31
A week after Iowa, I’m shaking and sweating on the stairway of a newly bought home holding what feels like a three-thousand-pound pool table and cursing under my breath.
“This thing might fucking kill me, man.”
When I’m not painting, I can sometimes be found in situations like this one. I suppose I’m something of an unofficial moving company, occasionally helping folks move in and out of their homes when they’re desperate. It’s not my favorite work, but there’s far worse, and it often pays decent enough. I’ll orchestrate these big moves now and then and there’s always a fresh random bunch of guys in Johnston that show up, thankful for the opportunity. Sometimes I’d catch a note out on Main Street attached to the front door of Mick’s Grocery, or calls made around town would be rerouted my way. I’d wrangle those that needed the work, and we’d jump in. You never quite knew who was gonna show up, and that was the only real fun of it.
Today, a few miles from my place on the outskirts of Johnston, I’m moving Frank and Charlene into their new home. They’re a true midwestern pair, full of good-natured talk and enthusiasm. They have plans to run a hardware store in one of the abandoned storefronts on Main Street. It’s pretty difficult to open a new business in Johnston, though it often has less to do with the business itself, and more to do with the general lack of pie to go around. People also love what they love here, what they’re used to and loyal to. We’ve seen all sorts come and go. Hell, there’ve been at least four or five different pizza joints that have tried to make a run of it over the years. They were each more delicious than the next, but at the end of the day they’d all go broke one way or another because the people of Johnston had Mario in their hearts and there just wasn’t enough heart to go around sometimes.
That didn’t mean it was impossible for Frank and Charlene to make a solid enterprise. They’re taking over a building that had been abandoned a half year ago when Skip and Harrow, another hardware store, went bankrupt and bounced town. God, I felt for those guys, I really did, I always made sure to visit these little places, send a smile and spend a little on shit I didn’t even need. I knew how hard things got. Frank and Charlene seem to have a real solid thing between them though, I gotta say. They’re certainly brimming with hope. Truth is, we need a well run hardware store around town, and sooner or later someone had to figure it out. Most of us just scrambled for goods and tools when things got hairy.
So, I’m holding this pool table dripping sweat all over its rich dark mahogany and lifting the other side is Deangelo. No shit, he showed up bright and early at the house and I was as surprised as any.
“Can use the work, Cash. Don’t look so shocked. Leon gave me a heads up.”
“It’s good to see you, man,” and that was that. We shook Frank and Charlene’s hands and scratched our heads staring up into the massive trailer-truck fully loaded with their collected life.
“Wish I could have put a few more of you on, fellas, but we’ll have to do,” Frank said.
Yeah, we’ll do, but it was gonna take us all damn day. I nodded as I began to formulate a plan, and I caught Deangelo’s wide eyes as they reconciled with what awaited us. I laughed, it was fine by me. We’d take fifteen an hour and say no more or less. It was plenty. I just hoped to God Deangelo was the hard worker Leon’s always raving about.
“Won’t be a problem,” I said. “Shall we?”
Deangelo nodded. And I felt that old swell of purpose that comes at the start of any job I began. We were workers, the whole lot of us from Johnston, and when I got myself down to it, I was one of the best around.
An hour later, Deangelo and I are holding this fucking table and I’m trying not to die. We’re making it seem like one hell of a struggle.
“One at a time, man,” he keeps saying, talking about the steps, “one at a time.” We’re descending the wooden stairway that goes down to the home through the garage, and it’s a narrow sort. The table is nearly dragging the walls as we’re moving down. We can hardly see a thing and are hanging on desperate to the three thousand pounds of future pool games. “One at a time, man,” he goes, “one at a time.” I laugh because I’m the one going down backward, liable to be crushed by the fuckin thing,
“Yeah man, I know, one at a time. One at a time. You gotta move it a little faster though, I’m just barely hanging on here.”
“Shit I’m doing the same,” he mutters, and like snails we inch back and forth, navigating it down carefully while Frank from the top of the stairwell goes, “There you are fellas, there you are.”
