SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 93
Angela Townsend
Moving Men
Two sweet men died. Two moving men came close to the place where I live. They did
not come for me.
They came for Steve’s artifacts. Steve was the best of Building Three. The day we moved
in, he was grilling dollhouse-sized frankfurters to share with his Chihuahua. Her name was
Bessie. He welcomed us to Building Three, “where we are building a community of love.”
Steve had yet to recruit the rest of Building Three to this venture. Roy upstairs asked my
new husband if I had plans to cut my hair. If that should happen, Roy would like my hair.
Sol across the hall did not speak to Roy, because Roy used lazy grammar and threw cardboard
in the dumpster.
Steve wanted us to come over for franks and wine. It was heartening to see young people
moving into Building Three. Steve, Roy, and Sol had been here forty years a pop. Whenever
Steve went to “the spa,” Roy took care of Bessie. Roy was a good egg, you know. The best folks
are toasty around the edges. God loves his peculiar people, you know.
My new husband used vinyl pancakes called “Moving Men” to shimmy our furniture
into place. Steve reminded us that we were welcome downstairs for wine to celebrate our
arrival, or anything else. Celebrations are in short supply. We can always change that, you
know.
Steve came and went to the spa, because his heart and kidneys fought like the North
and South. Sometimes everyone needs a tune-up. He’s a bit of a spa-lebrity, you know. The
head nurse has a photo of Bessie on her desk. The spa is probably the only place in New Jersey
where you can get legit grits. They don’t even need butter, they’re so good.
My new husband told Steve that I needed to get out more often. My new husband
married a writer, not a nun. Steve used a walker and a CPAP and still socialized. But my new
husband’s wife used her own little autoimmune issues as an excuse to cocoon. Steve told my
new husband some creative people stay inside because they carry too much world in their
heads. Steve told me I was doing great.
Steve and Bessie often dozed outdoors. Roy crept down and sat with them, his watery
eyes wide open. Steve had “The Club” on the wheel of his 1994 Suzuki Sidekick. My new
husband told me that Steve was a simpleton.
The day my new husband went down the stairs of Building Three for the last time,
he told me he would be back someday. I could keep the Moving Men. He knew I would
rearrange the landscape and probably make it all pink and lavender. I could still see his
taillights when a jaunty man arrived to change the locks. I bought my own Moving Men.
Steve rose to his full height at great personal cost to shake my hand. He told me this was
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