The new tenant wanted to move in, and I’d already run through my short list of friends who might be willing to lift things and clear the place out.
The carcass of the grandfather clock—currently hollow, a pile of plastic storage boxes, an ice cream table and chairs from the turn of the century when people nibbled cones seated while watching passersby on the gritty sidewalks, and some tools were still inside.
I’d set the date of the final movement (non-constipationally speaking) for Saturday, March 29th, when the Significant One could give me a hand. She flies in bi-weekly currently. Financially detrimental but maritally primarily necessary.
Marty called. He does that once in a while when he’s bored. He asked why I’d not asked him to help me move up the river a piece.
I didn’t, I admitted, but more to keep us on friendly terms. Marty is a good guy, the former training officer at BPD; he’s one of a few who talked me into leaving a more lucrative and laidback lifestyle of my former cop employer back in ’97. He’s apologized since.
I said, “I spent my life moving with my family— seventeen times before I hit nineteen. I’ve watched the faces of lesser men as the edges of their mouths drooped upon the asking. I’ve determined that the quickest way to lose good friends is to offer them the opportunity to move a sofa bed.”
Marty laughed, “Kid, I’d have helped you. I mean, I thought we were friends.”
I confirmed that we were, but I got it done with a small group of suckers and did the rest myself.
“I picked up the grandfather clock today. It’s empty of the movement, non-constipationally speaking, and it’s not all that heavy if I hug it like I’m kidnapping a hefty mannequin.”
“Well, you could have called,” he said. We moved on to other topics, including his new interior painting endeavor.
“I wish I had known. I just had the whole house interior painted, and man, did it need it.”
“You could have called,” he said. This appeared to be our theme.
After the call, I pulled the clock out of the truck and shuffled it into the garage, knowing I had to grab the wifely one at the airport shortly thereafter.
Upon her arrival at Chez Timmay 2.0, she said she’d help me get it into the house. She tried like a trooper, but it was cumbersome. So, I hugged it again and shuffled it to a spot near where it would spend the rest of our lives.
The clock man cometh—Monday— to install the new movement inside. We decided to have it situated before his arrival.
Well, it’s in the wrong spot. It’s been in the wrong place twice since I got it inside.
After a night of sleeping on it (the befuddled bewilderment and wondering, not on the clock), we woke this morning with the idea that it was still in the wrong spot.
“It needs to be in a corner.” We said it in unison, agreeing with each other for the first time in two days.
It’ll end up in the right spot, I am sure.
She refers to the clock as an anchor piece, but it’s much heavier than that.
Perfection is the perfect placement, but it takes time to figure out. Einstein said it better—
“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.” – Albert Einstein.
Good words from a wise man. I am positive he never used the word “constipationally.” For words like that, I can only depend on myself; there’s no use blaming my friends.
Be well.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
A special thank-you to the supporters of my work through generous donations to my BuyMeACoffee account. I couldn’t do it without you-tc