Frank has a belly tucked into a plain gray shirt with John Deere written across it in faded green and yellow. He keeps it simple and clean this guy, old school. He’ll be a fitting hardware store owner, I just know it. Deangelo and I scale down the steps slow and steady.
“There you are, fellas.”
I can’t help but laugh again. Get your ass down here behind me Frank if you’re so sure. Finally we arrive in the furnished basement and I let out a relieved sigh.
“Nice man, fuckin, nice. Really thought I was a goner there for a second.”
Deangelo shakes my hand, smiles, and wipes off his sweaty forehead.
We look around, standing on a new tan carpet. It’s larger than I had imagined. Shit, if good old Frank and Charlene can afford this place then maybe they aren’t hurting for cash at all and will be okay regardless. I have the same question I always have when someone new comes along. Why Johnston? I ask good Frank that and he says, “Change of scenery.”
Ahhhh, yes. Simple. Frank is clean as can be.
Deangelo begins to walk back up the stairs and hasn’t even caught his breath yet. I clap my hands. Hell yeah. This is what Leon meant. Deangelo knew how to work. I’m not surprised. I follow him up the steps and think briefly about how he was a solid man through and through, still, after so many years.
About three hours later, hands sore and back stiff, Deangelo and I are sitting on the back patio with Frank and Charlene as they insisted upon us joining them for lunch in the afternoon sun. God was it funny when Charlene first proposed the idea. Deangelo’s face, man. The hesitation. But they insisted so here we are, and it’s all classic American, too. There’s lemonade, beer, and sandwiches. Charlene packed these babies with ham and turkey and spinach and mustard and mayo. She put some carrots and potato chips on the side and we’re more than taken care of. And isn’t it true that if God takes care of the birds, then he will take care of us? I bite down hungry through the wheat seeded bread.
“The healthy stuff,” Charlene says.
Deangelo’s quiet all throughout but it doesn’t matter because Charlene’s going on and on about the town and how cute and worn down it is all at once.
“There’s a real spirit here,” she says. “Really, you can feel it!”
“Yeah. For sure. It’s always been that way,” I say, taking a drink of lemonade.
Charlene’s a school teacher and told us she’d be starting up next week when fall classes officially rolled around. She teaches fifth grade. Elementary! Ah man, I had a lot of respect for those types. It takes a special person to teach elementary school. The amount of saint-like patience that line of work required astounds me. The way Charlene talked about it though you could tell she saw it all as a wonderful opportunity and a privilege, so, there you go, to each their own.
Frank’s prone to long stints of silence and staring out into the yard filled with fully grown pines.
What is it you’re thinking about so thoroughly, Frank?
I know that look, I’d seen it etched on my father’s face a thousand times.
I almost say “Go on, Frank! Go on! Run! Run while you can. There’s a whole other free world right outside that plot of land but you gotta go and go now!”
But solid Frank here probably isn’t thinking that kind of thing, and I don’t want to put those ideas in his head. He’s just settling down after all. So, I just sit and listen to Charlene, and she fills me with gratitude. Her eyes light up when she talks about the store and all the magical things she believes Frank will do with it. I gotta hand it to her, she sure is thankful for life. Deangelo swallows the last of his bread, nods and goes, “Should we finish up?” And I smile. He is restless but I have half a sandwich left.
“We will, man. Relax.”
A few long hours after that, we stand on Frank and Charlene’s new front step with tired limbs. We’ve been thoroughly worked to the bone. It’s an enjoyable, calming sensation. We shake their hands, wish them luck, and say goodbye.
“See you around,” Charlene calls out as we walk off.
I swear to God, they’re two of the kindest folk I’d met in some time. They’re gonna be alright, I can feel it. The slight wind throws Charlene’s brown curly mop of hair around her face as they wave us so long and I wave back. She must be one hell of a teacher. We’re walking down the driveway and before Deangelo gets in his truck I say, “You wanna grab a drink?” And I don’t think he’s gonna go in for it but he does.
“Where at?”
“Jimmy’s Place, man. Where else?”