Stacked

“Hey man, you need help unloadin’ that?”

A tall, lanky African American man of his late twenties stood in front of me as I tried to ungracefully hold open a swinging glass door while simultaneously holding a computer desk under my arm.

“Sure, that would be great!” I said as I nudged myself and my cargo inside the door of the apartment complex.

I had just spent over four hours moving my furniture out of a second-floor apartment that I had sub-leased in Boulder and into a well used white Dodge cargo van. It was about ten o’clock at night, and I was attempting to haul the furnishings for an entire apartment up two and a half flights of stairs by myself.

“Great, but it ain’t gonna be free,” he said.

I looked at him with a somewhat puzzled look on my face, but I continued moving the desk that I held in my arms toward my studio apartment on the second floor. I half expected him to help me, but I realized that he wasn’t joking about halfway down the stairs during my umpteenth trip back to the cargo van in the dark alleyway.

“Well, I’m poor and I don’t have any money, so I’ll have to pass. Thanks anyways,” I said, slightly irritated.

I was already thoroughly exhausted from hauling heavy furniture up and down stairs for over four hours, and I was about ready to call it a night, but I only had the cargo van for that night, and I still had a bookcase, a TV stand, two mattresses and a bed frame, and a futon to bring up to my modest studio apartment, not to mention all of the other random junk I had floating around in the back of the van.

As I was sluggishly hauling my mattress up the stairs, the man approached me again. I began sliding the mattress into my room as he spoke once more.

“Hey man, you want a bigger bed? I’ve got a bigger bed in my room if you want it.”

I was too tired to argue, so I decided to humor him as I followed him down the hall to unit 206. He walked with a twitchy gait that seemed indicative of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I stepped into an unkempt one-bedroom apartment and trailed behind him as he showed me his room, which was nearly bare except for two well worn dressers and a queen mattress set – still wrapped in plastic – sitting on the floor.

“Dude, I’ll sell this mattress set to you if you want it. It’s a lot bigger than the twin you’ve got.”

“Well, how much do you want for it?” I figured I would at least not make the situation overly awkward, and I was somewhat curious I suppose.

“I’ll give it to you for ten bucks.”

I was quickly taken aback at how little he was willing to give up his bed for.

“But I need it in cash by tonight,” he said in an uncomfortably urgent manner. “I don’t care if you gotta go to an ATM brotha, I just need that money now.”

I hesitated, understandably, and tried to work my way out of the conversation. “Well, I don’t really need a bed, plus I don’t really have any money on me.”

He quickly pointed out that he was willing to sell both of his dressers and an old 1980’s Trek hybrid bicycle with an atrocious neon green and black spattered paint finish. I began to put the pieces together in my mind as he became flustered and visibly irritated. “I’ve got weed too man. I’ve got…”

I had to cut him off midsentence. “Nah, I’m good man. If I change my mind I’ll let you know.”

“Well, alright. You sure you don’t need help movin’ all your heavy furniture?”

“Yeah, I’m good. It’s a good workout anyways,” I told him as I courteously waved back at him on my way back down the hall to my apartment.

On the way out the door of the apartment complex on one of my trips back to the van, I met a man standing under the light of a streetlamp, smoking a cigarette with his headphones in. He nodded my direction and introduced himself.

“Hey man, I’m Joe.”

I shook his hand and introduced myself, telling him which unit I was moving into.

“Ah, that’s right above me. I live in 103. I work graveyards and I like to listen to my music at full blast while I take showers, so if I’m ever gettin’ too loud, just come down and knock on my door. Oh, and if you haven’t already noticed from what I’m holding,” he held out a small blown glass pipe in his left hand, “I smoke herb, so if you ever want some bud, hit me up.”

“Thanks,” I said a little sarcastically. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I went back to unloading the last few items in the van, and soon realized that I needed to move my futon up two and half flights of narrow stairs by myself. I had already expended a significant amount of energy moving the futon down two flights of stairs at my old apartment in Boulder. I sighed heavily, more than ready to pass out from exhaustion. I reluctantly and awkwardly took hold of the cheaply made Target brand folding futon and hauled it toward the door of the complex. Joe ran to the door on his way to work and held it open for me as I stumbled through, futon and all. My arms screamed in protest as I somehow managed to get the large piece of furniture up the stairs. It was nearly midnight, and I had been hauling furniture for six hours. The muscles in my arms were nearly useless from the amount of work I had put them through.

On one of the last trips of the night, I heard a woman’s voice come from a nearby floor-level window.

“Hey hon, you’re doing that the hard way.”

It took me a second to figure out which window the voice was coming from. “What?”

“You’re doing that the hard way. You should back your van up onto the sidewalk so you’re closer to the door. Everyone else did that when they moved in.”

I chuckled to myself. “Well, I’m just about done now, but thank you.”

“Sure. What’s your name hon?”

“My name’s Benten.”

“Nice to meet you Benten. My name’s Mary. I’ve been living here since January, and I like it alright. Have a good night.”

“You too,” I said as I moved the last few items out of the van and made the trip up to my apartment. The hot night air was beginning to wear on me, and I had thoroughly exhausted myself – I was ready to call it a night.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The days are quiet and the nights are noisy in my neighborhood. I live in a small studio apartment stacked in a filing cabinet of low-income housing units in downtown Denver. My neighbors all have issues, and a decent amount of them are thoroughly intoxicated on a regular basis – most of the time before noon approaches. I have a strong suspicion that many of them have drug addictions as well, at least the guy who lives in 206. I live a block and a half away from the hospital, two blocks from the fire department, and one block from Colfax and Park Avenue. The small pockets of silence that I cherish are frequently inundated with the sounds of sirens, yelling neighbors, barking dogs, car and motorcycle engines, and intoxicated alley wanderers.

I can’t afford much since I work at a non-profit organization in the city (and honestly made more money working part-time at a fast food joint while I was in college), but this is my home for now, and God has been providing for me and directing me every step of the way.

In fact, about a month ago, I received an email from CU-Boulder, where I recently graduated from college, stating that I had a refund check waiting for me in the mail. The amount: $2,654. Up to this point I had been working as an unpaid intern for the summer. I had raised some money to cover my living expenses, but other than that, I didn’t have much. I was actually expecting to be down to zero by the end of the program, so I was understandably becoming a little anxious about my money situation. I’m still not sure what exactly the refund was for, but it continues to amaze me how God continues to provide for me on a regular basis.

My life has been a continuous adventure, and I look forward to the journey that I have ahead of me. Hopefully I’ll be able to continue to chronicle God’s impact in my life as I continue to grow closer to and learn more about Him, and hopefully this will be only one of many stories to come.