The movers were packing up my books. We had been waiting for five hours, they’d been stuck in Brooklyn on another job and then got caught in Good Friday traffic. They were relieved I understood and could wait. There was no choice; we had to be out of the apartment the very next day. So I sent my husband off to play a professional round of Table Tennis and tried to rest, but was too restless.
After culling my books over many weeks, whittling them down to books I needed for research or would read again for pleasure, I still had a lot of books. I had promised myself not to lift a single tome or pack up our kitchen. Kitchens are loaded with breakables, every item has to be wrapped separately. Books are heavy.
The movers were late, the boxes were there waiting, so I was tempted to begin, then stopped this thought. I knew my back wouldn’t survive, which is why we’d hired the movers to pack in the first place. I wouldn’t see a pool again for several days. So I tried to rest, selected Bill Evans on the Pandora app, stretched out on the couch, and started on the current New Yorker. Then I fell asleep. No dreams.
The bell rang at 5 p.m. Two guys, both 30-something, one from Peru, the other from Mexico. They entered the hallway running. I’d contracted for three hours of packing, they’d be done by 8 p.m. Great, I said. I was still so tired I couldn’t think of going anywhere, so I stayed and supervised, so to speak. I didn’t want to slow them down but I was interested. Two young guys, both handsome, both from the other side of our porous border. They must have a story, I said to myself. (This writer cannot resist a story.)
So where are you from? Did you go to college? Do you want to go to college? Okay, college isn’t for everyone. Oh, you are living with your aunt.
Phone ringing.
That’s my mom.
Oh where is she?
In Peru.
Okay great, you’re a good son. Always pick up the phone when your mother calls.
Laughter.
As you are packing my books, do you like to read?
Yes, no, sometimes.
What do you like to read?
I remember in high school, we read Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” I really liked that story.
No kidding, that was the first story I taught my students at Oakland High School.
They loved it. So did I. That bug.
I feel like him some days. I wanted to be an ESL teacher, I had to drop out of school and earn money.
You’d be a great teacher, I said. Think about getting back to school.
This was the guy from Peru talking. The guy from Mexico looked a bit askance, and didn’t know nothing about any bugs.
It’s about being trapped, right? Trapped in a system?
Right, I said.
I thought of all the privileged young men and women I have met whose lives are like parachutes: soft landings, no bugs in sight.
There’s SUNY’s Empire State College, I told my young friend. It’s designed for working men and women. Don’t give up, I’ll write you a recommendation. I’ve got bug clout, I’m a prof at NYU. Anyone who likes Kafka deserves a recommendation. Read More
After culling my books over many weeks, whittling them down to books I needed for research or would read again for pleasure, I still had a lot of books. I had promised myself not to lift a single tome or pack up our kitchen. Kitchens are loaded with breakables, every item has to be wrapped separately. Books are heavy.
The movers were late, the boxes were there waiting, so I was tempted to begin, then stopped this thought. I knew my back wouldn’t survive, which is why we’d hired the movers to pack in the first place. I wouldn’t see a pool again for several days. So I tried to rest, selected Bill Evans on the Pandora app, stretched out on the couch, and started on the current New Yorker. Then I fell asleep. No dreams.
The bell rang at 5 p.m. Two guys, both 30-something, one from Peru, the other from Mexico. They entered the hallway running. I’d contracted for three hours of packing, they’d be done by 8 p.m. Great, I said. I was still so tired I couldn’t think of going anywhere, so I stayed and supervised, so to speak. I didn’t want to slow them down but I was interested. Two young guys, both handsome, both from the other side of our porous border. They must have a story, I said to myself. (This writer cannot resist a story.)
So where are you from? Did you go to college? Do you want to go to college? Okay, college isn’t for everyone. Oh, you are living with your aunt.
Phone ringing.
That’s my mom.
Oh where is she?
In Peru.
Okay great, you’re a good son. Always pick up the phone when your mother calls.
Laughter.
As you are packing my books, do you like to read?
Yes, no, sometimes.
What do you like to read?
I remember in high school, we read Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” I really liked that story.
No kidding, that was the first story I taught my students at Oakland High School.
They loved it. So did I. That bug.
I feel like him some days. I wanted to be an ESL teacher, I had to drop out of school and earn money.
You’d be a great teacher, I said. Think about getting back to school.
This was the guy from Peru talking. The guy from Mexico looked a bit askance, and didn’t know nothing about any bugs.
It’s about being trapped, right? Trapped in a system?
Right, I said.
I thought of all the privileged young men and women I have met whose lives are like parachutes: soft landings, no bugs in sight.
There’s SUNY’s Empire State College, I told my young friend. It’s designed for working men and women. Don’t give up, I’ll write you a recommendation. I’ve got bug clout, I’m a prof at NYU. Anyone who likes Kafka deserves a recommendation. Read More