Monday morning junkluggers

The sound of a mosquito's ominous hum magnified a hundredfold awoke me from my deep slumber on Monday morning. It had been a late night of packing, the final push before moving day, and I had collapsed on my sister's bed. Slowly coming to my senses despite the nasal drone of our door buzzer, I mutter, "Who is that?" Immediately panic forces my eyes completely open and I sit upright, "The junkluggers are here!"

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Now Jenny is frantic, and the two of us are scrambling like ants trying to find clean clothes amidst the sea of boxes, some taped closed, others overflowing with their contents--clearly NOT ready to be moved. (Thankfully, the movers were scheduled to come later that day.) Thirty seconds later, during which time I've found more dirty expletives to use than I normally do in a year, I'm running to the door, traces of drool still on my face, my uncombed wild woman hair flying every which way.

Our junkerluggers, two young lanky looking people in their late 20s, one guy and one girl, puzzled me. They appeared so ... normal. Granted, they were much taller than me, but I had expected a team of brawny strapping men with bulging biceps to arrive and muscle the massive couch in our living room down the four flights of stairs of our elevator-less apartment. Maybe these were the greeters and the real luggers were still downstairs?? Dressed in bright green t-shirts with their company logo, junkluggers.com, they looked more like Geek Squad than gladiator.

The bearded quiet guy politely asked which things we wanted them to make disappear. Jenny listed our unwanted furniture, all too flimsy or too old to be wanted by anyone in their right mind. And then, before our very eyes, these two very nice and very normal people started hauling off a twin-size mattress and box spring with the same ease and casualness as I would a music stand. Was I really awake?

I glanced at Jenny and said out loud, "Could we have moved all this stuff ourselves and saved some money?" Then I looked out the door at the four flights of stairs. Nope. Not a chance.

* * * * *

Two beds, a desk, and kitchen table later, the guy asks, "So, where are you going?"

"San Francisco."

"Oh," he looks at me knowingly, "I did that a while back."

Immediately I perk up. (By this time I have washed my face and combed my hair and am able to make small talk.) "How was that? Why did you come back here?"

"Well," says he, "I ran out of money and after being homeless for six months I got tired of that and came back."

Strangely enough, he was the second person I had met within a 24-hour period who had migrated west to California and migrated right back to New York after disillusionment--our lugger with homelessness, our waitress from the night before with the night life.

I have no illusions of being homeless or a party animal--they just aren't my particular cup of tea--so I continue to move forward.