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...