Pauly's fridge
Garrett, wearing his usual Cheshire cat, grin tells me he
needs a strong back to help him help his uncle move the refrigerator from the third-floor
apartment in the building next door.
“Pauly is useless,” he says, even though as it turns out the refrigerator is to replace the one that burned out in Pauly’s apartment, “and even if he wanted to help, he's too puny.”
Chet, Garrick’s uncle, is puny too yet wiry and strong, just not quite strong enough to handle a project like this alone.
Since Pauly, months behind his rent, is on the verge of eviction, I wonder why Chet bothers -- though someone will move in after Pauly and need a refrigerator, so, I agree.
Chet is upstairs when we get there; his hand truck sits at the bottom of the first flight down from the third floor with he at the top, rope wrapped around the big white body. He says we will hold the ropes from the top as he steers the beast down the steps from bottom, scooting it along the edge of the stairs on its side rather than attempting the herculean feat of lifting it down each step one by one.
The coarse rope bites the palm of my hand as I grip it, while Garrick on the other side, grips his too, the burns of it worsening as we let the monster tip off the first stair -- the weight of it pulling against us, our muscles straining as we ease it down one, two, three steps and more. Prometheus struggled no more with his stone than we seeking to keep our white stone from rolling down the hill we must bring it down, with me imagining the horror of it had Chet wanted to roll it up the stairs instead of down.
And by some miracle, we manage to deliver it to the bottom where the hand truck waits, and we mount it long enough to bring it to the next flight of stairs where we repeat the feat we accomplished with the flight, me and Carrick and top, Chet on the bottom, my hands raw from the rub of rope -- then back onto the hand truck and to the final set of stairs.
Our strong backs already ache from the effort of two flights, we sweating even though a chill air flows up from the open door to the street below.
“One more flight and we're free,” Chet says, cheering us on knowing we will not need to roll the stone up the hill again since Pauly lives in the back off the carport on the first-floor next door.
We position the beast as we had twice before, edging it off the lip of the first stair until the weight of it pulls against the rope again. But this time our hands are raw from the previous endeavors and we struggle to keep grip, my palms nearly bleeding as I feel the rope slip and see from Garrick’s expression, his hands cannot hold tight either. Then like an avalanche, the weight of our burden gathers strength sapping what strength our strong backs had until it starts to move without our consent, slowly at first, then faster, until the ropes rip out of our fists and the beast rushes down, Chet on his butt bouncing before it, step after step until he and the beast crash at the bottom.
“I've killed my uncle!” Garrick cries.
Then to our surprise, the spry little man pops up with a Cheshire grin of his own, alive, uncrushed, telling us it will take more than that to kill him – especially not a fridge for Pauly.
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“Pauly is useless,” he says, even though as it turns out the refrigerator is to replace the one that burned out in Pauly’s apartment, “and even if he wanted to help, he's too puny.”
Chet, Garrick’s uncle, is puny too yet wiry and strong, just not quite strong enough to handle a project like this alone.
Since Pauly, months behind his rent, is on the verge of eviction, I wonder why Chet bothers -- though someone will move in after Pauly and need a refrigerator, so, I agree.
Chet is upstairs when we get there; his hand truck sits at the bottom of the first flight down from the third floor with he at the top, rope wrapped around the big white body. He says we will hold the ropes from the top as he steers the beast down the steps from bottom, scooting it along the edge of the stairs on its side rather than attempting the herculean feat of lifting it down each step one by one.
The coarse rope bites the palm of my hand as I grip it, while Garrick on the other side, grips his too, the burns of it worsening as we let the monster tip off the first stair -- the weight of it pulling against us, our muscles straining as we ease it down one, two, three steps and more. Prometheus struggled no more with his stone than we seeking to keep our white stone from rolling down the hill we must bring it down, with me imagining the horror of it had Chet wanted to roll it up the stairs instead of down.
And by some miracle, we manage to deliver it to the bottom where the hand truck waits, and we mount it long enough to bring it to the next flight of stairs where we repeat the feat we accomplished with the flight, me and Carrick and top, Chet on the bottom, my hands raw from the rub of rope -- then back onto the hand truck and to the final set of stairs.
Our strong backs already ache from the effort of two flights, we sweating even though a chill air flows up from the open door to the street below.
“One more flight and we're free,” Chet says, cheering us on knowing we will not need to roll the stone up the hill again since Pauly lives in the back off the carport on the first-floor next door.
We position the beast as we had twice before, edging it off the lip of the first stair until the weight of it pulls against the rope again. But this time our hands are raw from the previous endeavors and we struggle to keep grip, my palms nearly bleeding as I feel the rope slip and see from Garrick’s expression, his hands cannot hold tight either. Then like an avalanche, the weight of our burden gathers strength sapping what strength our strong backs had until it starts to move without our consent, slowly at first, then faster, until the ropes rip out of our fists and the beast rushes down, Chet on his butt bouncing before it, step after step until he and the beast crash at the bottom.
“I've killed my uncle!” Garrick cries.
Then to our surprise, the spry little man pops up with a Cheshire grin of his own, alive, uncrushed, telling us it will take more than that to kill him – especially not a fridge for Pauly.
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