It's a sweltering Sunday morning in August, and I'm helping my friend pack her house into a horse trailer so she can leave Tallahassee, leave me, go far away and be a professor in Palm Beach.
That's OK. She will be happier there.
She hates moving, so I keep things light.
I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.
Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.
Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.
He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.
He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?
No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.
Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.
Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.
Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.
So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.
Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.
Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.
That look.
The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.
15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.
By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.
Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.
Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.
He follows.
Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.
He mops his face with a towel.
Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?
I smile right into his beet red face.
On top of your girlfriend.
I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.
Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.
But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.
That's OK. She will be happier there.
She hates moving, so I keep things light.
I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.
Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.
Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.
He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.
He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?
No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.
Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.
Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.
Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.
So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.
Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.
Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.
That look.
The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.
15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.
By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.
Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.
Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.
He follows.
Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.
He mops his face with a towel.
Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?
I smile right into his beet red face.
On top of your girlfriend.
I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.
Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.
But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.
