novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- joe and the planets In cities, sidewalks are communal zones. What I posted on Craigslist Sunday evening: I have a queen size pillowtop mattress and its matching box spring that I'd like to get rid of. It's free, and as of 7:30 pm tonight, it will be on the corner of Athol and W, leaning against a no parking sign. A friend gave it to me a year ago, because he was just keeping it in storage and not using it. And now I am moving on to Newer Bed Land, hence: this post. The mattress is in good (dare I say GREAT? I almost dare do!) condition. It is not too firm, not too soft. Not lumpy. Has been flipped and rotated on a regular basis. The box spring is in fair condition, having had its small share of wall-scuffs during moving. There is a two inch rip on one side near a corner. You don't need to contact me to come pick it up: it will be outside regardless. I checked my email anyway, after I got home and discovered the bed still leaning sadly, newly surrounded by my upstairs neighbor's old pots and pans. Fifteen responses, subject lines like Hold it for me!, I'll be there in ten minutes if you tell me it's mine and My back hurts. I have a truck. I clicked on the first one as per "first come first serve" custom, and awarded the bad-backed man one phone call. His groggy voice answered on the first ring and I remembered it was almost eleven. Hi, I said. Sorry I'm calling so late, but I posted an ad for a free bed -- did you still want it? Yeah I do. I heard years of smoking in his lisp, perhaps cigars. Sure beats what I'm sleeping on now. That'd be great! Where are you? Does no one read details? Right next to Lake Merritt in Oakland, I told him. The bed is already outside, no one has picked it up yet. Great! His voice woke. That's near my old paper route. I grew up on 5th avenue. I know right where that is. I'll be right over. Coming from Pleasanton. When you hear a twenty-five foot truck, it'll be me. Okay. What is your name? I'll tape a sign to it in case anyone comes by. Joe. My name is Joe. Be right over. I walked back outside, pulling on my little wool jacket even though I didn't need it, the night was so clear and warm. I realized I was still in my dress shoes as my heels clacked against the stairs. Exercise equipment had since joined the pots and pans and bed. As well as a box of clothes and a very ugly painting. I inspected the painting, rocking it back against the bed with my roll of packing tape. Orange and black, blocky shapes. What might befit a waiting terminal in a ninteen-seventies bus depot. I taped up my sign and skirted the pile, wandering into the street. Raised my head and found blue blinking star clusters moving with the moon across the sky. A faint red glow. Hello, Mars. Half an hour later my walls started shaking. I blinked at the computer and remembered. Twenty-five feet. Must be a diesel engine. I don't know what I expected but the cargo bed on the truck was longer than three honda civics bumper to bumper. It looked like a barge. I imagined it floating slowly down the highway, turning in wide arcs. I found Joe rocking free the steel clasps holding the truck's wooden doors. They fell with the loudest noise, that sound coupled with the truck's engine and sauntered up my street, echoing against the taller apartment buildings. It was past 11:30. I smiled, crossed my arms against my chest and waited. Joe was my height with a potbelly that defied the natural curves of any slight man's build. I watched him jump around the bed of the truck, deftly shifting and arranging. That denim belly. Pockmarked, red face and hands. Limp, thin shaggy hair. That it? It's a beauty! It's a good bed, I said. Why you gettin' rid of it? My brother gave me his bed, it's a better bed. The back of the truck had a mechanical platform. Joe lowered himself to the ground and I felt rather than heard the steel slam against the asphalt. He rubbed his hands against the bib of his overalls and looked at me for the first time. I refurbish warehouse equipment over in Pleasanton. Truck comes in handy. We loaded the box spring onto the lift, he hopped on, and I pushed the button for the lift to rise. A lackluster, purely functional elevator with rivets hammered in for tread. I lowered him back down, feeling Little Kid Glee at operating heavy machinery. He grinned. Same procedure for the mattress. Once the lift reached the truck bed he heaved the mattress midair in one jerky movement and I instantly said a little goodbye to my bed. I watched the mattress bend in the middle as it fell, saw it flop onto the box spring like a caught fish resigned to its fisherman death. Joe was already on the lift. Going down, please. I was careful to let the switch up before the platform met the street. Joe bounced onto the road and fit the doors back in place with as much un-self-conscious clanging as possible. He turned and shook my hand, bobbed his head once at me, and told me to Have a good night, now. He passed on the free painting. 12:57 pm - 03.29.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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