August 1, 2013

  •       For the record, no one should ever have to routinely go through the process of carrying two boxes of packing up several flights of apartment stairs: by the second time, I was already regretting my promise to get the work done that day.
          Yes, I wasn't entirely moved in quite yet. It was up and down, over and over, through a spiraling tunnel of cracked yellow paint for every painful step. And, of course, those boxes were far from light. Whatever paint had managed to loosely cling to the sides of the walls was quickly dislodged as I struggled to stay up during my rests. Towards the fifth trip, I just tried sliding all the way up. Seeing how much more yellow the steps got each time I went back for more was an amusing game, though.
         Of course, I also chose to do this task when it was boiling summer. It almost made me wish it was five years ago, back when I actually kept my hair short. As it was now, it ran down to – a little past – half my back. I could only thank God it doesn't frizz all that much.
         With continual distractions like that, the work became continually more fun to dwell upon. There was just so much stuff. I had forgotten that I had actually planned on moving in here – as in permanently. And then I had to actually unpack the boxes.
         I had decided to negate dwelling on that fun little fact by stacking the boxes into a corner. It was neat and, technically, organized that way. Yet, of course, all that would have to come out. In my rush, I hadn't bothered to question whether all of it would actually be able to fit nicely, and neatly, in the room. I could put my socks and under garments in a drawer together; the rest of my shirts I'd likely hang; I'd put the usual pens and such on the desk with my scissors and then a lamp for the corner, my sheets in another drawer,
         food
         plates
         general kitchen cleaning stuff
         my laptop
         my chair
         table covers
         blinds that actually matched the room
         my eraser holders
         –my thoughts were jolted from organizing as I was barreling down my hall before my arms decided to give out. It took me a second to realize that it was actually singing. That is, someone was singing. "Veronica..." it immediately dawned on me, my legs quickly coming upon her room on the way to mine.
         As I was starting to pass by, I glanced in through her open door. The minefield of a mess that littered her floor made me stop: honestly, there was several rooms all uniformly littered with random clothes and miscellaneous items (at first glance, I caught a brush and a bowl of chips towards one of the sofas with her Northface jacket just happily strewn over the lamp nearby).
         Veronica herself was sort of dancing amongst all the items, ringing her hair into a towel. From the looks of it, she had just gotten out of the shower, though she didn't seem to feel the need to make sure both her hair and body was dry seeing as she was already in her usual sweats in spite of her wet hair.
         I stopped and stared for too long, in part from the mess and in part from fatigue. Regardless, she didn't look up. She just kept up that slow dance around the items, her hips swaying beneath the lumpy sweatpants and shirt. As she was finishing up wringing her hair out – passing the dark blue towel a few times through for good measure –, she hit a fervored pitch before going down again softly, her eyes tracing the floor.
         "He took me to his parlor, and coo-oo-ooled me with his fan"—her voice ever so lightly fluctuated in her soft and breathy cadence—"whispered low in his mamma's ear, I luh-uhvvv that gamblin' gal…"