were about to drive off; it had been easy not to think of in all the activity. How amazing to think that all this should have resulted from David’s decision to return to school a handful of years ago.

David insisted on giving half a dozen pieces of focaccia to the movers, which mitigated my grief somewhat. In fact, I told him I would never forgive him for squandering it like that. Why do movers need focaccia more than I do?

Then the apartment was somehow empty and we were walking out the front door for the last time and they were putting their cat, Simone, on the bench seat of the big truck and securing her carrier with the third seatbelt.

I was fairly stricken by then and in tears by the time the big yellow truck turned the corner and was gone from sight.

I considered walking down to Market St. to metabolize the sadness, but decided I should just get on home and eat and take a nap, so I took a cab driven by an Indian who sang loudly to himself in his own language.

He noticed I was crying in the back seat and asked what the trouble was. I said my good friends had moved away. He said that’s what his song had been about. I’d intuited as much from the air of lamentation. Of course, he also said he'd like to live on another planet, so who knows what the song was really about?