A Moving Story
Today’s story is inspired by a story writing suggestion from 642 Things to Write About. It’s a very useful book if you’re like me and a writing prompt helps to get the creative juices flowing.
Warning — risque language ahead. Don’t read this out loud to your children unless they’re super cool.
“Dude, why the fuck are we here? She cheated on you. You don’t owe her anything.” My buddy has never been known for his subtlety.
“I know, I know”, I replied. “Believe me, I remember the scene I walked in on. But she needs help, and I want to help her. And you have a truck. And you owe me one.”
“But she cheated on you.”, he sighed. “Do you really think this adventure is going to change anything?”
I honestly didn’t know how to answer that, so I looked away towards the row of parked cars. What was I supposed to say? Maybe? Better to stay silent and not open up the door to more ballbusting. The truth is that I wasn’t quite sure why I said yes when she asked me to help her move out of her apartment.
“There’s one”, I said, pointing out the window at a space between two sedans.
“Nah, that left car is practically on the line”, he replied dismissively. “I’m not about to get a ding because some dick opens his door too fast.” He kept on driving.
I knew I should have asked someone else. After we broke up, he told me how glad he was that I finally wised up. He liked her when we first started dating. She was easy to like. Beautiful, funny, always willing to buy the next round. All in all the perfect girlfriend to add to the social circle.
However she didn’t like my louder friends, a.k.a. him. She always found an excuse or another last minute set of plans when we were supposed to hang out with him. I had to leave her out of any gatherings that he would be attending, which suited the both of them just fine. It became a hassle to figure out the logistics, so my buddy and I started drifting apart.
When she cheated, he was the first person I called. Well, texted. All it took was me typing “You were right about her”, and he immediately replied “I’ll be there in 10 with tequila.” Good as his word, he appeared with the good stuff and gave me an awkward bro hug. We drowned my sorrows and then went out to eat too many sober up pancakes.
And now I was imposing on him to help me help the woman who made the tequila necessary. He did it because he is a good friend, but he wasn’t going to go quietly into that good parking garage.
“I mean, what’s the play here?”, he said. “Let’s say we get her stuff moved and I don’t call her a bitch when she opens the door. It’s not going to change anything. She still did what she did. There’s no unringing that bell. Or unbanging that shrew as it were.”
“Hey”, I laughed. “I might get back together with that shrew, and then you’ll have to be the best man at our wedding.”
His face darkened. “Don’t make me drive this truck home. You know I’m ready to bail as soon as you wise up.”
I quickly changed the subject. “What about that spot? The other cars are nowhere near the line.”
“I ain’t parking next to a Beemer. Something will happen, and I’ll get a spoiled rich kid running their mouth about how I breathed on their car wrong. Next.”
I just shook my head and kept quiet. He was my only friend with a truck, and if I wanted to help her out, then he was entitled to his opinions on the best place to park.
I tried another tack. “This is a pretty sweet ride. What made you buy a giant red truck anyway?”
“Gotta stand out, man. You need something to capture attention of the fairer sex these days. Some men peacock by living at the gym 10 hours a day. I can do it with a monthly payment.”
“You know your neighbor’s kids call it the fire engine though, right?”, I asked. “And now that you mention the ladies, I don’t think I’ve seen one riding shotgun in your hook-and-ladder-mobile.”
“Dude, I don’t give a shit about what anyone else thinks. I wanted a truck, saw a commercial for this one, and bought it the next day.” He got a self-satisfied look on his face and smiled.
I really envied his panache. He could be brash and occasionally rude, but you loved him for always being his genuine self. You wouldn’t catch him changing to suit anyone else’s idea of what he “should” be doing. God knows he wouldn’t be circling a parking lot to help someone who broke his heart.
“Good spot. 10 o’clock.” I said.
“And park next to the dumpster? I bet that spot smells like ass. We can do better.” With that he rounded the corner and we were right back where we started when we pulled in.
I started to get annoyed. “Are you going to park somewhere, or just drive around in circles all day? She’s waiting for us upstairs.”
“So? Make her wait. She’s getting an undeserved favor, and that means she can take what she gets.”
“Well, I told her that I would help her. This might be the turning point we need. And I don’t want you fucking up my chance.”
“Excuse me, your majesty. I would hate to make you late for the cuntess.”
“Hey!”, I yelled. “Don’t call her that. You’re being a real piece of shit right now.” I turned away and looked out the window.
We drove on in silence for the next 10 minutes. The only sounds were me grunting and motioning with my head towards a potential spot, and him grunting one word dismissals. Every space was “tight” or “bad” or “meh”. We kept making our slow circles around the complex. I had to remind myself that he was doing me a favor, and I needed to suck it up and be the bigger man.
The problem with the extended drive was that it was giving me time to think. I did still have feelings for her, but when I pictured her face I got that familiar stabbing pain in my gut. And then I realized that I’d be helping to move the mattress where the “situation” happened. She always called it a situation, as if that made it any better. She did half apologize after the situation, but blamed it on drinking too much when she was out with her friends.
We stopped talking for a few weeks after that. We texted a little bit later on to talk about returning her crap or my crap, and then just kept texting each other. When she said she’d be moving out of her place and didn’t have money for movers, I couldn’t stop myself from offering to help her out. I said it would be good to see her, and only felt a little queasy when I typed it.
Now that I thought more about it, she always changed the subject when I asked if she was seeing anyone new. Or when I brought up the idea of maybe seeing each other again. In fact, I couldn’t recall her ever being actually remorseful about what had happened. The more I thought about it, the more worked up I got. Why was I so anxious to help her out? If she wasn’t feeling what I was feeling, then why the hell did I
I had had enough during our 7th lap around the parking lot. I turned to my buddy and asked, “Serious question. What are the odds of me actually getting back together with her?”
He gave me a side eye. “Odds? Pretty good if she needs something. Long term? Absolutely terrible. You’ve got a better shot of farting Yankee Doodle Dandy than her sticking around.”
I had to admit, it was compelling, if crude, logic. “So what? We just bail on her? Doesn’t that make us the dicks?”
“Hey”, he said. “She already hates one of us. And I don’t give a rat’s ass what she thinks about me. It’s up to you though. Always has been.”
I pondered for a full 2 seconds and said “Fuck it. She’s on her own. Get this fire engine out of here.”
‘Bout fucking time,” he replied. “Let’s go get some pancakes. You’re buying.”
We left her place, and pulled into the nearest IHOP parking lot. He glided right into the first spot we saw. She called when we got our entrees. I declined and answered with a text — “A situation came up. You’re on your own.” Then I blocked her number and turned my attention back to my omelet.
