The furniture and boxes arrived yesterday starting at 9AM. Before that, I was jumpy, stirring at the sound of every truck that passed no matter what time in the morning it was. My senses were raw, I was ready to jump when told to.
It was funny to see the same driver on the other side of the country. Even though it was his job, it was comforting to be in the presence of someone who had made that same drive with me. He's a handsome man, all manly man and from what I learned has a very interesting history. A Cuban immigrant at the age of eight after his family read the writing on the wall when Castro took over and left their wealthy life with just the shirts on their backs. He spoke perfect English and if I'd had to guess his background it would have been Native American, not Cuban. I found that out when I walked into my apartment and heard him speaking Spanish with the loader he'd hired on this end. I commented on it, impressed, and he told me of his heritage.
I also found out that both of the men had been shot in their lives. The mover, who was Guatemalan and one hell of a salsa dancer, (he showed me), told me that he'd been shot in his home country when he was the victim of a robbery. Shot, with a shotgun, to the neck. He pulled his shirt down and showed me the scarring, then took my hand and put it to the disfigured skin so I could feel the pellets still lodged underneath. Holy shit. He told me that he couldn't speak for a year, but was thankful that he was still alive. He was a spiritual man and I see why. When we were talking, Lou the driver came in and mentioned that he'd been shot in Beirut. His wound had entered through his thigh, right next to his groin and lodged underneath his back just over his hip. Yes, he showed me the scar from the bullet being removed. Both said that you can't feel it when you're shot because of the adrenaline rush. I hope I never find out.
Both men did a great job, and Lou was funny. He opened my closet where I'd slung my bra over the hanger railing and got it right in his face. I realized, laughed and apologized, and he said "Well, I'll take that any day over a man's jockstrap."
Once they were finished, paid and tipped, my apartment was a labyrinth of boxes. I managed to unpack seven or eight of them that day even though I was fatigued beyond belief. Today, I have my work cut out for me but I'm just going to delve in and try to get as much finished as possible. I'm determined to have normalcy and order in my life come Monday.
A couple nights ago I went out with Shannon and he and I walked around a shopping district. Shannon took me in a store where he buys these cool shirts with designs embroidered on them and joked around with Ramon, who is the 28-year-old son of the owners. The two had me bent over in hysterics with their antics. Ramon was a Mexican, hat wearing backward, big T-shirt wearing tree trunk of a guy who could just roll with Shannon's humor and take it up a notch. I can't even begin to describe how funny they were. It felt good to laugh that hard.
Okay, play time is over. Back to the apartment to unpack.